An Order for Death (44 page)

‘Really,’ said Michael flatly. His hand shot out to seize a handful of Lynne’s habit at throat height; then he lifted, so
that the student-friar’s feet barely touched the ground. The lad’s sullen arrogance was quickly replaced by alarm.

‘I know nothing about anything,’ he squeaked. ‘I am an Austin novice. I am not a Carmelite.’

‘My cells will be full tonight,’ said Michael softly. ‘First Morden and now Simon Lynne.’

‘This is
John
Lynne,’ said Nicholas, surprised by Michael’s statement. ‘We have no Simon Lynne here.’

‘Simon is my brother,’ gasped John Lynne. ‘I told you.’ He struggled out of Michael’s failing grasp and brushed himself down.
‘And I know nothing about what Simon may have done.’

‘How do we know you are not lying?’ demanded Michael unconvinced. ‘You look like Simon Lynne to me.’

‘He is my younger brother. He ran away from the Carmelite Friary on Monday night because he was afraid. He went to hide with
our Aunt Mabel at St Radegund’s Convent, but you found him on Tuesday, so he was forced to go elsewhere.’

‘Where?’ demanded Michael angrily. ‘Are you hiding him? If you are, you had better tell me, because if I later discover that
you knew of his whereabouts and that you concealed them from me, I shall arrest you and charge you with conspiracy to murder.
And that is a hanging offence.’

John Lynne paled. ‘I do not know where he is; I doubt anyone does, even Horneby. Simon fled because he was terrified.’

‘Terrified of what?’ asked Michael.

‘Of what happened to Kyrkeby.’

‘Kyrkeby? You mean Faricius, surely? Faricius was Simon’s friend; Kyrkeby was the Dominican Precentor.’

‘I know who Kyrkeby was. And it was Kyrkeby’s death that frightened Simon.’

‘But Simon was reported missing
before
we discovered Kyrkeby’s body,’ said Michael thoughtfully. ‘He fled on Monday night, and we found Kyrkeby on Wednesday. Are
you saying that he knew what had happened to Kyrkeby?’

John Lynne nodded slowly. ‘Simon knew Kyrkeby was dead. And he did not want the same thing to happen to him.’

‘Where is he?’ asked Michael. ‘If he knows who killed Kyrkeby, then he must speak out. As long as the killer is free, then
Simon will never be safe.’

‘I keep telling you that I do not know,’ insisted John Lynne, and the fear in his eyes that he would be dragged into the mess
created by his brother indicated to Bartholomew that he was telling the truth. ‘But if I see him, I will tell him to contact
you. It is the best I can do.’

‘Then make sure you do,’ said Michael, apparently deciding to accept the young man’s story. He gave a hearty sigh and turned
to Nicholas. ‘And now we will talk to this stabbed gatekeeper in the infirmary.’

‘There are sick men in there,’ said Nicholas again. ‘I do not know whether Prior Ralph will agree to an invasion by the Senior
Proctor.’

‘Let me go,’ said Bartholomew to Michael. ‘I am a physician: Prior Ralph can scarcely object to me visiting the sick.’

Michael seemed reluctant. ‘Very well. But if you take too long, I shall assume this man has something worthwhile to say, and
I shall come to hear it for myself.’

The patient lay on a cot piled high with blankets in the large and airy room that served as the priory’s infirmary. Two other
Austins were also there, one with a thick bloodstained bandage around his hand, indicating an accident that had probably seen
the removal of some fingers, while another had the sallow, yellow look of some undefined and persistent problem with his liver.
All three looked up as Bartholomew
entered the room, hopeful of something that would break the monotony of a day in bed.

‘How is he, Father?’ asked Bartholomew of the small man in the stained habit. Urban was the canon who cared for the inmates
of the nearby leper hospital, as well as tending the sick at Barnwell Priory. ‘Is his wound serious?’

Urban shook his head. ‘The cut is little more than a scratch. He claims it aches and burns, but so might I if the alternative
was a day mucking out the pigs. Nigel is malingering, Doctor.’

‘Would you like me to examine him?’

‘He would not, because you would expose him as a fraud,’ said Urban with a smile. ‘I shall allow him his day or two of ease,
but if he continues to complain after Easter, you can come and tell him he is fitter than most of the rest of us.’

‘Are you here to ask about the men who almost killed me last night?’ called Nigel, energetically plumping one of his pillows
in a way that indicated Urban’s diagnosis was correct. On a small table next to him was a jug of wine, which, judging from
his flushed face and confident manner, Nigel had been making the most of.

