An Order for Death (46 page)

‘What happened?’ he asked. ‘Where am I? Where is my horse?’

‘You fell off it,’ said Michael unsympathetically. ‘It is too spirited for you; you would do better with a palfrey.’

‘I cannot be seen on a palfrey,’ said Richard, not too unwell to be indignant. ‘What would people think?’

‘They would think that you are a man who is sensible, modest and steady,’ replied Michael. ‘They would not snigger behind
your back because you have purchased a mount over which you have no control, and they would not think you are an ambitious
toady, who is so aware of outward appearances that there is no substance to him.’

Richard’s eyes were wide. ‘Is that what you think?’

‘It is what
you
tell people to think with your Black Bishop of Bedminster and your dangling ear-ring and your glittering buttons,’ scolded
Michael.

Richard turned on his father. ‘I told you that horse was too ostentatious and that we should have bought the brown one instead!’

Stanmore’s features hardened. ‘You told me you wanted to make an impact on the town. The brown nag would not have achieved
the same effect.’

Bartholomew gaped at his brother-in-law. ‘
You
bought him that thing, Oswald? It was
your
idea?’

Stanmore sighed heavily. ‘Damn it all, Richard! The only condition I imposed on you for my generosity was that no one should
ever know who paid for the Black Bishop.’

‘What were you thinking of?’ asked Bartholomew, appalled. ‘You must have seen that the impression your son was making was
not a good one.’

‘On the contrary, Richard has secured a good deal of
work since he arrived here,’ snapped Stanmore. ‘Several wealthy merchants have hired him. The black horse did
exactly
what we hoped. But you had better not tell Edith about this. She will be furious with me.’

‘Since we are on the subject of money, how do you afford all your fine clothes and your handsome saddle?’ asked Bartholomew
of his ailing nephew. ‘I am sure Oswald did not give you funds to squander on those.’

‘The saddle came with the horse,’ admitted Stanmore reluctantly. ‘A splendid horse would be no good without a matching saddle,
would it?’

‘The clothes are paid for with my own funds,’ said Richard sullenly, ‘although I cannot see it is any affair of yours. I worked
hard in Oxford, and I have secured several lucrative customers here in Cambridge. I have no family to care for, so why should
I not spend my earnings on clothes?’

‘Well, at least this tells us that not all your young nephew’s flaunted wealth was ill-gotten,’ whispered Michael to Bartholomew.
‘The most expensive item was a gift from his loving and very misguided father.’ He turned to Richard. ‘Never mind all this
for now. I have a question to ask. What were you doing at St Radegund’s with Walcote?’

‘When?’ asked Richard, a trace of his old insolence insinuating itself into his voice.

Michael’s eyebrows drew together in annoyance. ‘Do not play games, boy. One of the items on the agenda of these gatherings
was my murder. Why would you implicate yourself in that?’

‘Oh, no!’ breathed Stanmore, as he slumped into a chair with one hand pressed over his heart. ‘Not again! Do not tell me that
another member of my family is involved in something criminal! I thought my brother’s fate five years ago would have warned
you against that sort of thing, Richard.’

Richard hung his head, and Michael eyed him with distaste. ‘You came to Cambridge to make your fortune, and immediately set
about wooing the richest and most
influential men in the town. These included Junior Proctor Walcote, who invited you to one of his nocturnal meetings, probably
not realising that you were the nephew of my closest friend.’

‘Walcote did not know that,’ acknowledged Richard in a low voice. ‘He was horrified when he discovered I am Matt’s kinsman.
He was afraid I would tell you about his business.’

‘And why didn’t you?’ demanded Michael.

Richard rubbed his eyes wearily. ‘I only went to one meeting; then Walcote died and there were no more. The discussion included
raising funds for mending the Great Bridge, and then went on at length about nominalism and realism. There was mention that
you had been seen stealing from the University Chest in the Carmelite Friary, Brother, but I told them that they were insane
if they believed you would do such a thing.’

‘Quite,’ said Michael, a little mollified by Richard’s belief in his innocence, regardless of the fact that it was wholly
unjustified. ‘What else did you talk about?’

