An Order for Death хмб-7

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘I think you are attributing too much importance to this essay,’ said Timothy. ‘Just because you cannot locate a few scribbled notes does not mean Faricius died for them. You know how poor many people are these days: some would kill for a loaf of bread – and Faricius’s purse almost certainly contained enough for that.’

  ‘I thought you admired Faricius and his work,’ said Bartholomew.

  ‘I did,’ said Timothy. ‘But that does not mean to say that I believe his writing was the cause of his death. He did not mention the essay specifically to you on his deathbed, so how do you know there was not something else in his scrip that he was concerned over? He had a ruby ring at the friary, so perhaps there were more riches in his purse that he was worried about.’

  Bartholomew could think of no arguments to refute what Timothy said, although he remained convinced that the monk was wrong to dismiss the essay so completely. Michael was halfway through his second bowl of beef stew, and Bartholomew had just finished a dish of buttered turnips, when the door opened and more people entered the cosy tavern. Bartholomew saw Michael’s eyes narrow when he recognised Richard Stanmore, then watched the monk’s face assume an expression of innocent friendliness when Heytesbury followed the young lawyer in.

  ‘How does your nephew know about this place?’ asked Michael of Bartholomew, maintaining his pleasant expression, although his voice was petulantly angry. ‘It is not open to just anyone.’

  ‘Good afternoon, Brother,’ said Richard cheerfully, taking a seat next to Michael and peering into his bowl. ‘What is this? An additional meal to see you through to suppertime? And meat, too! Do you not know it is Lent?’

  Michael glowered at him, suddenly not caring that Heytesbury saw his murderous expression. ‘I missed my midday meal, because I was engaged with important University business.’

  ‘A missed meal would do you no harm,’ said Richard rudely. ‘To be grossly fat–’

  ‘Show some manners, Richard,’ said Heytesbury sharply. ‘It is not polite to comment on another man’s personal appearance.’

  ‘He is not fat, anyway,’ said Timothy loyally. ‘These habits make us look larger than we are.’

  ‘Quite,’ muttered Michael, casting a venomous glower at Richard, whose clothes that day were green and whose ear-ring glittered tantalisingly close to the monk’s fingers.

  ‘I thought you said you would punch the next man who commented on your girth,’ said Bartholomew, thinking that a good thump might do Richard some good. Timothy regarded Bartholomew in alarm, and the physician had the feeling that the Junior Proctor wondered whether to arrest him for inciting a scholar to fight with a townsman.

  ‘Next time,’ vowed Michael. ‘I do not fight men who are unwell. What have you been doing to make you so wan and pale, Richard? You look worse than Kyrkeby’s corpse.’

  Bartholomew saw what Michael meant. Richard’s green clothes did nothing to improve the unhealthy pallor of his face, and even the powerfully scented goose grease that was plastered on his hair was not quite able to disguise the fact that he had recently been sick. Evidently, Richard and Heytesbury had indulged themselves in yet another night of merrymaking in some tavern or another. Michael sneezed, then yelped suddenly.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Richard, giving the monk a grin that was far from apologetic. He held his decorative dagger in his hand. ‘Your sneeze made you wobble into this.’

  ‘What is it?’ asked Timothy disparagingly. ‘I would confiscate it as a dangerous weapon, but it looks like a toy – all handle and no blade.’

  ‘And what would a monk know about such things?’ sneered Richard.

  ‘I was a soldier once,’ said Timothy. ‘I fought at Crécy with the Black Prince. He is a man well acquainted with court fashions, but he would never carry a thing like that.’

  ‘What is wrong with it?’ asked Richard, offended. ‘I can defend myself with it well enough.’

  ‘Put it away,’ said Michael, seeing that the other occupants of the tavern were beginning to wonder why a townsman was brandishing a knife at the University’s proctors. Father Aidan had already left, unwilling to be caught in a place where trouble might be brewing. ‘And tell us how you come to be looking so peaky this morning.’

  ‘I had a meeting with Mayor Horwoode last night,’ began Richard by way of explanation, slipping the silly weapon into an equally impractical scabbard. ‘He wanted to ask my opinion about who is legally responsible for maintaining the Great Bridge.’

