An Order for Death (55 page)

There was a sudden shriek and a yell of ‘fire!’ The milling mass of bodies was still for an instant, and then there was a
concerted dash for the door. Feet pounded and trampled as people rushed forward. Some tripped over the prostrate Lincolne,
and Bartholomew’s attempts to struggle free and make his own way to the door were futile. He winced as someone kicked his
leg in the frantic dash from the burning building, and then curled into a ball to protect his head to wait until the stampede
was over. Fortunately, his position under Lincolne saved him from most of the bruising footsteps that pounded across the floor.

Finally, the church was empty. Bartholomew pushed Lincolne away from him and sat up to see the last of the scholars disappearing
through the great west door. One or two were limping and others were being helped by their friends, but at least everyone
was walking. Recalling the reason for the panic, the physician gazed around him wildly, but could see no flames. He could
not even smell smoke.

‘Where is the fire?’ he demanded, scrambling to his feet.

‘There is no fire,’ said Michael. ‘That was someone’s idea
of a practical joke. Still, at least it put an end to all that fighting.’

‘Everyone is going home peacefully,’ reported Beadle Meadowman, running breathlessly back into the church to Michael. ‘I thought
they would continue to fight outside, but too many of them have bruises already, and they are dispersing quite quietly.’

‘Lincolne!’ exclaimed Michael, staring down at the Carmelite friar when he became aware that the man was lying unnaturally
still amid a spreading stain of blood. Horneby was next to him, kneeling and muttering the words of the final absolution.

‘Prior Lincolne killed Faricius,’ said Horneby, gazing up at them with a face that was pale with shock. ‘I heard what he told
you, Doctor. We thought the Dominicans killed Faricius, but all the time it was him. Our own Prior.’

‘What is this?’ asked Michael in confusion. ‘And what is wrong with Lincolne?’

‘He fell on his knife,’ said Horneby quietly. He fixed Bartholomew with a calm, steady gaze that was impossible to interpret.
Had Horneby killed the Prior, to avenge the death of his friend? Or had the murderous Lincolne been pushed on to his own dagger
when so many feet had thundered across him?

Bartholomew knelt next to Lincolne, and saw the knife protruding from his stomach. He stared at Horneby, noting his bloodstained
hands, and wondered whether the fact that Lincolne had died in the same way as Faricius was significant. Horneby said nothing,
but continued with his absolution. As he touched the body to anoint it, yet more blood darkened his fingers, and Bartholomew
knew it would be impossible to tell whether Horneby had taken his own vengeance. Horneby knew it, too, and gave Bartholomew
a small, bitter smile as he straightened the curious topknot that had provided Bartholomew with his final clue.

‘I told you I would clear the church within moments, if
I spoke about life on other planets,’ said Heytesbury, coming to stand next to them. He was amused by the whole incident,
and did not seem too concerned by the fact that a scholar lay dead at their feet. ‘I was right.’

‘It was you who shouted that there was a fire?’ asked Michael in sudden understanding.

Heytesbury grinned at him in a way that made it clear he had been the one responsible. ‘But, although I may have been correct
about emptying the church, I was wrong about one thing, Brother.’

‘And what was that?’ asked Michael suspiciously.

‘I thought today would be a dull experience. It was not. You Cambridge men
certainly know how to organise a memorable debate!’

B
ARTHOLOMEW LEANED BACK AMONG THE SCENTED
cushions in the chair nearest to Matilde’s fire and watched her bring mulled wine for him and Michael from the small parlour
at the back of the house. It smelled rich and sweet, and the aroma of cloves and cinnamon mingled pleasantly with the pine
needles that crackled and popped in the hearth.

‘So,’ said Michael with great satisfaction, leaning forward to see which of the three goblets was the fullest and then taking
it. ‘We emerge victorious once more. You would think criminals and murderers would have learned by now that Cambridge is not
the place to be if they want their nasty plans to succeed. They would do better going to Oxford.’

