An Order for Death (50 page)

Bartholomew nodded. ‘You may be right. But if Tysilia is as clever as we think, then she may simply be telling you that she
knows Mistress Horner is a fake. I do not like this at all, Matilde. I want you to go and stay with Edith tomorrow. You will
be safe in Trumpington.’

‘With lecherous old Heytesbury prowling the house?’ exclaimed Matilde, laughing. ‘I do not think so, Matthew! I will be quite
safe here. You ordered me out of the convent
and I complied, but I will not be ordered anywhere else by you.’

‘Very well,’ said Bartholomew reluctantly. He felt in his bag and gave her the pendant he had reclaimed from Richard. ‘Here
is the locket Tysilia stole from you.’

‘How did you find it? Did she give it to you?’

‘She gave it to Richard in return for helping her to escape from St Radegund’s.’

Matilde chuckled. ‘So that is where all the nuns’ trinkets go. She gives them to various men in exchange for some undetermined
help in the future. I actually heard her bargaining with William Heytesbury one night. He is her lover of the week. She seldom
keeps them for longer than that; I think she is afraid they might do something dreadful, like try to hold a conversation with
her, if they come to know her too well.’

Bartholomew recalled that Tysilia had once said much the same to him herself. ‘Did Brother Timothy tell you about the lepers
wanting your charity?’ he asked, wishing that the Junior Proctor did not know that Matilde had been helping Michael.

She shook her head. ‘When was he supposed to come? I left the convent just before sunset.’

‘This afternoon,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He said he would tell you that the lepers desperately need the food that you sometimes
send them.’

Matilde nodded. ‘The Benedictines have been giving all their eggs and butter to the ailing Brother Adam this year. Janius
has taken the lepers nothing for weeks now.’

‘Really,’ said Bartholomew thoughtfully, recalling that Janius had walked with them to Barnwell the day Timothy had been appointed
Junior Proctor. He had carried a basket that he said contained food for the lepers, which he had covered with a cloth, ostensibly
to protect it from the rain. Why had he taken a long walk in the drizzle, when it had not been an errand of mercy that had
called him? Had it been to drop Walcote’s purse near the Barnwell Priory for
the eagle-eyed Sergeant Orwelle to find? Was that why he had placed the cloth over the basket, so that Bartholomew and Michael
would not see that it was empty of provisions for the lepers?

Bartholomew turned to Matilde. ‘I wish you would go to Trumpington, away from all this. I would feel happier knowing that
you are safe.’

She reached up and touched him gently on the cheek. ‘I know. And I appreciate your concern. You cannot know what a comforting
thing it is to have a good friend in a place like this, where nothing is ever what it seems.’

‘What do you mean? Are you referring to Tysilia again?’

Matilde shook her head slowly. ‘I do not know, Matthew. Perhaps we were wrong, and there is nothing more to that woman than
an empty-headed wanton. She was certainly not feigning her pregnancy. I was surprised I had not noticed it before, given that
it is so well advanced.’

‘It is true, then?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I thought it was an excuse to come to threaten you.’

‘She really is with child,’ Matilde repeated. ‘Her habit disguises the signs to a certain extent, but there is no question
about it. Poor Eve. The convent will miss the money the Bishop pays to have Tysilia looked after.’

‘They have not looked after her very well if they have allowed her to become pregnant. It would serve them right if the Bishop
took her away.’

‘I defy anyone else to have done better,’ said Matilde. ‘The woman is virtually uncontrollable and I wonder whether she is
not so much cunning as deranged.’

Bartholomew did not know what to think. He stayed for a while, drinking wine and listening to her stories about convent life
until he felt himself begin to fall asleep. Cynric’s sudden appearance at the door as he was about to walk home almost made
him jump out of his skin, and he was not sure whether to be relieved or more confused to learn that the two nuns had gone
directly back to St Radegund’s and had not stopped at taverns or to meet any accomplices.
When he reached Michaelhouse, he washed quickly and dived between his cold, damp bed-covers, his mind still whirling with
questions as an exhausted sleep finally claimed him.