  ‘He wanted you to find a loophole in the law that will make someone other than the town liable,’ surmised Timothy tartly. ‘He is loath to levy a tax on the townsfolk to pay for it, and is hoping that you could put the onus on the Castle or the University.’

  ‘How did a meeting with Horwoode make you ill?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Did he give you bad food?’

  Richard shook his head. ‘He gave me a good deal of wine, although that stopped flowing as soon as I told him that the bridge was the town’s responsibility and he had better raise some funds before someone was killed on it and he was held accountable. On my way to collect Black Bishop from the stables, I met Heytesbury, and we adjourned to the Swan for a drink.’

  ‘It sounds to me as if you had had more than enough to drink already,’ muttered Michael.

  ‘I have given Richard some of my gum mastic,’ said Heytesbury, withdrawing the packet of yellow resin from his scrip. ‘Mixed with alehoof, it is an infallible remedy for overindulgence.’

  Bartholomew saw that Heytesbury’s fingers were coloured a deep yellow, rather like the stains the physician had noted on the bodies of Walcote and Faricius. Had they also used gum mastic as a cure for too much drink? Neither had seemed the kind of man who drank a lot, although neither did Heytesbury, and Bartholomew guessed the Oxford scholar was actually very partial to his ales and wines. That morning, there was an amber sheen to the whites of Heytesbury’s eyes, and his hands were unsteady, as if they required a jug of something fermented to settle them.

  ‘And what would Oxford men know of over-indulgence?’ asked Michael archly. ‘Surely the noble men of that fine institution do not need such remedies?’

  ‘We use them on rare occasions,’ said Heytesbury, unruffled by Michael’s sarcasm. ‘But by the time we left the Swan it was rather late to return to Trumpington, so we spent the night at Oswald Stanmore’s business premises on Milne Street, instead.’

  ‘However, when I woke this morning, someone had been in my room during the night,’ Richard went on. ‘There was a bowl of burnt feathers and garlic next to my bed, and the stench was unbelievable.’

  Bartholomew smiled, knowing exactly who had been responsible for placing the foul-smelling substance near Richard, and why. The superstitious Cynric was following the Franciscans’ instructions for removing the curse of an unpleasant personality. The physician recalled that William had caught the mad Clippesby taking feathers from the College cockerel, doubtless at Cynric’s request.

  ‘I had a rotten night,’ complained Richard churlishly. He fiddled restlessly with something he had pulled from his pocket. Bartholomew saw it was a gold pendant, and wondered whether his nephew’s excesses now ran to jewellery.

  ‘It looked to me as if someone had been practising witchcraft,’ said Heytesbury, amused. ‘We all know that burned feathers are a common ingredient in spells.’

  ‘Cynric, probably,’ grumbled Richard. ‘He is Welsh, and so believes in that kind of thing. I expect he imagined he was protecting me from evil spirits. But, what with the stink of burning feathers, the bad wine in the Swan, and the Carmelites carousing across the road, I slept badly.’

  ‘The Carmelites?’ asked Timothy, startled. ‘Lent is not over and they have recently buried a colleague. They have no cause for carousing.’

  ‘I hope it was not because they found Kyrkeby dead on their property,’ groaned Michael. ‘I thought we had averted a fight over that particular issue.’

  ‘Actually, I think they were just pleased that Kyrke
by is not to give the University Lecture,’ said Heytesbury wryly. ‘They were angry that he planned to talk in defence of nominalism, and were delighted to hear that the lecture will now revolve around life on Venus.’

  ‘Perhaps there are nominalists on Venus,’ suggested Richard. ‘Have you considered talking about what Venusian nominalists might believe? It would be a clever way to give a lecture on nominalism while still complying with the unreasonable demands imposed by Chancellor Tynkell.’

  ‘It would not,’ said Heytesbury sternly. ‘Such a tactic would be ungentlemanly, not to mention painfully transparent. And anyway, it would make a mockery of my beliefs. The realists would laugh at me if I claimed nominalism was followed on Venus.’

  ‘I still have that document ready,’ said Michael to Heytesbury, patting his scrip. ‘It seems to me that you do not like Cambridge, and I would hate to think that you felt obliged to linger here for my benefit.’

  ‘It has been quite an experience,’ said Heytesbury, leaning back in his chair and smiling enigmatically. ‘But I shall decide whether to sign this deed by the time I give my lecture. You are right: I do not like Cambridge, and I am beginning to miss the hallowed halls of Oxford with their atmosphere of learning and scholarship, and the stimulating presence of great minds.’