‘That was all. I doubt the whole thing took more than an hour. Nothing was decided and nothing was resolved, because Walcote
was not forceful enough to allow any item to be concluded.’

‘Explain,’ ordered Michael.

Richard gave a wan smile. ‘He meant well, but he wanted to please everyone. No one will ever be happy with everything, and
there comes a point where you just have to go along with the majority. But Walcote did not want to offend the dissenters.
We made no decisions, and everything was postponed until later. Pechem told me it had been like that from the start.’

‘Walcote was weak,’ agreed Stanmore. ‘He was a nice man, who was a pleasure to have at the dinner table, but was far too conciliatory
to make unpopular decisions. I cannot imagine him ever taking a stand on anything.’

‘He was a follower of nominalism, yet he readily agreed with you that realism was just as valid,’ said Bartholomew,
recalling the discussion with Michael that had taken place after Faricius’s death. ‘He also thought you should have gone
to interview the Dominicans the day that Faricius died, but was too diffident to press his point when you declared otherwise.’

‘He always did as he was told,’ said Michael thoughtfully. ‘And I can see he would have been poor at leading discussions.
Very well, Richard. I accept that you are telling the truth about that. But why did anyone bother with these meetings, when
nothing was ever achieved?’

‘I think the attenders enjoyed the opportunity to rant and rave to people who were of the same philosophical persuasion. Everyone
loved the slander and lies that were hurled at the other side. The only things they did
not
agree on were those that really mattered – spending money on the Great Bridge and useful things like that.’

‘Why were
you
invited?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Everyone else was a cleric.’

‘Walcote needed a lawyer to read various documents. Heytesbury recommended me to him.’

‘And who else was at these nasty little covens?’ asked Michael.

Richard rubbed his eyes again. ‘Kenyngham and Gretford of the Gilbertines, Pechem of the Franciscans, and a few of their minions.
It was a waste of time. What we did afterwards was fun, though.’

‘And what was that?’ asked Bartholomew.

Richard winked. ‘The nuns entertained us in ways that were quite extraordinary.’

Stanmore regarded his son in disgust. ‘I thought you would have known better than to engage in that sort of activity. And
in a convent, too! What would your mother say if she knew?’

‘Did Heytesbury join you?’ asked Michael innocently. ‘If the answer is yes, then I could have my deed signed this very afternoon.’

‘No,’ said Richard sullenly.

‘Do not lie,’ warned Michael. ‘You are already in a good deal of trouble for attending these illegal gatherings. If you are
honest now, I may be prepared to overlook your role in them.’

It was an empty bluster, given that there was nothing illegal in a group of scholars meeting each other in a convent, and,
although it was hardly respectable behaviour, there was nothing unlawful in the frolics they had allegedly engaged in afterwards,
either. But Richard’s mind was evidently not working as quickly as it might, and he gave way in the face of Michael’s belligerence.

‘Heytesbury was not invited to the meeting itself, because the business discussed was private to Cambridge, but he waited
for me in the church and joined us for the fun afterwards.’

‘He would,’ said Stanmore in disapproval. ‘Mayor Horwoode told me that he was after Yolande de Blaston the instant he set
foot in the town. I have never seen a man locate his prostitutes with such speed.’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘Matilde told us days ago that Heytesbury had employed Yolande.’

Michael rubbed his hands. ‘Excellent! I could not have hoped for a better way to persuade that sly Oxford rat to sign my deed.’

‘Really, Brother,’ said Bartholomew mildly. ‘I did not expect you to stoop so low. I thought you were anticipating a battle
of wits with one of Oxford’s greatest thinkers, not that you would resort to blackmail because he is fond of a barrel of wine
and enjoys the company of women.’

‘If I were not investigating four murders, I would concur,’ said Michael pompously. ‘But blackmail will be a good deal quicker,
and I shall be assured of a favourable result. It may not be necessary anyway. If Heytesbury agrees to sign my deed on Sunday,
I will not need to mention dalliances with nuns or frequent visits to taverns. But there is something else I want to know,
since you are in a mood to talk, Richard: what is Tysilia’s role in all this?’

