An Order for Death хмб-7

by Susanna GREGORY

  Bartholomew suspected that Horneby was right. Walcote, Timothy and Janius had all claimed to admire Faricius’s thinking, while the great William Heytesbury had even offered to take him as a student. A man like Heytesbury could choose any scholar he wanted, and that he was interested in Faricius was revealing. Bartholomew realised that Horneby and his cronies were not the only ones who had maintained their silence about Faricius’s beliefs: Heytesbury had also declined to enlighten Michael with what he knew of the Carmelite friar murdered at around the time he had arrived in Cambridge himself.

  ‘And all of you knew about Faricius’s philosophical leanings?’ asked Michael, looking around at the other students. They nodded reluctantly, casting guilty glances at each other.

  ‘Yes,’ said Horneby. ‘But he talked to other scholars in the University known to support nominalism, too, so that he could learn from them.’

  ‘Such as whom?’ demanded Michael.

  ‘I cannot remember precisely,’ said Horneby, a little testily. ‘Half the town believes in nominalism, so he was not exactly strapped for choice.’

  ‘Henry de Kyrkeby, the Dominican precentor, is due to give the University Lecture on nominalism,’ suggested another student, more helpfully. ‘I think Faricius waylaid him and discussed his ideas once. Then there is Father Paul of the Franciscans, who is a tolerant and kindly man. And I saw Faricius in deep discussion with your Junior Proctor on several occasions.’

  ‘Brother Timothy?’ asked Michael, regarding doubtfully the Benedictine who stood behind him. ‘You have not mentioned this before.’

  ‘My discussions with him were of a more general nature,’ said Timothy, surprised by the student’s assertion. ‘We did not talk about nominalism.’

  ‘Not Timothy, the other one. Will Walcote,’ said the student.

  ‘Unfortunately, Will Walcote is dead,’ said Michael. ‘I do recall him saying that he had met Faricius, however, and so I know you are telling the truth on that score. Who else?’

  ‘I cannot remember,’ said Horneby again. ‘It was not something he discussed with us. He knew we did not agree with his ideas, and so he tended not to tell us about them.’

  ‘Where is this essay now?’ demanded Lincolne, still angry. ‘And what do you think it had to do with his death?’

  ‘Quite,’ said Michael. ‘I am no nominalist myself, and I appreciate why many people find its tenets heretical. But I cannot see why writing about it should result in anyone’s demise.’

  ‘I disagree,’ said Lincolne. ‘Nominalism poses one of the greatest threats to our Church and our society since the pestilence. It causes people to question basic truths like the manner of the creation and the nature of God. It is dangerous, and I will have none of it in my friary.’

  ‘Because we all know you feel that way, Faricius could not keep his essay here,’ explained Horneby to his Prior. ‘He always left it in a crevice in the wall that surrounds the Church of St John Zachary. When he heard that the Dominicans were coming, he went to fetch it.’

  ‘Did you see this essay when you found him?’ asked Michael of Bartholomew.

  The physician shook his head, but thought about Faricius’s desperation when he had learned that his scrip was missing. Bartholomew had been wrong. Faricius had not been delirious or confused about which of his scrips he had carried, and it had not been the ruby ring that he had been thinking about: his scrip must have contained his precious essay.

  ‘I suppose this means he was killed on his way to fetch the thing,’ surmised Michael.

  Bartholomew shook his head. ‘Given his frantic desperation when he learned his scrip was missing, I think it more likely that he had collected the essay and was on his way home with it.’

  ‘You had better show me this hiding place in the churchyard of St John Zachary, Horneby,’ said Michael tiredly. ‘It is possible that the essay – or a copy – is still there.’

  ‘Lynne and I have already looked,’ said Horneby, exchanging a glance with his friends. ‘We went on Monday night – we did use the tunnel, before you ask – but it had gone. The stone had been replaced in the wall, and the branches of the nearby bush arranged to hide evidence of chipped mortar. Faricius always did that. I suppose he intended to use it again once the riot was over.’

  Michael sighed. ‘What a mess! I wish you had told me all this before. It might have saved a good deal of time.’