‘Speaking of Oxford, did Heytesbury leave on Sunday afternoon?’ asked Matilde, drawing a stool near the fire and perching
on it as she cupped her goblet between both hands. Clippesby’s prediction of a spell of sunshine had proved uncannily accurate,
but clear skies meant cold nights, and it was chilly once the sun had set, even in Matilde’s cosy home.

Michael nodded. ‘He is now the proud owner of the Black Bishop of Bedminster, and he set off on it at noon, shortly after
his unexpectedly brief lecture.’

‘Heytesbury
bought
that thing?’ asked Bartholomew in astonishment. ‘I thought he was as wary of it as everyone else.’

Michael chuckled happily. ‘Stanmore – ever the salesman – caught him in a tavern late one night when he was not at his most
alert, and persuaded him to buy it. It was, after all, his to sell, not Richard’s. Meanwhile, all our suspicions that
Richard was involved in something sinister were essentially unfounded. His father bought him the horse and the saddle, while
his fine new clothes and fancy ear-ring came either from his own savings or from the money Heytesbury paid him.’

‘Why did Heytesbury pay him?’ asked Matilde curiously.

‘Because he did not trust any Cambridge-based lawyers to read the deeds relating to his arrangements with me,’ replied Michael.
‘And because he was strapped for choice, Richard could name any price he liked.’

‘I imagine a good deal of haggling took place over the fee, though,’ added Bartholomew. ‘They certainly spent a lot of time
in taverns, trying to take advantage of each other by indulging in drinking games. But Richard has been a changed man this
week. He even visited some of my patients with me, and claims he may yet become a physician.’

‘He helped me take food to the lepers, too,’ said Matilde. ‘And I hear that the Franciscans are making a good deal of money
by selling the cure that lifted the curse from him.’

Bartholomew laughed. ‘Richard is a young man who is rarely ill, and the combination of too much ale with Heytesbury and the
burning feathers that Cynric left for him made him sick. He was frightened, and there is the essence of the Franciscans’ cure.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Matilde incredulously. ‘Are you telling us that it did not actually work?’

‘Of course not,’ said Bartholomew. ‘How can burning feathers change a person’s character? They made him ill, and convinced
him to turn over a new leaf – that and the knowledge that he killed a monk and does not want to be damned for it.’

‘So, he may revert to his former charming self?’ asked Matilde, disappointed.

Bartholomew nodded. ‘But he was a nice enough lad before he left home. Perhaps living with Edith will keep him pleasant.’

‘The Franciscans are making a lot of money by selling gum mastic, too,’ said Michael. ‘When the news spread that
Lincolne’s impressive topknot was held in place so perfectly by a glue made from a new import from the Mediterranean—’

‘It only stayed in place when he was not killing people,’ corrected Bartholomew. ‘It tended to come off in the hands of his
victims – Walcote, Faricius and almost me.’

‘— a good many people asked the Franciscans if they had any,’ finished Michael. ‘It is fine stuff – virtually invisible and
fat-based so it does not rinse off in water.’

‘It leaves yellow stains, however,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Lincolne’s scalp was deeply impregnated with it, and so were Heytesbury’s
fingers. He uses gum mastic resin as a breath-freshener to disguise the fact that he likes wine. It is quite a useful plant.’

‘So, it was Lincolne who killed Faricius and Walcote,’ mused Matilde. ‘He was a cool customer, ordering you to investigate
his student’s stabbing among the Dominicans and then watching you excavate Kyrkeby from the secret tunnel.’

Bartholomew agreed. ‘So was Timothy, although he at least had the grace to go white when we found Kyrkeby, and he did not
like being in the conventual church at Barnwell, where the body of another of his victims lay. I recall feeling sorry for
him, because I assumed that it was simply the sight of corpses he did not like.’

‘He probably just did not like to see the corpses of the men he had murdered,’ said Michael. ‘But Lincolne was good. It never
occurred to me that
he
knew about the tunnel and Kyrkeby’s body in it.’

‘He had been a student at the Carmelite Friary,’ Bartholomew explained to Matilde. ‘Therefore, he was aware of the tunnel,
although it is a Carmelite tradition to keep the secret from the masters. I suppose people simply forgot that Lincolne had
been a student here as time passed.’