Richard’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘Tysilia? None. Why do you ask?’

‘But you know her,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You met her in Bedford, and you travelled in the same party to Cambridge.’

Richard shook his head in disbelief. ‘Nothing escapes the notice of you two, does it? But what of it? I cannot see that my
brief dalliance with Tysilia is any of your affair.’

‘You allowed that whore to seduce you?’ asked Stanmore in horror. ‘You could not resist her vile charms? I expected more of
you, Richard. I credited you with good taste.’

‘I saw no reason to resist her,’ said Richard sullenly. ‘I only took what was freely offered.’

‘Like that pendant she stole from Mistress Horner?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I saw you with it this morning.’

‘This?’ asked Richard, pulling the gold locket and its chain from his scrip. ‘This is not stolen.’

‘It belonged to a convent guest, and Tysilia took it,’ said Bartholomew. He snatched it from his nephew and put it in his
own scrip, determined that Matilde should have it back.

‘But it was given to me,’ said Richard indignantly.

‘By whom?’ demanded Bartholomew. ‘And why?

‘Tell him, Richard,’ said Stanmore wearily. ‘I am sure there is a good reason why you happen to have this thing.’

Richard said irritably, ‘I did not know it was stolen. Tysilia told me her uncle had passed it to her.’

‘Why did she give it to you?’ asked Michael. ‘I thought
she
would have demanded payment from
you
, not the other way around.’

Richard swallowed. ‘Because I was going to help her escape. She does not like St Radegund’s; she finds it too restrictive.’

‘Lord help us!’ muttered Stanmore, regarding his son in disgust. ‘You are a foolish boy, although not, I think, a dishonest
one. How could you even think of embroiling yourself in a plan to free that whore? What do you think Bishop de Lisle would
say when he learned that you helped spirit his niece away from her protectors?’

‘He might be grateful to be rid of her,’ muttered Michael. ‘She is more trouble than she is worth.’

Stanmore stood and loomed over his son. ‘I have been tolerant of your idiosyncrasies since you returned, Richard, but I am
rapidly losing patience. You will abandon this life of debauchery, and you will remove Heytesbury from my household by Sunday
– as soon as his lecture is over. And then perhaps we can begin to forgive and forget.’

Richard stared at the floor, and Bartholomew could not tell whether he intended to follow his father’s orders or whether he
would revert to his old ways as soon as Stanmore’s back was turned.

‘And that ear-ring will go, too,’ added Stanmore as an afterthought.

Without looking up, Richard slowly removed the offending jewellery from his lobe. He drank more water, then claimed he was
tired and asked that he be allowed to rest. He closed his eyes, and Bartholomew imagined he could already see a hardening
of the youthful features, indicating he was unwilling to give up his pleasantly debauched lifestyle in Heytesbury’s company.
Perhaps both of them would return to Oxford together.

Bartholomew stayed with Richard a little longer, then followed a chuckling Michael down the stairs and across the courtyard
to the road outside. Michael sniggered all the way up the High Street, although Bartholomew was not sure whether his amusement
derived from the fact that Richard had been cut down to size or that he now had two very powerful weapons with which to bully
Heytesbury into signing his document.

‘Here we are at the Franciscan Friary,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Now we will find out whether Paul is hiding Simon Lynne, as you
believe.’

‘And, if he is, we shall have some answers at long last,’ said Michael, rubbing his hands together in gleeful anticipation.

B
ARTHOLOMEW AND MICHAEL REACHED THE FRANCISCAN
Friary just as the first gloom of dusk was approaching, and were startled to find its normally sedate atmosphere shattered,
with grey-robed friars running here and there in panic. Warden Pechem stood in the middle of it, his hand swathed in the bandage
Bartholomew had tied, as he answered questions put by Brother Timothy. Pechem was shivering, and Bartholomew noticed he was
not wearing his cloak, as though he had been dragged from his warm quarters too suddenly to allow him to grab it.