  The students hung their heads, and none would meet the eyes of their Prior, who glowered at them in silent fury. Bartholomew could not decide whether Lincolne’s anger was directed at them for keeping secrets and delaying Michael’s investigation, or whether he was merely indignant that they had helped to harbour a heretic in their midst.

  So, had Faricius’s controversial essay brought about his death? Recalling his horror when he learned that his scrip had been stolen, Bartholomew was certain it had played some role. Faricius had been so concerned about its loss that he had even failed to reveal the identity of the person or people who had stabbed him. Bartholomew supposed it was possible that the killers were men Faricius had not known, although if the essay were at the heart of the matter, that seemed unlikely.

  As far as the physician could see, there were two possible explanations for why Faricius had died. First, he might have been murdered by a realist, who was afraid that a clever thinker like Faricius would promote the cause of nominalism to the detriment of realism. If this were true, then it was likely that Faricius’s killer was a Carmelite. Had one of his colleagues killed him, to protect the theory that the Carmelite Order had chosen to champion? Bartholomew gazed at Horneby and his friends, and wondered whether one of them still knew more than he had told. But Horneby suggested that Faricius had talked to lots of people, including the missing Dominican Precentor, about his affinity with nominalism. Was Kyrkeby’s absence related to Faricius’s murder? Had Kyrkeby committed the crime, then fled the town? But Kyrkeby was Bartholomew’s patient, and the physician knew Kyrkeby’s weak heart would not have permitted him to engage in a violent struggle with a young and healthy man. Yet how fit did one need to be to slide a sharp knife into someone’s stomach?

  The second possibility was that the killer knew an essay was in the making, but had made the assumption that it was in support of realism: because Faricius was a Carmelite, it was not unreasonable to assume that he had followed his Order’s teaching. Therefore, the suspects were the nominalists, who would not want a brilliant essay in defence of realism circulating the town. Faricius’s killer could therefore be a Dominican or someone who was a professed nominalist – like Walcote, for example.

  ‘You should block this tunnel as soon as possible,’ Michael advised Lincolne, as he moved away from the graveyard and began to head towards the front gate. His voice brought Bartholomew out of his reverie, who realised he was cold, wet, tired and ready for his dinner. ‘It is too dangerous to leave as it is, given that you have this silly feud with the Dominicans.’

  One of the students had lit a lamp, and Lincolne took it from him to inspect the dark entrance to the tunnel, shaking his head in disapproval and casting angry glances at his charges. He leaned forward and put his hand inside it, poking at the damp earth and announcing that the structure was unstable and that his students were lucky it had not collapsed on them. Suddenly, Horneby released a piercing cry of horror that made everyone jump. Bartholomew spun around to look back at him.

  ‘What is wrong with the boy?’ Michael whispered testily, his hand on his heart. ‘Has he seen a dead worm? Or worse, has he found Faricius’s “heretical” essay?’

  ‘Brother! Come quickly!’ cried Lincolne in a wavering, unsteady voice, as his students clustered around him to see what had so distressed Horneby.

  Michael elbowed them out of the way and craned forward to where the lamp illuminated the inside of the tunnel. Meanwhile, Horneby held a black leather shoe in his hand. Bartholomew peered over Michael’s shoulder, and saw that the shoe had been pulled from a foot that lay white and bare
just beyond the entrance of the tunnel. He reached in and touched it, trying to determine whether it belonged to someone he could help, but it was unnaturally cold and still.

  ‘Well?’ asked Michael in a low voice. ‘Is he alive?’

  ‘I think you have another death to investigate, Brother,’ said Bartholomew softly, so that only Michael could hear. ‘I suspect Horneby has just located the missing Henry de Kyrkeby.’

  ‘What in God’s name is it?’ wailed Prior Lincolne, as Bartholomew reached down inside the tunnel and tried to secure a grip on the white-soled foot. ‘It looks like a corpse!’

  ‘It is a corpse,’ snapped Michael impatiently. ‘And judging from the bit of black habit that I can see, and the fact that the shoe you are holding is made of the black-dyed leather favoured by the Dominicans, I would guess that this is one of them.’

  ‘A Dominican?’ squeaked Lincolne in alarm. ‘Who? One of the louts who murdered Faricius, and who then decided he had a taste for Carmelite blood and was on his way to claim more of it?’