  ‘I see,’ said Michael icily. He opened his scrip and passed Heytesbury the document. ‘This is ready whenever you are. I can even provide you with a decent horse to speed you on your way.’

  ‘Just as long as it is not a large black one,’ said Heytesbury, taking the document as if he expected it to bite. ‘I would not want to be thrown off and break my neck.’

  ‘No,’ said Michael ambiguously.

  Heytesbury folded the deed and placed it in his own scrip. ‘I shall read it myself, then ask Richard to assess it for loopholes. I must be sure that it does not harm Oxford.’

  Michael pretended to be offended, although Bartholomew thought Heytesbury was acting with commendable common sense in securing the services of a lawyer. The monk stood and indicated that Timothy and Bartholomew should leave with him. ‘We must go to visit the good nuns of St Radegund’s Convent. There are questions to ask.’

  ‘Do not go there, Brother,’ advised Richard weakly. ‘Those are no nuns; they are sirens, who entice innocent men inside their walls. A chaste and inexperienced man like you will be easy prey.’

  ‘How do you know?’ demanded Bartholomew. ‘Are you one of those men who visits the nuns when decent folk are sleeping?’

  ‘I know the occupants of St Radegund’s Convent,’ replied Richard evasively. ‘There have been rumours about the place ever since I was a boy.’

  ‘Do these rumours bear any resemblance to the truth?’ asked Heytesbury, raising his eyebrows in amusement.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Richard weakly. ‘Beyond your wildest imaginings.’

  Chapter 10

  BARTHOLOMEW, MICHAEL AND TIMOTHY LEFT THE Cardinal’s Cap and set off in a dull drizzle of early afternoon towards St Radegund’s Convent. When Michael tapped on the door there was a sound of running footsteps, the grille on the gate was snapped open and Tysilia peered out.

  ‘Oh, it is you,’ she said to Michael, sounding pleased. ‘We always like visits from Dominicans and Franciscans.’

  ‘I am a Benedictine, not a Dominican,’ said Michael, offended. ‘You should be able to tell the difference; you wear the habit of a Benedictine novice yourself.’

  Tysilia shook her head in evident impatience with herself. ‘Dame Martyn told me that I could always tell a Benedictine from a Dominican because Benedictines are fat. I must remember that!’

  Bartholomew glanced at Michael and smiled.

  ‘I said I would punch the next man who called me fat,’ muttered Michael in reply. ‘And Tysilia is no man.’

  ‘She is not,’ agreed Timothy, not bothering to mask his distaste.

  ‘I keep forgetting that Black Monks and Black Friars are different,’ Tysilia went on cheerfully. ‘It is like White Friars are Carmelites and White Monks are cisterns. And Grey Friars, like him, are Franciscans.’ She beamed at Timothy in his damaged cloak.

  ‘Cistercians,’ corrected Michael. ‘And Timothy is no Franciscan; he is a Benedictine, like me.’

  ‘But he wears grey,’ Tysilia pointed out. ‘And grey equals Franciscans.’

  It was clear to Bartholomew that Timothy had no time for the owner of the sultry eyes that peered through the grille, although he had plenty of compassion for the struggling Yolande de Blaston. ‘Enough!’ Timothy snapped. ‘We did not come here to bandy words with you, woman. Inform your Prioress that we are here to see her.’

  ‘Then I suppose you had better come in,’ said Tysilia with a pout. ‘I may be a while, because she is asleep and I will have to wake her up.’

  ‘It is cold out here,’ said Michael, rubbing his hands to warm them as a bitter wind laden with misty droplets of rain cut in from across the Fens. He did not comment that early afternoon was no time for a Prioress with a convent to run to be asleep. ‘I do not know why the founders of this convent chose to locate it in so wild a place.’

  ‘They put it here so that we would be removed from men,’ explained Tysilia brightly, opening the door to admit them. ‘Of course, that just means that men have a bit of a walk to get here…’ Her hands flew to her mouth in agitation. ‘Damn it all! I forgot. Eve Wasteneys told me I am not to admit anyone into Prioress Martyn’s presence without first telling her who it is. Would you mind leaving?’