Standing to one side was Clippesby, his eyes so wild that the white parts gleamed peculiarly against the black of his Dominican
habit. His hair jutted in all directions, so that he looked even more eccentric than usual. Bartholomew saw that his robe
was dirty, as if he had been rolling in mud.

‘What is the matter?’ asked Bartholomew, watching Clippesby twist one of his sleeves so hard that he threatened to do it permanent
damage. ‘All this has nothing to do with you, does it?’

‘No!’ wailed Clippesby, his voice loud enough to draw the hostile attention of several Franciscans. ‘If they had listened
to me, this would not have happened.’

‘I warned you to stay away from the Franciscans,’ said Michael angrily. ‘You know they do not like Dominicans on their property.’

‘But I wanted to see Father Paul,’ howled Clippesby. ‘He is the only person in this town who is not short of a few wits. I
have a right to sane conversation if I want it.’

‘Lord save us,’ muttered Michael. ‘If the likes of
him
are
demanding sane discussions, what does that say about the rest of the University?’

‘What is going on?’ asked Bartholomew of Clippesby a second time. ‘What has caused this disturbance?’

‘You will get no sense out of him,’ said Michael, giving Clippesby a disparaging glance as he took Bartholomew’s arm and pulled
him away. ‘Timothy will tell us what is happening.’

‘Another robbery,’ explained Timothy as they approached. ‘And it happened just moments ago.’

‘We were lucky Brother Timothy happened to be passing when it occurred,’ said Pechem unsteadily. ‘He and Brother Janius gave
chase, but the culprits disappeared into the scrub-land that leads to the Barnwell Causeway.’

‘We did our best,’ said Timothy apologetically to Michael. ‘But they were too fast for us.’

‘Was anyone able to identify the thieves?’ asked Michael. ‘Who were they?’

‘We do not know,’ said Pechem. ‘But they were brazen. Two men just joined the end of our procession as we walked home from
the church after vespers. Everyone assumed they were the guests of someone else, and no one questioned their right to be inside.’

‘
I
did,’ shouted Clippesby, coming to join them. ‘I
told
you they were not Franciscans, but no one took any notice of me.’

‘They did worse than not listen to him,’ explained Timothy to Michael. ‘They ejected him from their premises, because they
thought his warnings were the ramblings of a madman.’

‘Whatever gave them that idea?’ asked Michael.

‘They threw me in the mud,’ cried Clippesby, looking down at the front of his habit as though he had only just noticed that
it was splattered with the grime of the road. ‘They picked me up and hurled me into the street.’

‘What would
you
have done if some lunatic from a rival Order thrust his way into your premises and started making
wild accusations?’ asked Pechem, appealing to Michael. ‘It is not the first occasion he has made a nuisance of himself here,
and there was no reason to assume that this time was any different.’

‘Did
anyone
recognise these robbers?’ asked Michael, exasperated that everyone seemed to be more willing to discuss Clippesby and his
antics than the real culprits. ‘It is only just growing dark, so there must have been sufficient light to see their faces
when they were here.’

With Michael’s appearance, the Franciscans had calmed down, and now stood in a quiet circle around the monk and their Warden,
listening. They shook their heads when Michael glanced around at them: it seemed no one had recognised the intruders. Pechem
began to shiver more violently than ever in the frigid breeze of early evening, and Clippesby, in a rare moment of sensitivity,
removed his own cloak to drape around the man’s shoulders.

‘You should not be out here,’ Bartholomew reprimanded Pechem gently. ‘That horse bite may have unbalanced your humours and
rendered you more susceptible to chills.’

‘Those thieves stole my cloak!’ cried Pechem, agitated again. He realised with a start that he was wearing a Dominican’s robe,
and almost flung it away. But it was a warm garment, and he was very cold. He clutched it more closely around him.

‘So, what happened is that two strangers calmly joined the end of your procession and entered your friary,’ said Michael.
‘And not one of you asked who they were. Is that what you are telling me?’

‘We could not see their faces because their hoods were up,’ said a short, obese friar called John de Daventre, whom Bartholomew
regularly treated for trapped wind. ‘All of us had our cowls drawn, because it is windy and there is rain in the air. It did
not seem odd that these two men were also protecting themselves against the weather.’