  ‘I sincerely doubt it,’ said Michael. ‘The body is wet, and looks to me to have been here for some time. Given that we have only one missing Dominican, I imagine this is Henry de Kyrkeby.’

  ‘Kyrkeby?’ shrieked Lincolne in agitation. ‘But what is he doing in our tunnel? Was he trying to leave? Or was he trying to come in?’

  Bartholomew began to pull on Kyrkeby’s foot, and succeeded in freeing one leg. But the body was stuck fast, as if something was pinning it inside its gloomy resting place.

  ‘Or has someone just used the tunnel as a convenient place to hide his corpse?’ mused Michael, looking away from the body and studying the faces of the Carmelite students who stood in an uncertain circle around him. The dull grey light made their expressions difficult to read.

  ‘But why would anyone do that?’ cried Lincolne. ‘We Carmelites are not in the business of hiding the corpses of members of rival Orders in dirty holes in the ground!’

  ‘Neither are most people,’ said Michael. ‘But you have not taken into account the possibility that whoever hid Kyrkeby’s body might also have killed him.’

  He gazed at the student-friars a second time, but could gauge nothing from their reactions. The younger lads seemed frightened by the sudden appearance of death in their midst, while the faces of the older students, like Horneby, were virtually expressionless, and the monk could not tell what they thought about the fact that the Dominican Precentor was dead in their graveyard.

  ‘I cannot get him out,’ muttered Bartholomew, as he knelt next to the tunnel. ‘He is stuck.’

  ‘No one killed him,’ said Lincolne uncertainly, ignoring Bartholomew as, like Michael, he began looking around at his assembled scholars, as if not absolutely certain that he could make such a claim.

  ‘Is that true?’ demanded Michael of Bartholomew. ‘Has Kyrkeby been murdered, or did he die in the tunnel by accident or from natural causes?’

  Bartholomew pointed to the white leg that protruded obscenely from the dirty hole. ‘How can I tell that from a foot, Brother? I need to look at the whole body.’

  ‘Hurry up, then,’ ordered Michael, oblivious or uncaring of the weary look Bartholomew shot him. ‘If Kyrkeby has been murdered, I want to know as soon as possible.’ The expression on his face made it clear that he would start looking for suspects among the Carmelites.

  ‘But why would any of us kill him?’ asked Lincolne, in what Bartholomew imagined he thought were reasonable tones.

  ‘Because someone murdered Faricius, and many of you believe that a Dominican was responsible,’ replied Michael promptly. ‘Or perhaps because one of you caught him trespassing on Carmelite property, and decided to kill him before he reported to his Prior all that he had learned from his illicit visit.’

  ‘What could he report, Brother?’ asked Lincolne in the same measured voice. ‘You are assuming that we have something to hide. We do not.’

  ‘But you do,’ Michael pointed out. ‘For a start, your students had very successfully hidden the fact that Faricius was writing an essay in defence of nominalism.’

  ‘No!’ objected Lincolne. ‘That was different–’

  ‘It was not,’ interrupted Michael brusquely. ‘And secondly, you have only just been told about this tunnel that is supposed to have been here for years. Perhaps Kyrkeby found it, and someone was afraid that if he told his brother Dominicans, you Carmelites would be vulnerable to attack.’

  ‘None of my students would kill for such paltry reasons,’ said Lincolne, although he continued to glance uneasily at his charges.

  ‘No?’ asked Michael. ‘Then perhaps there are other reasons why someone here would want Kyrkeby dead. I have just seen two nasty secrets surface in the last few moments – three if we can count the presence of an extra corpse in the tomb of the illustrious Humphrey de Lecton – so perhaps there are yet more for me to uncover.’

  Lincolne was finally silent.

  ‘I really cannot move him,’ said Bartholomew, in the brief lull in the accusations and counter-accusations. ‘I cannot seem to get a good grip. His skin is too slippery.’

  ‘We did not kill him,’ said Horneby, taking up the defence of his Order where his Prior had left off. Neither he nor anyone else took any notice of Bartholomew, more interested in convincing Michael of their innocence than in retrieving the body that lay in the hole. ‘We have no idea how he came to be here. I swear it.’

  ‘And who do you mean by “we” exactly?’ asked Michael archly. ‘You Carmelites have at least thirty student-friars. Do you speak for them all? What about the masters? How can you know that no one has taken matters into his own hands and avenged Faricius by killing a Dominican?’