  ‘You mean you want us to wait outside?’ asked Michael, startled.

  ‘Yes,’ said Tysilia.

  ‘But why can we not wait here?’ asked Michael, unwilling to leave the relative shelter of the convent walls to stand in the rain while Tysilia woke the Prioress from her slumbers.

  ‘Because Dame Martyn may not want to see you,’ said Tysilia with an impatient sigh at his stupidity. ‘And if she does not, I shall have to tell you that she is not here and refuse you permission to come in.’

  ‘I see you have a clear understanding of the duties of gatekeeper,’ mumbled Michael, reluctantly stepping out. He shivered in the wind as she closed the door again, and gave Timothy a sudden grin. ‘Matt thinks Tysilia is behind these meetings of Walcote’s, and that she is a criminal mastermind who is capable of manipulating some of the most important men in the University.’

  Timothy shook his head, laughing. ‘I do not think so!’

  ‘It is just not possible for someone to be that stupid,’ said Bartholomew, defensive of his theory. ‘It must be an act.’

  ‘If her stupidity is contrived, then she has taken it too far,’ said Timothy, still smiling. ‘She needs to moderate herself.’

  ‘Here she comes,’ said Michael, as footsteps clattered across the yard. ‘Now we will see whether the Prioress is prepared to see us, or whether she is pretending to be out.’

  The door opened a second time, and Tysilia waved them in. ‘Eve Wasteneys told me to tell you that Dame Martyn is in the stellar,’ she said breezily.

  ‘Solar,’ corrected Michael. ‘And we know she is in, or you would not have gone to ask her whether she was prepared to grant us an audience.’

  ‘You what?’ asked Tysilia blankly.

  ‘Never mind,’ said Michael wearily. ‘Lead on.’

  She led the way across the yard to the building in which the solar was located. Michael kept his hands firmly inside his sleeves this time, so that the Bishop’s ‘niece’ ascended the stairs unmolested, despite hips that swung more vigorously at every step. She shot him a look of bewilderment when they reached the top, as though she could not understand how the monk could have resisted her.

  ‘How is your murder instigation coming along?’ she asked.

  ‘Investigation,’ corrected Michael. ‘And it is not coming along at all.’

  ‘That is because you think Will Walcote was killed by a single person,’ said Tysilia. ‘And he was actually murdered by three.’

  Bartholome
w stared at her. Was she simply giving voice to whatever came into her head, or was she passing Michael a clue? ‘What makes you say that?’ he asked curiously.

  ‘It is obvious,’ said Tysilia with a careless shrug. ‘I heard his hands were tied and he was robbed of his purse before he was hung.’

  ‘Hanged,’ corrected Michael. ‘“Hung” is what you do to game. But how does this prove there were three killers?’

  Tysilia sighed, to indicate her impatience at his slow wits. ‘Because it would need one person to tie his hands, another to steal his purse, and another to put the rope around his neck. One person could not have done all that, could he?’

  Bartholomew had reasoned much the same, although he was disconcerted to hear such rational thinking emanating from the lips of Tysilia. He shot Michael a triumphant glance to show that this proved he had been correct all along, and that she was deeply involved. Michael declined to look at him.

  ‘We are wasting time,’ said Timothy distastefully, indicating with a curt nod of his head that she was to open the door to the solar. His cool disdain made it clear exactly what he thought of the novice’s comments. ‘We have a killer to catch, and we will not do it listening to this nonsense.’

  Or would they? Bartholomew gazed uncertainly at Tysilia, trying to gauge yet again whether she was a cunning manipulator who was enjoying the spectacle of their floundering progress through the case, or the dull-minded harlot she seemed to be. But his intense scrutiny of her face told him nothing, and her eyes seemed empty behind their superficial sparkle. Pouting at Timothy’s brusque dismissal of her suggestion, she opened the door to admit them to the solar.

  ‘Brother Michael,’ said Eve Wasteneys, rising to greet her visitors. ‘Do come in.’

  Bartholomew glanced around him. The few nuns present were industriously engaged in darning, and all of them were fully clothed. Dame Martyn slumbered quietly in a corner, and there was not a wine cup in sight. Matilde, still playing the part of Mistress Horner, was with them. Her eyes were bright and interested, and even with all the make-up that covered her smooth white skin, Bartholomew could see she was enjoying herself.