‘He saw Faricius slip out through it while the Dominicans were storming the Carmelite Friary,’ continued Michael. ‘He followed
him, watched him collect the essay, then
confronted him in Milne Street. Feeling betrayed by his best student, Lincolne stabbed Faricius in a fit of rabid fury.’

‘Lincolne was lucky the Dominicans did not catch
him
in Milne Street,’ said Matilde. ‘It was his proclamation that started the riot in the first place.’

‘That was why he abandoned Faricius’s body before he had the chance to grab the essay,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He heard the Dominicans
coming and was forced to flee.’

‘Meanwhile, Kyrkeby had also been dogging Faricius,’ Michael went on. ‘Time was passing, and he needed the essay on which
to base his lecture. He must have been desperate, to dash over to the dying Faricius and cut the strings to his scrip while
his own students were closing in.’

‘He
was
desperate,’ confirmed Bartholomew. ‘The lecture was in a week, and his own work was mediocre. He needed the essay urgently,
if he were not to disgrace himself and his Order at the most auspicious event in the University’s calendar.’

‘And by the Monday – two days later – Ringstead observed a marked improvement in the lecture’s quality,’ said Michael. ‘But
meanwhile, Lincolne became obsessed with hunting down the essay and destroying it.’

‘He knew he was not in a position to look for it himself,’ said Bartholomew, ‘so he turned to Timothy and Janius, who were
already working with him in the plot to overthrow Michael and Walcote and thus save the University from what they considered
to be evil influences. The Benedictines eagerly obliged Lincolne, but did so because they intended to publish it themselves,
not because they wanted to destroy it.’

‘It would have brought them fame and fortune,’ said Matilde. ‘But why would the fanatical Lincolne join forces with monks
like Timothy and Janius? They seem odd bedfellows.’

‘They were not so different,’ said Michael. ‘They all used religion as a means to force their own views on people who begged
to differ. And they were all afraid that my arrangement with Heytesbury would harm Cambridge. It just shows
that they were poor judges of character, and that they did not know me at all.’

‘And poor Walcote, who we all chastised for being so meek and mild, showed considerable strength in the end,’ said Matilde.
‘He died because he refused to tell that wicked trio where he had hidden Faricius’s essay.’

Michael nodded. ‘He knew if he told them they would probably kill Paul, and he did not want that on his conscience. He died
to protect Paul and to keep Faricius’s essay from men like Timothy and Janius, who would seek to profit from it, and from
Lincolne, who would have burned it.’

‘Where is it now?’ asked Matilde.

‘Where Faricius wanted it to be,’ said Michael. ‘In the care of Father Paul.’

‘They must have killed Walcote very quickly,’ said Bartholomew, his mind still dwelling on the grisly details of the Junior
Proctor’s death. ‘Lynne heard the commotion with Kyrkeby shortly after sunset, and both Kyrkeby and Walcote were dead before
compline, because that is when Sergeant Orwelle found Walcote’s body and it was already cold.’

‘Why did Walcote not tell
you
about the tunnel?’ asked Matilde of Michael. ‘It seems the sort of detail proctors should share.’

‘I quite agree,’ said Michael. ‘But Walcote was a man of his word, and he had promised the Carmelite student-friars he would
say nothing if they blocked the tunnel within a week. Also, you must remember that he was not present when the question about
Faricius’s escape from the friary came up: he was making sure the Dominicans had all gone home at that point. He never knew
that we were pondering the question of how Faricius could have left the friary without using the main gate, or I imagine he
would have told us.’

‘You and he did not seem to work well together,’ remarked Bartholomew. ‘You may have liked each other, but you did not trust
him – or he you.’

‘No,’ admitted Michael. ‘I thought him too weak, and he did not understand me at all. We did not talk as much as we should.
I realised this was a mistake, and I determined such a lack of communication should not sully my working relationship with
his successor. I told Timothy everything – which was also a mistake, as it happened.’

