‘I hope he is wrong,’ said Richard nervously. ‘I thought his capture and Timothy’s death signified an end to all this vileness.’
‘They do,’ said Michael firmly. ‘He is just ranting to unsettle us. He and Timothy were behind all this murder and mayhem, and neither of them is in a position to do anything more now.’
‘I hope you are right,’ said Bartholomew.
The following day was Easter Sunday. Clippesby’s predictions about the weather had been correct, and the rain clouds that had been dogging the town for the past few weeks were blown away by a cool, fresh wind from the south. The morning dawned with a blaze of gold when the sun made a rare appearance, and the sky was a clear and perfect blue.
Later than usual, because it was a Sunday, the Michaelhouse scholars gathered in their yard to process to St Michael’s Church for the high mass. There was an atmosphere of happy anticipation for the festival itself, the debate that was to follow in the afternoon and the feast that had been arranged for the evening. Every scholar seemed to have made an effort with his appearance to celebrate the end of Lent, and even Langelee’s exacting standards were surpassed by most of the students. Bartholomew had never seen so many polished shoes and brushed tabards.
In honour of the occasion, the Stanton silver had been brought out of the strong-room, and stood in a gleaming line along the altar. Patens, chalices and thuribles had been buffed until they shone like mirrors, and a new festive altar cloth, sewn by Agatha, was so brightly white that it hurt the eyes. The sun blazed through the east window, casting pools of coloured light into the chancel, and the parishioners had decorated the church with flowers of cream and yellow, so that the whole building was infused with the sweet scent of them.
Michael’s choir excelled themselves with an anthem they had been practising since Christmas, and the church rang with the joyous sound of their singing, making up in volume what they lacked in talent. Afterwards, the scholars spilled out into the sunlit churchyard, and Bartholomew saw that snowdrops were beginning to bloom among the grassy mounds. Langelee raised one lordly arm to indicate that his scholars were to fall in behind him, and began to lead the way back to Michaelhouse, where a special breakfast of oatmeal, eggs, boiled pork and fresh bread awaited them.
‘What a glorious day!’ exclaimed Michael, turning to the sun and closing his eyes, relishing its warmth on his flabby face. ‘Blue skies, a bright sun, the scent of spring in the air, and no murderers walking free on the streets of Cambridge.’
‘For now,’ said Bartholomew.
Michael jabbed him with his elbow. ‘It is a beautiful day and I am happy. Do not dispel my good temper by speculating any more on the unsavoury business of last night.’
‘But I still have questions,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And so does Richard.’
‘Richard!’ spat Michael in some disgust. ‘That silly boy! Last night’s events will teach him not to play politics with men he does not know. Had that plan of Timothy and Janius’s worked, not only would he have been dead, but he would have forced his parents to live in the knowledge that he had killed you, too. It would have broken Edith’s heart.’
‘She would not have believed it,’ said Bartholomew. ‘That was what I kept telling Timothy and Janius. They were basing their plan on actions that people would just not have taken: Richard would not have killed me in a fit of pique and you would not have killed him in retaliation.’
‘But they did not succeed,’ said Michael comfortably. ‘So it does not matter.’
They reached the College, and walked to the fallen apple tree in the orchard; they sat on its ancient trunk and rested their backs against the sun-warmed wall and waited for the breakfast bell to ring. The light danced across the thick green grass in tiny pools of brightness as it filtered through branches that were beginning to show signs of new leaves, and the town was unusually peaceful.
‘We have done well,’ said Michael, pleased with himself. ‘We have exposed two vicious killers and thwarted a plot that would have seen my beloved University in the hands of the excessively religious.’
‘So,’ said Bartholomew, trying to marshal his thoughts and summarise what had happened in chronological order. ‘In November last year, Timothy and Janius grew concerned by rumours – put about by Langelee – that you were involved in a scheme to pass Cambridge property to Oxford. They decided to act.’