‘And what happened when these two were inside?’
Michael demanded. ‘Did they dine with you, too, before they decided to commit their crimes?’

Daventre treated him to an unpleasant look. ‘We all went about our own business, and no one noticed where this pair went.
But it seems they followed Father Paul to his cell and forced their attentions on him.’

Bartholomew’s stomach churned. ‘What do you mean? Did they hurt him?’

‘No,’ came Paul’s familiar voice as he elbowed his way through the watching friars. ‘They only questioned me. They did me
no harm.’

‘What did they want?’ asked Michael.

‘Faricius’s essay on nominalism,’ replied Paul. ‘I am afraid I was obliged to give it
to them.’

‘But you do not have it,’ said Michael. ‘You told Matt that you were distressed it had gone missing, and that you hoped it
would reappear one day, so Faricius’s name would be remembered.’

‘I never told Matthew I did not have it,’ said Paul. ‘He did not ask me that specific question, and so I did not feel obliged
to answer it and tell him it was in my room.’

Michael gave a heavy sigh. ‘That is hardly acting in the spirit of the truth, Father. How did it come into your possession?
And why did you decline to tell Matt?’

‘I thought he would be safer knowing nothing about it, and anyway, I swore to tell no one. Oaths are sacred things.’

Angrily, Michael said, ‘You sound like Kenyngham. Has it never occurred to you that it is sometimes better to be honest with
the forces of law and order? We are hunting someone who has taken the lives of four people, Father. Surely that transcends
any promises you made?’

Paul’s usually expressive face was unreadable. ‘I am a novice in the world of killers and thieves, and I find it hard to see
what is right and wrong in such circumstances. But suffice to say that Faricius’s essay was brought to me for safe keeping.’

‘By whom?’ asked Michael. ‘And where is Simon Lynne of the Carmelites? He seems to be missing, too.’

‘Here I am.’ Simon Lynne, wearing a Franciscan novice’s habit that was far too large for him, pushed his way past Daventre
and stood next to Paul. He and his brother had been telling the truth, Bartholomew thought: they were indeed peas in a pod.
He saw Pechem’s jaw drop in astonishment.

‘But you told us this boy was your kinsman,’ cried the Warden, regarding Paul accusingly. ‘You said he wanted to stay here
until he decided whether or not to take the cowl.’

‘That is true,’ said Paul, smiling benignly in Pechem’s direction. ‘I just did not specify which cowl he would be taking –
it will be that of a Carmelite, not a Franciscan. And as for him being my kinsman, well, we are all brothers in the eyes of
God.’

‘That is a rather liberal interpretation,’ said Pechem sternly. ‘We Franciscans are not in the habit of taking waifs and strays
from other Orders.’

‘We Franciscans also never close our doors to those in need,’ retorted Paul sharply. ‘Here is a young man who came to me because
he was in fear of his life. I did what I thought was right; I would do the same again in similar circumstances.’

‘But I was not safe here,’ said Lynne unsteadily, on the verge of tears. He pressed more closely against Paul, who put a comforting
arm around his shoulders. ‘I thought no one would find me in a friary of Franciscans, but I was wrong. It took those devils
less than four days to hunt me down.’ He scrubbed at his nose and sniffed loudly.

‘Who are these “devils”?’ asked Michael gently. He saw the lad was frightened, and realised that now was not the time to give
vent to his irritation that Lynne had eluded him for days and probably had been withholding information that might have allowed
him to solve the case far sooner.

‘The men who murdered your Junior Proctor,’ said Lynne miserably. He glanced around him fearfully. ‘You must see
how dangerous these men are, Brother Michael. If I, a Carmelite, feel driven to seek refuge in a convent of Franciscans –
with whom we have been at loggerheads for years – you will understand how deeply I am afraid.’

‘It is clear to me that the men who have terrified Lynne are the same ones who marched in here and demanded Faricius’s essay,’
added Paul.

‘How do you know that?’ asked Bartholomew, a little bewildered by the sudden flow of information.