T
HE FOLLOWING DAY WAS EASTER SATURDAY, AND
Bartholomew attended the obligatory services in the church, ate his meals and worked on his treatise on fevers, trying not
to dwell on what he planned to do that night. As evening approached, the clouds thinned, so that flashes of golden sun started
to break through them. By dusk, they had fragmented to the point where there were only a few banks left, each one tinged salmon
pink as the sun began to set. Cheered by the sight of a clear sky after so many overcast days, Bartholomew wandered into the
orchard, and watched the bright orange globe sink behind the trees at the bottom of the garden. The clouds seemed more vividly
painted than he had ever seen them before; they glowed amber and scarlet, before fading to the shade of dull embers and then
to a misty purple as darkness fell.

He walked back to his room, lit a candle and worked a little longer. The bell rang for the evening meal, and he picked at
the unwholesome mess of over-boiled cabbage and under-cooked beans without much appetite. The students were in a state of
barely suppressed excitement, because it was the last day of Lent and the following morning would see all the miserable restrictions
lifted. When he found part of a dead worm in the shredded cabbage that was heaped on his trencher, Bartholomew began to long
for the end of Lent, too.

Michael sat next to him, crowing triumphantly over the fact that Heytesbury had finally signed his document, somewhat unexpectedly,
and that the nominalist would leave Cambridge the following day. Father William was of the opinion that Heytesbury should
leave
before
he had given his
lecture, because he did not believe that the Oxford man would be able to resist talking about nominalism. Bartholomew hoped
William was wrong, certain that if one philosophical tenet passed Heytesbury’s lips, the man was likely to be lynched by rabid
realists waiting for just such an opportunity.

While Michael tried to inveigle himself an invitation to consume another barrel of Langelee’s excellent wine, Bartholomew
returned to his room and dressed for his pending raid on Brother Timothy’s quarters. He donned thick black leggings, a dark
woollen jerkin, and shoes that were easier to climb in than his winter boots. He was reaching for one of his surgical knives,
in case he needed to use force to prise open a window, when Cynric slipped into his chamber.

‘Are you ready?’ the Welshman asked. ‘If we can have this finished in less than two hours, I will still be able to go to the
Easter vigil. Ely Hall is only a stone’s throw from St Mary’s Church.’

‘You plan to come with me?’ asked Bartholomew, pleased. ‘You believe that Timothy and Janius are the killers?’

‘Not really,’ said Cynric bluntly. ‘But I do not want you to do this alone. I was hoping that the delay I recommended yesterday
would make you see sense, but I can tell from the expression on your face that you intend to go ahead with this foolery.’

‘It is not foolery,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Tonight we will see a pair of murderers revealed.’

‘If you say so,’ said Cynric. ‘Well, come on, then. I do not want to be breaking into other people’s property all night. It
is too cold.’

It felt odd to be gliding through the darkness with Cynric moving like a ghost in front of him. Bartholomew and Cynric had
shared many such nocturnal adventures, which Bartholomew was sure the Welshman had enjoyed a lot more than he had, but the
physician’s life had been blissfully free of them for several months. A familiar uneasiness settled in
his stomach, and he found his hands were shaking, although whether it was as a result of the cold of the starlit night or
from anticipation, he could not say.

He followed Cynric along the High Street, where everything was in complete darkness, except for one house where the cries
of a baby indicated a sleepless night for the hapless parents. A dog howled in the distance, like a wolf, and the sound sent
shivers down Bartholomew’s spine. He glanced up at the sky: the stars glittered and twinkled so brightly that he could make
out the outlines of the road and the ditches below, even though the moon was temporarily hidden behind a lone cloud.

‘Here we are, lad,’ said Cynric, gazing up at the dark mass in front of him that was Ely Hall. ‘What now? Shall I pick the
lock on the door, or were you planning on entering through a window?’

Bartholomew had not been planning anything. He had thought little beyond the fact that he needed to enter Timothy’s room at
a time when the Junior Proctor was out. He gazed helplessly at Cynric, and the Welshman sighed.

‘Come with me around the back. The last time I was here, I noticed that the kitchen is a lean-to shack in the yard. You may
be able to climb on top of it and force a window upstairs.’