Michael nodded. ‘At roughly the same time, weak Walcote started to arrange meetings at St Radegund’s Convent that would discuss important issues without my knowledge. These were paid for with coins he had grabbed when Wilson’s effigy spilled gold in the Market Square in November. He had been away in Ely while I was wrestling with that particular problem, but arrived back in Cambridge just in time to snatch himself a small fortune.’
‘He was also concerned by your Oxford connections, and was thinking about the time when he would be Senior Proctor. He wanted to impress the leaders of the religious Orders, who hold a good deal of power in the University. However, his gatherings merely aggravated the growing realism – nominalism debate and caused the conflict to escalate.’
‘Janius and Timothy hired a mercenary to kill me. Their messenger drowned in a drunken stupor, and Walcote came into possession of the letter to the assassin. Walcote was convinced by my Benedictine fellows that I should not be told about the plot. Meanwhile, I removed property for safe keeping from the Carmelite Friary and brought it here. Walcote assumed I was stealing, and said as much to everyone who attended his nasty meetings.’
‘Three months passed, and then two things happened at once,’ said Bartholomew. ‘First, Kyrkeby murdered Faricius for his essay on nominalism and Walcote caught Kyrkeby, racked by guilt, trying to give it back. And second, Heytesbury appeared in Cambridge intending to find out more about the man with whom he proposed to do business.’
‘They were unrelated events,’ said Michael. ‘But they provided a perfect opportunity for Timothy and Janius to use a tragedy to further their own ends. Two days after Faricius’s death – on the Monday – Walcote discovered Kyrkeby lurking near the Carmelite Friary, probably while checking to see whether Lynne had sealed up the tunnel.’
‘I spent that afternoon with Kyrkeby,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He was agitated and uncharacteristically uncommunicative. I thought it was because he was worried about his lecture, but I see now that it was a guilty conscience that was making him irritable and ill.’
‘Bullied by Timothy and Janius, Walcote badgered the guilt-ridden Precentor until he died,’ Michael continued. ‘Walcote then agreed to hide the body in the Carmelites’ tunnel.’
‘No one would have blamed Walcote for Kyrkeby’s death under the circumstances,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘But Timothy and Janius preyed on his insecurities. And at this point, Walcote revealed a grain of strength they had not anticipated.’
Michael nodded slowly. ‘The fact that he escaped them for a few moments to hide the essay with Father Paul indicates that he was already worried by their motives. And he refused to tell them where he had put it, so they did as they threatened and hanged him.’
‘Then you played right into their hands by appointing Timothy as Junior Proctor the next day,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Your record of selecting good juniors is not impressive, Brother.’
Michael ignored him. ‘Janius allowed Walcote’s purse to be found, so that we would assume he had been killed by desperate outlaws, and he took Kyrkeby’s scrip for the same reason. You declined to accept that the three murders were committed for theft alone, and then they learned from Simon Lynne that you wanted to search Timothy’s room for the essay. Therefore, they were waiting for you when you effected that daring but ill-advised assault on their hostel.’
‘You refused to help,’ said Bartholomew. ‘What was I supposed to do?’
‘If their plan had been successful, you and Richard would have been murdered, with me “proved” to be the killer,’ continued Michael, ignoring the question. ‘Timothy would have appointed Jan
ius as his Junior Proctor; the arrangements with Heytesbury would have fallen to pieces; and the University would have been under the power of two men who would have made additional fortunes by publishing Faricius’s essay under their own names.’
‘I still have three questions, though,’ said Bartholomew. ‘First, why did Walcote hold his meetings at a place like St Radegund’s Convent? Second, why did he agree to hide Kyrkeby’s body in the Carmelite Friary tunnel? And third, what was that yellow sticky stuff on his and Faricius’s bodies?’
‘I doubt you will ever know the answer to the first question, Matt, but I can tell you the answer to the second. They were right outside the tunnel, and no one wants to traipse around the town with a corpse. It was simply a convenient hiding place.’
‘And the third?’
‘Lord knows,’ said Michael, sighing and stretching his feet in front of him, revealing a pair of monstrous white calves. ‘Frankly, I do not care.’