‘It is complex,’ said Paul. ‘And I do not want to discuss it here. It is cold and there is rain in the air. It is fine for
you youngsters, but not for an old man who has just had a dagger at his throat.’

‘But you said they did not harm you,’ said Bartholomew, alarmed. ‘Now you say they held you at knife point?’

Pechem gave a hearty sigh. ‘I understand none of this. My friary is robbed, I learn that Carmelites have invaded the sanctity
of our walls, and now you are talking about the murder of the Junior Proctor and stolen essays on nominalism. I think you
all have some explaining to do.’

Paul agreed. ‘It is time the unpleasantness regarding Faricius’s essay was laid to rest. He was a gentle man, and would have
been appalled to think that his scholarly opinions should be the cause of so much bloodshed and anguish.’

‘He should have considered that before he put pen to parchment, then,’ said Timothy, rather bitterly. ‘Faricius should have
used his common sense to see that writing an essay on a subject that is currently so contentious would do nothing to improve
the unity and peacefulness of the town.’

‘We should discuss this inside,’ said Bartholomew, taking Paul’s arm and leading him towards the steps to Warden Pechem’s
office. ‘Father Paul is cold.’

‘Come with us, Lynne,’ instructed Michael. ‘The rest of you should be about your business. Timothy, would you mind informing
the beadles what has happened, and instruct them to be on the alert for these two robbers on their patrols tonight?’

Timothy nodded dutifully, and walked briskly across the courtyard. Bartholomew saw him offer to escort Clippesby back to Michaelhouse,
although it was scarcely on his way. Bartholomew was again impressed by the man: it was not safe for Clippesby to linger inside
the Franciscan Friary, and now that it was growing dark, it was not safe for the Dominican to be out at all. Timothy was kind
to think of him, when virtually everyone else in Cambridge wished the crazed Dominican would just disappear. Clippesby allowed
himself to be led away like a tame dog.

‘Good,’ said Paul, as they reached Pechem’s office where there was a fire blazing in the hearth. He turned his sightless eyes
on Bartholomew and gave a mischievous grin, speaking in a low voice so that Pechem would not hear. ‘Actually, I am not particularly
cold, but this will warm me nicely before I retire to bed tonight.’

Bartholomew looked around at the men who had gathered in Pechem’s small room, making it feel cramped and stuffy. Paul huddled
close to the flames, holding towards them translucent, knobbly hands that were streaked with lumpy blue veins. Lynne hovered
near the door, as if he imagined he might be able to escape if Michael’s questions became too uncomfortable. Pechem had retired
to his bed, piling himself high with blankets in an attempt to warm himself.

‘Right,’ said Michael, gazing coolly at Lynne. ‘I am not pleased that you ran away, thus withholding valuable information
from me. But I might be prepared to overlook that if you are honest with me now, and tell me what I need to know.’

Lynne nodded miserably.

‘So,’ began Michael. ‘Let us start with Faricius’s death. He was stabbed and, as we have done, you reasoned that he had been
killed
after
he had retrieved his essay from its hiding place – that someone killed him because they wanted to steal it.’

‘Kyrkeby,’ said Lynne unhappily. ‘He killed Faricius for
the essay. He was due to give the University Lecture, and he needed something more inspiring than the dull tract he had compiled.
Faricius told me that Kyrkeby had given him a ruby ring in exchange for the essay.’

‘So that is where that ring came from,’ said Michael, carefully not looking in Bartholomew’s direction so he would not have
to acknowledge that the physician’s speculations about Kyrkeby had been correct. ‘We discovered it in Faricius’s spare scrip
when we went through his belongings.’

Lynne nodded. ‘I was not there, but Horneby told me you had found it. Faricius took the ring from Kyrkeby, and promised to
give him the essay later.’

‘Why would Faricius want a ruby ring?’ asked Pechem curiously. ‘He was a friar who had taken vows of poverty.’

‘Many friars forget that vow,’ said Paul from the fireside. ‘And Kyrkeby had a fine collection of jewels. He offered me some,
too, if I would agree to write his lecture. I declined, because I do not consider it ethical for one man to pen work for another.’