‘Men?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘How many of them were there?’

‘Two,’ said Nigel. When he had first started speaking, his voice had been a hoarse whisper, but this was soon forgotten as
he began to tell his story. Bartholomew smiled, suspecting that the man’s spell of ease was likely to end a lot sooner than
Easter unless he worked on his malingering skills. ‘They were big brutes, all swathed in black and meaning business.’

‘What business would that be?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Stealing,’ replied Nigel promptly. ‘Prior Ralph says they were unsuccessful, although they broke into the documents chest
and made a terrible mess of his room. He does not keep any gold there. That is all in the church, and no one would dare to
steal from a church.’

‘How do you know the thieves wanted riches?’ asked Bartholomew, aware that many people had no such scruples
but declining to argue the point. ‘Perhaps they came for something else.’

‘Such as what?’ asked Nigel, giving Bartholomew a baffled look. ‘They came for gold and they stabbed me to get it.’

‘Then tell me exactly what happened,’ said Bartholomew.

‘I was on duty at the gatehouse,’ began Nigel, fortifying himself from the jug. ‘It was very late, and the canons were preparing
themselves for matins, which takes place before dawn.’

‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I attend matins myself.’

Nigel looked Bartholomew up and down, taking in his scholar’s tabard. ‘Anyway, I heard a knock on the gate, so I answered
it. I was obviously slow in the wits – I had spent all day with the pigs, and then passed the night on gate duty, you see.’

‘You mean you had fallen asleep, and you opened the gate in a drowsy haze?’ interpreted Bartholomew.

Nigel’s pursed lips told him that he was right. ‘I had only opened it the merest crack, when they were in. It happened so
fast that one moment I was standing at the door, and the next I was lying on the ground pumping my life blood on to the floor.’

‘Your injury was not that serious,’ said Urban mildly.

‘They locked me inside the gatehouse,’ Nigel went on, treating Urban to an unpleasant look. ‘I was able to shout, but only
weakly.’

‘It was loud enough,’ said Urban. ‘The gatehouse is a long way from the infirmary, but I still heard it. The truth is that
you only started to yell when you were sure the intruders had gone.’

Bartholomew did not blame Nigel; it must have been a harrowing experience to be stabbed and then be in fear that the attackers
might return to complete what they had started. But, at the same time, Bartholomew could see that Nigel’s wound was not debilitating,
and the man should have raised the alarm, not cowered in a dark corner until it was safe to come out.

‘By the time anyone heeded my cries, the two intruders had left,’ concluded Nigel. ‘And that was that. I was carried here,
and now lie in great pain waiting to recover.’

He took another gulp of wine and gazed at Urban with challenging eyes, daring him to contradict him further. Urban raised
his eyes heavenward, then busied himself with his other patients, declining to waste his time listening to Nigel’s exaggerations.

‘Was there anything about either of them that was familiar?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Did you see a face or a distinctive mark?’

‘I saw big men,’ said Nigel promptly. ‘I may recognise them again; I may not. It was dark and, as I said, it all happened
very fast.

‘How big?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘As big as me?’

‘Bigger,’ said Nigel immediately, barely glancing at the physician as he poured himself more wine. ‘They were both huge.’

Bartholomew gazed down at him thoughtfully. Was he telling the truth, or did he feel that being overpowered by large men gave
more credence to his story? If he were being honest, his evidence would certainly vindicate Morden. Even the cowardly Nigel
would have to concede that Morden was not a large man. Bartholomew wondered whether Michael would be obliged to release the
Dominican Prior on the basis of Nigel’s report.

‘Why do you ask about their appearance?’ queried Nigel, looking up at Bartholomew with sudden fear in his eyes. ‘Do you have
a suspect you want me to identify? I will not be able to do it. I did not see a thing before they struck me and I do not want
to see them. They may try to kill me again.’

Bartholomew regarded him dispassionately, unimpressed by the man’s cowardice. ‘You were lucky. Our gatekeeper was killed when
these intruders invaded Michaelhouse.’

For the first time, it seemed to occur to Nigel that he really had had a narrow escape, and that the danger he had
faced had been genuine. Swallowing hard, he glanced around fearfully before subsiding under his blankets and was silent.

At Urban’s request, Bartholomew examined the man with jaundice, discussing possible medicines and treatments and forgetting
that Michael was waiting outside, now that he was confronted with the far more interesting and immediate question of a malfunctioning
liver.