‘My role in this was rather worthless,’ said Matilde ruefully. ‘I thought I was helping you solve two murders, but despite
the fact that I had a thoroughly enjoyable time at St Radegund’s Convent and I learned a good deal that might benefit the
sisters, my spying was a waste of time as far as you are concerned.’

‘Not true,’ said Michael. ‘Matt was sure the nuns had a role in those deaths. And he was right in a way: Walcote’s meetings
at St Radegund’s caused a good deal of trouble.’

‘Matt and I were mistaken about Tysilia, though,’ admitted Matilde. ‘We thought she was a highly intelligent manipulator,
who masterminded the meetings and the murders. We could not have been more wrong. She is exactly what she appears to be: a
pretty woman with a completely empty head. She thinks she will have a better life if she escapes from the convent, and regularly
gives the men she meets small baubles in return for a promise of help.’

‘But she only keeps her lovers for a week, and so is obliged to buy off rather a large number of them,’ said Bartholomew,
smiling. ‘She offered Richard trinkets to help her – which certainly accounts for how he paid for some of his new clothes.’

‘She gave him my locket,’ said Matilde, taking it from around her neck and gazing down at it. ‘She really is foolish: she
has not realised that she needs to keep her lovers for longer than a few days if she ever wants to capitalise on the favours
she has purchased.’

‘Richard was bitter about the nuns of St Radegund’s when we discussed them in the Cardinal’s Cap,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But
I suspect that was because his week was up, and Tysilia had already abandoned him for her next victim.’

Michael frowned thoughtfully. ‘On the morning of his lecture, Heytesbury said that Cambridge “no longer held any attractions”
for him. I wonder if he was Richard’s replacement for a while.’

Matilde nodded keenly, pleased to be able to provide at least some useful information. ‘He was. But she confided in me that
men who drink a lot do not make good lovers. Poor Heytesbury was dismissed well before his week was up.’

‘Well, Tysilia need not worry about escaping from St Radegund’s any more,’ said Bartholomew. ‘She no longer lives there. Bishop
de Lisle has removed her to the leper hospital.’

‘Has he?’ asked Michael, startled. ‘Does she have the disease, then?’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘But it is clear her mind is impaired, and she is pregnant for a third time in a very short period.
Leper hospitals not only house lepers; they are a haven for those with other incurable diseases, too, including weaknesses
of the mind. It is also cheaper than St Radegund’s, and the Bishop is apparently short of funds at the moment.’

‘Insanity?’ asked Michael bluntly. ‘She does not seem to be any more lunatic than most of the people who freely walk around
Cambridge’s streets – including certain Michaelhouse scholars.’

‘I suppose we should feel sorry for her,’ said Matilde. ‘But she treated poor Brother Andrew shamefully, and it led to his
suicide in the King’s Ditch. It is hard to feel compassion for someone who is so completely dedicated to her own selfish desires.’

‘I feel compassion for Faricius, though,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The poor man only wanted to express what he really believed,
but academic bigotry silenced him. And I feel compassion for the Michaelhouse lad who was killed just for greeting Brother
Timothy in a cheerful manner. And for Simon Lynne, murdered because he was walking down the street in the misguided belief
that all his troubles were over.’

‘Simon Lynne is a good example of why liars are a danger to themselves,’ said Michael. ‘He told us untruths, and we later
disbelieved him when he claimed he had an identical brother and that his aunt was Mabel Martyn. He was being honest, but we
already had him marked as a liar. I might have been able to protect him if he had been open with me from the start.’

Matilde looked up at Michael. ‘Over the last two weeks, you have lost two Junior Proctors. What will you do? I cannot imagine
that you have many willing volunteers lining up to take their places.’

‘No,’ admitted Michael. ‘Although there is one man who has offered me his services. I am seriously tempted to accept them,
because at least I know that
he
will never organise clandestine meetings behind my back, or plot to have me murdered.’

‘Father William?’ asked Bartholomew, horrified. ‘You would appoint that old bigot to a position that will allow him to persecute
anyone who fails to comply with his own narrow set of beliefs? And what about the realism-nominalism debate? It will never
die down with William accusing all the nominalists of heresy.’