Bartholomew was having serious misgivings about the wisdom of what he planned to do. Suddenly, it seemed madness to break
into the private chamber of the Junior Proctor, especially given that the Senior Proctor had told him that he had no right
to do so. But Bartholomew could see no other way forward; the thought of a murderer patrolling the streets and dispensing
his own justice to scholars who flouted the University’s rules was not an attractive proposition.

Forcing his uneasiness to the back of his mind, Bartholomew followed Cynric down a stinking alley that led to the rear of
Ely Hall. The stench was eye-watering, since the Benedictines had apparently been using it as a latrine
instead of going to the public ones in the Market Square. Lazy cooks, who could not be bothered to take their waste to the
river, had left their mark on the yard, too, and rotting cabbage stalks, unusable parts from joints of meat and old trenchers
sodden with grease all festered together in a slimy mass that was as slick as ice under Bartholomew’s shoes.

‘Timothy’s room is that one,’ said Bartholomew, pointing to the tiny window, little more than a slit, that was above and to
one side of the shack that acted as a kitchen. He frowned as he tried to recall details of Ely Hall from his visits to tend
Brother Adam. ‘That larger window to the right is a small landing. I think I should be able to squeeze through it.’

He felt Cynric gazing at him witheringly in the darkness. ‘Why do you think I suggested we enter this way? I know where Timothy’s
room is, and I know the landing window is large enough for you to enter. How many more times must I tell you that if you intend
to break into someone else’s property, you should have a feel for the layout first?’

‘Right,’ said Bartholomew, hoping it was not something he would have to do again.

‘Here,’ said Cynric, moving an abandoned crate carefully, so as not to make a noise. ‘Climb on this, and see whether you can
prise open the window. It will be dark inside, do not forget. How do you plan to see what you are doing?’

‘There was a candle on the table when I was last here,’ Bartholomew whispered back. ‘I think it is better to risk a light
and search quickly, than to fumble around in the dark for longer.’

‘Did you bring a tinder to light the candle?’ asked Cynric.

It was Bartholomew’s turn to treat Cynric to a withering look.
‘I am not that incompetent. And before you feel the need to suggest it, I know I should lay a blanket across the bottom of
the door to hide the light from any restless Benedictines who happen to be passing, too.’

‘Good thinking,’ said Cynric, impressed. ‘I can see I taught you well after all.’

Bartholomew scrambled inelegantly on to the crate, wincing when his hands touched something soft that stank, and then heaved
himself on to the kitchen roof. Using his knife, he then prised open the hall window. Cynric indicated that he should enter,
and made a sign that he would keep watch by the entrance of the alleyway. Bartholomew was horrified.

‘Are you not coming with me?’

‘It is you who wants to raid a Benedictine’s chamber, lad,’ whispered Cynric hoarsely. ‘Not me. I will hoot like an owl if
I hear anything. Good luck and do not be long.’

He had slipped soundlessly down the runnel before Bartholomew could suggest that Cynric did the burgling while Bartholomew
kept watch. The Welshman was far better at such things, and the physician felt sure he would have the document in a trice
and then they could both go back to Michaelhouse to tell Michael what they had done. Bartholomew gazed at the open window
with trepidation, took a deep breath to steady his pounding heart, and started to climb through it. Feeling as though the
Benedictines who were asleep in the adjoining chambers would have to be deaf not to hear the racket he was making, he clambered
on to the landing, then stood still for a few moments, straining his ears for any sound that might indicate he had been heard.
Opposite, Janius’s room was still and silent.

Bartholomew groped his way along the darkened corridor. He located the door to Timothy’s chamber with his outstretched hands,
and listened for a few moments before carefully lifting the latch and stepping inside.

He recalled that a candle had been set on the table near the window, and reached out cautiously until he encountered wood.
He located the candle and withdrew the tinder he carried tucked in his shirt, blinking as a dim light filled the room. Before
he forgot, he took a blanket from the bed and dropped it against the door. And then he looked around.