  Horneby shook his head slowly. ‘How can we have killed him? We have all been confined to the convent since Faricius was murdered. No one has left except to go to church, and then Prior Lincolne was watching us.’

  ‘That is true,’ said Lincolne.

  ‘No,’ said Timothy softly. ‘That is not true. Horneby just told us that he and Simon Lynne went to look for Faricius’s essay in the Church of St John Zachary on Monday. Obviously that was after Faricius had died, and so Horneby is lying when he says no one went out.’

  ‘And we saw a whole pack of you lurking outside the Dominican Friary on Sunday intent on mischief,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘We followed you home, remember?’

  Michael indicated the tunnel. ‘Anyone could have slipped through this whenever he liked. You cannot prove otherwise.’

  ‘However, no one would have been using it as long as Kyrkeby was here,’ said Bartholomew, turning his attention back to the body. ‘He is blocking it completely. And he will remain blocking it unless someone helps me. I cannot move him on my own.’

  ‘A visit to St John Zachary counts as going to church,’ said Horneby insolently. ‘We just made a slight detour for a few moments to check Faricius’s hiding place.’

  ‘And what about your sally to the Dominican Friary?’ asked Michael coolly. ‘Does that count as going to church, too?’

  Horneby sneered. ‘We were only there for a short while. It was not worth mentioning.’

  ‘I will help you, Matthew,’ said Timothy, crouching next to Bartholomew and reaching into the hole to grab a handful of Kyrkeby’s habit. His face was pale and his hands unsteady, and the physician saw yet again that dealing with corpses would not be part of a Junior Proctor’s obligations that Timothy would enjoy.

  ‘It is all right,’ said Bartholomew, not wanting Timothy to do something that so obviously unsettled him. ‘I can probably manage.’

  Timothy gave a wan smile. ‘You cannot. And no one else seems willing to assist.’

  ‘When was the last time any of you used the tunnel?’ asked Michael, glancing briefly at Bartholomew’s struggle with Kyrkeby before returning to the more interesting matter of interrogating the Carmelites.

  ‘Last Saturday,’ replied Horneby immediately. ‘It was used just before the riot i
n which those evil Dominicans murdered Faricius.’

  ‘Horneby, Horneby,’ said Lincolne, pretending to be shocked by his student’s accusation, even though he had made the same ones several times himself. ‘That attitude will get us nowhere. What will Brother Michael think when he hears words like that?’

  ‘He will think that you decided to avenge Faricius’s death and kill yourself a Dominican,’ said Michael flatly. ‘Even the most dull-witted of you must see that this is how it appears. And this sudden display of quiet reason does you no good, Prior Lincolne. Until a few moments ago, you, too, were claiming that Dominicans murdered Faricius.’

  ‘That was then,’ said Lincolne, unabashed. ‘We were the wronged party. But now it will look as though we took justice into our own hands, and I can assure you we did not. If we are not careful, the Dominicans will march on us again, and more people might die.’ He looked alarmed as a sudden thought crossed his mind. ‘And they may even damage the friary!’

  ‘Then we shall have to ensure that both Orders behave themselves,’ said Michael. ‘You are not the only one who does not want more bloodshed.’

  ‘The Dominicans will not be so amenable,’ said Lincolne bitterly. ‘They will deny murdering Faricius and demand another death to pay for Kyrkeby. They may even secure the help of the Austin canons and the Benedictines, who seem to be on friendly terms with them at the moment.’

  ‘But then we will call upon the Franciscans and the Gilbertines, who are not,’ said Horneby defiantly. ‘We can raise an army that will match the one any Dominicans can muster.’

  Bartholomew glanced up in alarm as Horneby’s friends began to voice their agreement in voices that were a combination of fearful and defensive. Michael watched the proceedings with his arms folded and an expression of distaste on his face. Timothy abandoned his attempts to help Bartholomew extract Kyrkeby, and stood, brushing the dirt from his hands.

  ‘Have any of you heard of the Ten Commandments?’ he asked, his quiet question cutting across the babble that was centred around Horneby.

  Lincolne regarded him uncertainly. ‘What have they to do with any of this?’