At that moment, the bell began to clang, summoning the Michaelhouse scholars for their Easter breakfast.
‘Good,’ said Michael, rubbing his hands happily. ‘All this thinking has given me an appetite. We will have breakfast, then go to the University debate. I would not want to miss hearing the great Heytesbury discussing life on other planets.’ He gave a malicious snigger.
‘He is still going to speak?’ asked Bartholomew, as they picked their way through the long grass towards the path that led to the kitchen door. ‘I thought he would have left with his deed as soon as he could hire a horse.’
Michael grinned wickedly. ‘He thinks he has bested me, and so feels no need to rush away. Heytesbury is now the proud owner of a church and a couple of farms that will cost him more to run than they will make. Meanwhile, I have several important bits of information secreted in one or two places.’
‘You cheated him,’ said Bartholomew, not particularly surprised. ‘You made him think he was gaining something valuable.’
‘Not cheated, Matt: outwitted. He should not have wasted his time coming to Cambridge to assess me. He should have gone to these properties and asked to inspect their records. I certainly would have done. But that is why Cambridge will always be superior to Oxford in all respects. We think with our minds, not our pockets. And speaking of pockets, you owe me an evening of fine wine and good food at the Brazen George.’
‘I do?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘Why is that?’
‘I told you we would resolve this by Easter Day, and we have.’
‘But you said the wager was invalid when you discovered you had more than one murder to solve,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘And you failed to mention it was back on again.’
‘Well, I am mentioning it now,’ said Michael with a grin. ‘We will go after the debate.’
The recently rebuilt Church of St Mary was packed to overflowing with scholars from the University, as well as a few hardy souls from the town. The black robes of Benedictine monks, Austin canons and Dominican friars formed stark blocks among the pale grey of the Franciscans and the white of the occasional Cluniac monk. Between them were the blue tabards of Bene’t College, the black of Michaelhouse, and the various uniforms of Peterhouse, Clare Hall, King’s Hall and the other Colleges and hostels.
The church was a beautiful building, and its new chancel was made of bright sandstone and adorned with delicate pinnacles that reached towards the sky. As befitted a University church, it was the largest building in the town, raised to accommodate as many scholars as possible within its walls. The air rang with the sound of voices, some raised in cheerful greetings, some in laughter, and others in argument. Michael nodded to Meadowman, who inserted a group of elderly commoners from the Hall of Valence Marie between some Carmelites and Dominicans who were already eyeing each other challengingly, in the hope that they would keep the two factions apart.
‘This is a nightmare,’ remarked Michael to Bartholomew. ‘Usually, it is not necessary to keep rivals apart at debates, because even if people hold strong opinions, they are not usually committed to proving them with their fists. But this is different; everyone seems ready for a good fight today.’
‘Good morning, Brother,’ came Heytesbury’s smooth voice from behind him. The Oxford man looked pleased with himself in his ceremonial red gown, and Bartholomew wondered how long it would be before he discovered he had not done as well out of Cambridge as he had anticipated. Heytesbury nodded to the assembled hordes. ‘I am honoured. It seems almost every scholar in your University has come to bid me farewell.’
‘Michael tells me you are leaving today,’ said Bartholomew, politely making conversation.
Heytesbury smiled. ‘A clever man always knows the right time to make an exit. It is time now: Cambridge no longer holds any attraction for me.’
‘How unfortunate,’ said Michael ambiguously.
Heytesbury allowed his gaze to rove over the gathering crowd again. ‘I am astonished that Cambridge scholars are so keen to learn about life in other universes. Such a topic would not intrigue Oxford men. They are concerned with greater issues.’
‘Really,’ said Michael, bristling at the criticism. ‘Such as what, pray?’
‘The irrefutable premises of nominalism, for a start,’ replied Heytesbury immediately. ‘I am one of the foremost thinkers on the subject. I cannot imagine why you will not allow me to lecture on it here. Some of that rabble might even learn something from it.’