For a moment, when he saw the neat room with its plain
wooden cross nailed to the wall, he thought he had been gravely mistaken and that his invasion of Timothy’s privacy had been
unwarranted, but then he saw that the blanket he had used to block the door was no blanket at all; it was a heavy black cloak.
He poked at it, noting that it had been freshly laundered. Yolande had been telling the truth, and the grey cloak that Timothy
had worn had nothing to do with her washing of it. Bartholomew glanced at the row of hooks on one of the walls. A grey cloak
hung there. He inspected the inside of the collar, where the tailor had sewn a small mark that indicated it had been made
for the Franciscan Order. It was Pechem’s.

He took a deep breath. Finding the cloak was good, but it was not conclusive evidence of Timothy’s guilt. What he needed to
find was the essay that seemed to have been the cause of so many deaths. He began to search, resisting the temptation to ransack
blindly, and forcing himself to be methodical. Timothy had gone to considerable trouble to gain possession of the text, and
would hardly leave it lying around somewhere obvious.

Wax dripped as he began to inspect the floorboards, knowing such places were popular as hiding places. Sure enough, there
was a loose plank, and Bartholomew prised it up quickly. In the small cavity below was a dirty scrip, stained with blood.
Bartholomew was in no doubt that it had belonged to Faricius. He dug deeper, and emerged with a second purse, this one in
immaculate condition and decorated with flowers and butterflies, consistent with the one of Kyrkeby’s that Ringstead had described.

A noise from the hall made him freeze in alarm. Brother Adam began to cough, loudly and desperately, and it sounded as though
he could not catch his breath. Thumping footsteps on the stairs and on the landing outside suggested that the brothers were
panicking, not knowing how to help the old man, despite the fact that they had watched Bartholomew prepare soothing balsams
for him at least twice and he had even written the instructions down for them.

The coughing grew worse, and Bartholomew was in an agony of indecision. The physician in him longed to throw open the door
and go to the old monk’s aid, knowing that he could ease the problem within moments. But then he would have revealed himself,
and he would never have another opportunity to search the room of the man he was certain was a killer.

‘Brother Timothy has it, I believe,’ came the voice of one of the monks, edged with fear. ‘Shall I see if I can find it?’

Bartholomew’s heart leapt into his mouth as the latch on Timothy’s door began to rise. Quickly, he pinched out the candle,
and was only just under the table when Brother Janius burst in holding a lamp. Bartholomew held his breath when the skirts
of Janius’s habit swung so close to his face that he could make out the individual fibres in the cloth. The monk then rummaged
among documents on the very table under which Bartholomew crouched.

‘Here we are,’ Janius said suddenly, and Bartholomew heard the rustle of parchment. ‘I knew it was Timothy who had taken Bartholomew’s
instructions.’

He left as abruptly as he had entered, leaving the room in darkness. Bartholomew released a shuddering breath, and tried to
quell the fluttering in his stomach. He heard more footsteps pounding on the stairs as hot water was fetched, and there was
a clank as someone produced a metal bowl in which to mix the herbs and water so that Adam could inhale the steam. The frightened
rasp of Adam’s laboured breathing began to ease.

Bartholomew began to relax, too, and was considering resuming his search when he realised that Janius must have noticed the
cloak that lay across the bottom of the door. Would he assume it had fallen there? But it was fairly obvious that the garment
had been placed in position by someone inside the room, and that it had not coincidentally fallen in such a way as to block
light. With a surge of panic, Bartholomew scrambled out from under the table, half
expecting Janius to burst into the chamber and catch him red-handed.

He glanced at the ambry in the far corner, not knowing whether to risk a few more moments to complete his search, or whether
to count his blessings and leave while he still could. Instincts of self-preservation urged him to go, but he knew he would
never have such a chance again – Timothy would know someone had been in his room because there was candle wax all over the
floor, and Bartholomew intended to take the two purses he had recovered to Michael. If Bartholomew did not find the essay
first, Timothy would move it elsewhere, and it would never be found. Reluctantly, he made his decision and turned towards
the ambry, fumbling with the latch. It was entirely the wrong thing to have done. The door burst open and a sudden light flooded
the room.