Bartholomew 07 - An Order for Death

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘I hardly think so!’ exclaimed Michael in disbelief. ‘Such as what?’

  ‘I do not know,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But she is the Bishop’s niece, and the Bishop would not be averse to using a relative to help him in his various plots.’

  ‘True, but not someone who genuinely believes that the moon is made of green cheese and that leaves fall from the trees in autumn because they are tired of holding on to the branch,’ said Michael. ‘She is just too stupid – an intelligent person would know she was overacting and moderate her performance to one that was more plausible.’

  ‘I disagree,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I think she is sitting in St Radegund’s at this very moment laughing to herself, because she thinks she has fooled you.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ agreed Matilde. She beamed suddenly, and clasped her hands in front of her. ‘But she will not fool me, and this is just the kind of challenge that will provide me with the kind of diversion I need. It is an excellent idea. I wish it had occurred to me earlier.’

  ‘It is a terrible idea,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘Michael is right: the time and place of these meetings suggests that they were not held to discuss something innocent, and that is precisely the reason why you should not go.’

  ‘They probably will not let you in, anyway,’ said Michael. ‘Even St Radegund’s cannot risk having the unofficial spokeswoman of the town’s prostitutes as a guest.’

  Matilde grinned conspiratorially. ‘Do you recall when you invited me to the Founder’s Feast at Michaelhouse a couple of years ago, Matthew? You should remember – we were virtually the only ones who were sober at the end of it.’

  Bartholomew smiled, although most Founder’s Feasts at Michaelhouse ended with everyone face down on the table, and his memories of them tended to blend together. But he recalled this one. ‘You dressed as an old woman called Mistress Horner, because you did not want anyone to know who you were.’

  Matilde raised her eyebrows. ‘I disguised myself because you were worried about inviting a courtesan to dine in your college, and because you had invited that murdering Eleanor Tyler as well. She abandoned you for the more appealing attentions of your students, if I recall correctly.’

  ‘All right, all right,’ grumbled Bartholomew, not wanting to be reminded about that particular adventure. ‘What has the Founder’s Feast to do with you going to St Radegund’s?’

  ‘It is not I who will sojourn there,’ said Matilde simply. ‘It is Mistress Horner.’

  ‘No!’ exclaimed Bartholomew. ‘It is too dangerous. What if they intrude on you while you are in bed and learn that Mistress Horner’s ample middle owes itself to a couple of cushions, or that her wrinkles disappear in water?’

  ‘I will make sure that does not happen.’

  ‘The good nuns might not want fat old ladies in their convent,’ Michael pointed out.

  ‘They will accept my offer of five groats for board and lodging,’ said Matilde mischievously. ‘They would agree to anything for five groats.’

  ‘That is true,’ admitted Michael. ‘They would.’

  ‘You cannot do this,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘If we are right, and Tysilia’s stupidity conceals a cunning mind that is involved in the murder of Michael’s Junior Proctor, then it is simply too risky. I cannot let you do it.’

  ‘Are you concerned for my safety, Matthew?’ asked Matilde playfully. ‘Or for my virtue?’

  ‘Your safety,’ replied Bartholomew immediately. He faltered when he realised what his words had implied, and flushed when Michael and Matilde laughed at him.

  ‘Are you sure you do not mind doing this?’ asked Michael of Matilde. ‘I cannot see how else I will be able to cut through the veil of secrecy and lies that those nuns have thrown over their activities. They may be perfectly innocent – well, as innocent as running a brothel in a convent can be – and we may be on the wrong path altogether.’

  ‘Then I will find out,’ said Matilde confidently. ‘And I will expose that Tysilia as a liar and a cheat, if that is what she is.’

  ‘I cannot believe you are encouraging her to do this,’ said Bartholomew to Michael.

  Matilde sighed, and laid an elegant hand on Bartholomew’s arm. ‘Do not worry so, Matthew. I will be perfectly safe. As a fat and unattractive matron, I am unlikely to be invited to take part in anything too exotic, and all I plan to do is listen and watch. It will only be for a few days, anyway.’

  ‘If you discover anything, tell us immediately,’ advised Michael. ‘Do not deal with it yourself. Matt or I will visit St Radegund’s every day, and you can indicate then whether all is well.’