‘I have already explained that,’ snapped Michael, made irritable by the worry of keeping the students from each others’ throats that day. ‘Nominalism is too contentious a subject at the moment. Return next year, and I shall be happy to oblige you, but today we will hear about whether you think there is life on Mars.’
Heytesbury sighed. ‘As you wish, Brother. I warrant I shall clear this church within moments once I start to speak on such a tedious subject, but you shall have it, if that is what you want.’
‘It is,’ said Michael firmly. He glanced at the door as more people began to elbow their way into the church, headed by a flock of white-robed scholars, the size of which had every head turning in astonishment. ‘Look at that! It is Lincolne, with virtually every Carmelite friar in the county! Where did they all come from?’
‘He summoned them from their parishes,’ said Beadle Meadowman, breathless from his exertions. ‘His gatekeeper told me that he wants to prove the superiority of the realist argument by sheer dint of numbers.’
‘But the debate is not about realism,’ said Michael, exasperated. ‘Damn your nephew, Matt! It is his fault that all these friars are here. He should never have suggested that Heytesbury speak here.’
‘There is Chancellor Tynkell,’ said Bartholomew, watching as the head of the University climbed unsteadily on to a wooden platform that had been erected in the middle of the nave. Immediately, there was a hush, as scholars waited to hear what he had to say. Heytesbury left Michael and went to stand next to him. From a distance the scholar looked small and unassuming, even in his handsome robes, and Bartholomew thought it was not surprising that the likes of Lincolne imagined they could best him in an argument. The Carmelite Prior would be in for a shock if he tried, Bartholomew thought, recalling the short work Heytesbury had made of such men in Oxford.
As the assembled masses in the church waited for the Chancellor to begin, Lincolne elbowed his way to the front with his gaggle of friars in tow, and Bartholomew saw the scholars behind him trying to see around the large expanse of his person and his peculiar turret of hair. On the other side of the church, his mortal enemy, Morden of the Dominicans, recently freed from the proctors’ cells, gave him an unpleasant glower. Morden had taken the precaution of bringing his own box to stand on, so that he would be able to look over the shoulders of the scholars in front. Meanwhile, the Franciscan Prior Pechem looked uneasily from one to the other, clearly anticipating trouble, while the student-friars from all Orders were alert and aggressive.
‘This Easter Sunday, we have gathered in St Mar
y’s Church to hear Master William Heytesbury of Merton College in Oxford,’ began Tynkell in a grand voice. ‘Although an esteemed proponent of nominalism, Heytesbury will speak on a different matter to us. The question we shall ponder is: Let us debate whether life exists in other universes.’
Bartholomew saw Heytesbury grimace, and one or two supporters of realism begin to grin at each other, gloating over the fact that the greatest nominalist in the country had been forbidden to speak his mind. Lincolne, looked as black as thunder.
‘Does he think God will strike him down?’ he boomed, the sudden loudness of his voice making several scholars jump in alarm. ‘Is he afraid to declare his heretical theories in a church?’
Heytesbury gave a long-suffering sigh. ‘I am willing to explain my theories anywhere, but I have not been invited to talk about them. I have been asked to speak about whether hairstyles like yours exist in parallel universes.’
The Dominicans began to cheer, drowning Chancellor Tynkell’s attempt to silence them and to bring the debate back to the subject in hand. The Carmelites objected to Heytesbury’s remark, and began to yell insults at him.
‘Perhaps it was not such a good idea to try to censor the debate,’ Bartholomew shouted to Michael, trying to make himself heard over the din. ‘You might cause more trouble by declining to discuss the problem than if it had been aired in the open.’
‘Our mistake was trying to hold the debate at all,’ yelled Michael. ‘We should have waited until matters calmed down.’
‘Look at Lincolne,’ said Bartholomew, pointing to the distinctive topknot making its way towards Heytesbury and Tynkell. ‘I have a feeling he intends more than a quiet chat about nominalist principles, Brother. Unless you want Heytesbury riding home with a blackened eye and tales of Cambridge’s violent debates, you should stop him.’
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