‘How are the lepers?’ asked Bartholomew, as he jotted down a recipe for tincture of hellebore on a scrap of parchment for
Urban. ‘I have not had time to visit them lately.’

‘Not good,’ replied Urban. ‘It has been a long winter and supplies are scarce for everyone. Lent has not helped, either.’

‘Why not?’

‘No meat,’ explained Urban. ‘And the Benedictines used to give us all their eggs and butter during Lent, but they have needed
them this year for Brother Adam. My poor lepers cannot expect good health on stale bread and cloudy ale alone.’

‘Spring cannot be far away,’ said Bartholomew.

‘It may be too late by then,’ said Urban. ‘Mistress Matilde often helps us when we are in need, but she is not at home and
no one knows where she has gone. I have been to her house three times now with no success.’

‘I know where she is,’ said Bartholomew, pleased to have another reason to entice Matilde out of St Radegund’s Convent, if
she had not already left. ‘I will tell her.’

Urban gave a relieved smile, while the physician turned his attention back to his writing. Everyone in the infirmary jumped
when the door was thrown open violently, and Michael stepped across the threshold to glare around him. Timothy was behind
him, his face apologetic, as though he had tried his best to stop the monk from bursting in, but had failed. Bartholomew started
guiltily, knowing he should not have spent so long discussing the other patients with Urban while the monk was waiting for
him.

‘Well?’ Michael demanded of Bartholomew. ‘What have you learned?’

Nigel gave a sudden cry of horror, and Bartholomew saw the colour drain from his wine-reddened face.

‘It is him!’ he shrieked, pointing at Michael. ‘There is the man who tried to kill me last night!’

‘I know where Simon Lynne is hiding,’ said Michael smugly, as he walked with Bartholomew and Timothy back to the town.

‘Really?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I thought his brother said he had no idea.’

‘He probably does not,’ replied Michael, pleased with himself. ‘I have worked this out for myself.’

‘How?’ demanded Timothy. ‘We have no clues.’

‘We have enough,’ said Michael, a self-satisfied smile creasing his fat features. ‘We have been told – by Ringstead of the
Dominicans, by the Carmelite student-friars and by Father Paul – that two people went to one man for intellectual discussion
and understanding: Faricius and Kyrkeby both spoke to Paul at the Franciscan Friary.’

‘They wanted a debate, Brother,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Simon Lynne does not want to talk: he wants somewhere to hide.’

‘And that is why he has gone to Paul,’ persisted Michael. ‘Paul is a gentle man, who is popular with students. He would never
turn away a soul in need.’

‘We can try speaking to Paul, I suppose,’ said Bartholomew, unimpressed with Michael’s reasoning. ‘Although I cannot see why
a Carmelite would seek sanctuary with a Franciscan.’

‘Why not?’ asked Michael. ‘He first sought sanctuary with a convent of Benedictine nuns, and probably even considered hiding
with his brother at the Austin Priory. Desperate situations call for desperate measures.’

‘How do you explain Nigel’s accusation?’ asked Timothy of Michael, when Bartholomew could think of no further
arguments to refute Michael’s claim. ‘He thought you were one of the men who stabbed him last night.’

‘I have no need to explain his ravings,’ said Michael haughtily. ‘While that incident was under way, I was at Michaelhouse,
trying to work out what had happened to Arbury. Of course it was not me he saw.’

‘It seems he did not see enough of these intruders to identify them anyway,’ mused Timothy. ‘He remembered large men in dark
clothes, then howled his head off at the first big black-robed person he set eyes on.’

‘But all the Austin canons wear dark robes,’ said Bartholomew. ‘So why did he not howl at them?’

‘All right, Nigel yelled at the first
unfamiliar
black-robed person he saw, then,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘Do not quibble, Matt. Nigel’s information is worthless anyway:
most men wear dark cloaks in winter, and he only claimed his attacker was large because he did not want to admit to being
bested by someone small.’

‘Will you let Morden go?’ asked Timothy. ‘Even the exaggerating Nigel would have noticed if one of the intruders had been
Morden’s size. He is very distinctive.’

‘I will keep Morden for a while yet,’ said Michael. ‘I refuse to allow him to go free on the word of such an unreliable witness.
And do not forget that his glove implicates him in the burglary of my room, even if he did not later travel to Barnwell and
stab Nigel.’