  Matilde’s eyes gleamed at the prospect of an adventure. ‘Do not ask to see me personally, or they will be suspicious. I will pretend to be deaf, so that they will think they do not need to lower their voices around me. So, if you see me cupping both hands around my ears, you will know it is a sign that I have nothing to report; if I fiddle with a ring on my finger, it means I wish to speak with you privately.’

  ‘I do not like this at all,’ said Bartholomew. ‘If Tysilia is the kind of woman we suspect she is, then you will not be safe; she will quickly guess what you are doing. There must be another way to look into her dealings.’

  ‘I can think of none,’ said Michael. ‘And time is passing. The longer we take to apprehend this killer, the less likely it is that we shall catch him. Do you want Will’s murderer to go free?’

  ‘Of course not, but—’

  ‘I will be perfectly all right,’ said Matilde. ‘And, as I said, such an adventure will help me rouse myself from the lethargy that has been dogging me since the beginning of Lent. I am feeling better already: I have a challenge to rise to, and Easter is almost here.’ She stood on tiptoe and quickly kissed Bartholomew’s cheek. ‘I promise to be careful, and you must promise to do the same. But together, we will see Will’s killer brought to justice.’

  She was gone in the gathering dusk before Bartholomew could voice any further objections, and he suspected they would be futile anyway. Matilde had made up her mind, and he knew that there was nothing he could say or do to prevent her from going ahead with her plans. He watched her walk away, thinking about how dear she had become to him over the last few years.

  Michael yawned hugely. ‘It has been a long day, and I am exhausted. Tomorrow, we will interview Morden of the Dominicans – I want to know more about those six student friars whom you drove away from Faricius – but tonight I only want a decent meal and a good night’s sleep.’

  ‘And we should talk to Prior Pechem of the Franciscans, too,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He may tell us why he was at these meetings.’

  Michael rubbed his chin. ‘I agree. But we must do so with care. I do not want to alarm this coven into silence. I was afraid to question Lincolne too vigorously about the meetings, and I am reluctant to interrogate Pechem for the same reason. If they close ranks, we might never have the truth from them. To find out what we want to know, we shall have to be circumspect.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said Bartholomew thoughtfully. ‘We could just ask Master Kenyngham. He may tell us what we need to know without resorting to trickery.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Michael softly. ‘I have not forgotten Master Kenyngham.’

  Bartholomew slept badly that night, his dreams mingling unpleasantly with his waking concerns for Matilde and his sadness over the sudden death of Walcote. He tossed and turned, and when the tinny bell finally clanked to inform scholars that it was time for mass, he had only just fallen into a deep sleep. He splashed himself with cold water in an attempt to render himself more alert, grabbed his clothes from the wall hooks, and pulled his boots on the wrong feet before realising his mistake. He was the last to join the procession in the yard, earning a warning glance from Langelee for his tardiness.

  After the service, as he was walking back to Michaelhouse, a plump, crook-backed woman nodded soberly to him, and he felt his stomach churn when he recognised the bright, clear eyes of Matilde. She ro
de a small palfrey, and was already heading to St Radegund’s Convent to begin her adventure. He considered calling out, but knew that to expose her disguise in the High Street would put her in even greater danger. With a heavy heart, he followed Langelee back to Michaelhouse, where he ate a bowl of grey-coloured oatmeal that tasted of sawdust.

  Leaving Langelee to ensure that his students read a tract from Theophilus’s De Urinis, Bartholomew set off with Michael to visit the Dominican Friary, where the monk intended to ask Prior Morden for more details about the six students Bartholomew had encountered near Faricius. Bartholomew fretted about Matilde as they walked, although Michael claimed he was being overprotective and that she knew perfectly well how to look after herself.

  It was another murky day, with leaden skies filled with fast-moving clouds, and only the faintest hint of pink glimmering in the east. It had been a wet night, and the streets were clogged with rain-thinned horse manure that seeped through shoes and clung to the hems of cloaks.

  When they arrived at the Dominican Friary, the priests were just finishing a hearty meal of coddled eggs, fresh bread and dates, the smell of which made Bartholomew hungry again. Ringstead, the Prior’s secretary, came to greet them, but said that Morden had gone to see if he could locate his Precentor, Henry de Kyrkeby, who had not been seen since Monday afternoon.

  One of the six students that Bartholomew had driven away from Faricius – the one whom Morden had called Bulmer – came to stand next to Ringstead, his demeanour hostile and sullen. Bartholomew wondered whether Bulmer was habitually disagreeable, or whether it was just the early morning visit from a proctor that prompted his unfriendly attitude. The physician hoped Bulmer was bound for a career at court, and that the Dominicans would not foist the ill-tempered lad on some unsuspecting village as parish priest.

  ‘We are terribly worried about Kyrkeby,’ said Ringstead. ‘He has never been missing for two days before.’

  ‘Have you reported his absence to the proctors’ office?’ asked Michael, irritable that he had yet another problem to solve. ‘I have beadles who are paid to hunt down missing scholars.’

  Ringstead nodded. ‘Beadle Meadowman took details yesterday, and said he would ask the others to look for him on their patrols. Meanwhile, Prior Morden has gone to check the churches, to see if Kyrkeby is praying and has lost track of time.’

  ‘Is he a visionary, then?’ asked Michael, raising sceptical eyebrows. ‘Two days is a long time to be unaware of the passing of time. I would expect hunger to drive him from his prayers and back to his friary.’

  ‘Not all men are ruled by the calls of their stomachs,’ said Bulmer rudely, looking meaningfully at Michael’s ample girth.

  ‘Kyrkeby is a saintly man, and he might well be lost in contemplation somewhere,’ said Ringstead hastily, seeing Michael’s eyebrows draw together at the insult. He was older than Bulmer, and had the sense to realise that it paid to stay on the right side of the Senior Proctor. ‘He often wanders off to sit in churches.’

  ‘Of course, it is possible that the Carmelites have done something to him, in revenge for Faricius,’ said Bulmer, gazing at Michael with defiant eyes.

  ‘And what did you do to Faricius?’ Michael pounced.

  Bulmer said impatiently, ‘That is not what I meant. We did nothing to him, but the Carmelites probably do not believe that.’

  Michael sighed heavily. ‘Have you looked at Kyrkeby’s belongings, to see whether anything is missing? If he is as other-worldly as you say, he may have wandered off somewhere and simply forgotten to mention it to anyone.’

  ‘It was the first thing we did when we realised he was not here,’ said Ringstead. ‘There is nothing to indicate that he planned to leave the town. Quite the contrary, in fact: as we mentioned when you last came, he is due to give the lecture in St Mary’s Church on Sunday. He is looking forward to it enormously.’

  ‘He is going to speak in defence of nominalism,’ said Bulmer, throwing out the information in much the same way as he might a challenge to a fist fight.

  Michael rubbed his chin. ‘So I understand. It is a rather controversial subject to choose.’

  Ringstead raised his hands, palms upward. ‘That should not deter a good scholar, Brother. Indeed, controversial subjects must be better argued than dull ones, because there are more people looking for flaws in your logic.’

  ‘That is true,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘My best-argued lectures are on medical issues that are new or unusual.’

  ‘But to choose nominalism, when there is already trouble between the Dominicans and the Carmelites, is irresponsible and self-indulgent,’ said Michael disapprovingly.

  ‘Scholarly disputation should never be a victim to narrow-minded bigotry,’ retorted Bulmer. ‘Just because the Carmelites are traditionalists and unwilling to change does not mean that reason and learning should stand still to accommodate them.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Bartholomew, neatly taking the wind out of his sails. ‘We would never progress in our understanding of the world if we were all too afraid to embrace new ideas.’

  ‘So when was the last time anyone saw Kyrkeby?’ asked Michael, impatient with the discussion and wanting to move on.

  ‘Monday afternoon,’ said Ringstead promptly. ‘He was working on his lecture, and had been avoiding a lot of his duties and obligations because of it. His absence in the refectory was what allowed the students to escape and march on the Carmelites last Saturday.’

  ‘I saw him on Monday afternoon,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He was ill, and I was late going to Edith’s house, because I was tending him.’

  Ringstead nodded. ‘After you left, he continued to work on his lecture, and that was the last anyone saw of him.’

  Michael sighed. He wanted to talk to Morden, not investigate the disappearance of a cleric who would undoubtedly show up when it suited him. ‘Show me Kyrkeby’s cell,’ he said reluctantly. ‘Perhaps you missed something that may give me a clue as to his whereabouts.’

  Ringstead led the way, with Bulmer trailing them like some aggressive guard dog. Bartholomew glanced uneasily behind him, half expecting to feel teeth sink into one of his ankles.

  Like the Carmelites’ dormitory, the Dominicans’ was divided into tiny cells, some more homely than others. Bartholomew supposed that it was difficult to impose too much poverty on ambitious young men destined for high positions in the King’s court or their Order, which explained why most of them boasted quarters that were so much more luxurious than his own.

  Kyrkeby’s cell was larger than the others’, as befitted a man of his elevated office, and contained a handsome ironbound chest as well as a bed, a chair and a small table. Notes were scattered across the table, and a quick glance at them told Bartholomew that Kyrkeby had been working on his lecture there. Judging from the amount of crossings out and corrections on the numerous scraps of parchment, it was not something that had flowed easily.

  Michael’s confidence in his ability to glance at a man’s possessions and identify his whereabouts was misplaced. There was nothing to indicate why – or even whether – Kyrkeby had disappeared, and Bartholomew wondered if the man realised that he had bitten off more than he could chew with his impending lecture, and had left the town before he could make a fool of himself. Perhaps his attack of illness on Monday had frightened him so much that he had decided not to risk his health further by going through what promised to be a tense and unpleasant occasion. He had certainly been agitated and out of sorts that day.

  ‘Does anyone know whether there is anything missing?’ asked Michael, becoming frustrated by the passing of time and the lack of progress. ‘Are all his clothes here, for instance?’

  ‘As far as we can tell,’ said Ringstead. ‘One of his cloaks has gone, but that tells us nothing, since he would wear it even if he were only going to the nearest church.’

  ‘He owns a lot of jewellery,’ added Bulmer irrelevantly. ‘Rings, crosses and so on.’

  ‘Does he?’ asked Michael. ‘A
nd why would a Carmelite have “rings, crosses and so on”?’

  ‘He has no more than anyone else,’ said Ringstead briskly, so that Bartholomew had the impression that Bulmer had just been told to shut up. Ringstead was in a difficult position, with his Prior and Precentor absent, and the reputation of the friary in his inexperienced hands.

  ‘And is any of this jewellery missing?’ asked Michael.

  Ringstead opened a small drawer that was partly concealed under the table. In it were several rings, a jewelled hair comb and a fine selection of silver crosses.

  Michael’s eyes were wide as he inspected them. ‘This is an impressive collection to be owned by a priest sworn to poverty. But you have not answered my question: is any of it missing?’

  Ringstead shrugged. ‘I have no idea. You will have to ask Prior Morden that. He knows Kyrkeby better than I do.’

  ‘I expect Kyrkeby will turn up,’ said Michael, rubbing his hands together as though he imagined that was the end of the matter. ‘I will instruct my beadles to pay special attention to the churches tonight, and if he is in one, then they will find him. Perhaps he was so disappointed with the behaviour of his novices on Saturday that he wants nothing to do with you all.’

  Since Morden was absent, Michael quizzed Ringstead about the characters of the six Dominican students he had arrested – and released – in connection with the death of Faricius. But Ringstead was a poor source of information: he was not inclined to regale Michael with any illuminating gossip about the six, and was reluctant to answer any meaningful questions while his Prior was absent. Bartholomew did not blame him. Michael was a clever man, adept at latching on to seemingly insignificant sentences and reading into them whole chapters of information. Quite understandably, Ringstead did not want to be the cause of further arrests and suspicions.

  With a sigh of exasperation, Michael curtly instructed Ringstead to keep the students inside the friary until further notice, and took his leave. Rain still fell, and everything dripped. The eaves of houses, the leaves of trees and bushes, and even the signs that swung over the doors of merchants’ shops released a steady tattoo of droplets that drummed, splattered, clicked and tapped on to the mud on the ground. Thatches were soaked through, and the plaster walls of the houses along the High Street were stained a deep, dreary grey. Everything stank of dampness and mould.