Bartholomew 07 - An Order for Death

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘We do not eat ham during Lent, Tysilia,’ said Dame Martyn meaningfully. ‘You know that.’

  Tysilia gazed blankly at her. ‘But it is not Lent. We were eating ham this morning, so Lent must have ended.’ Her eyes narrowed, and she pointed an accusing finger at Matilde. ‘I bet she took it. She is so fat that she ate my ham, as well as her own. I will tell my uncle about this!’

  ‘Have mine,’ said Dame Martyn tiredly, seeing that placating the woman was the only way to shut her up and prevent her from further insulting their paying guest. She retrieved the meat from under her trencher and passed it to Tysilia, who began to gnaw at it like a peasant, pausing only to wipe her greasy fingers on the tablecloth.

  ‘We start working on table manners tomorrow,’ said Eve Wasteneys flatly, watching Tysilia’s display of gluttony with disapproval. ‘One thing at a time. But what can we do for you, Brother? Have you caught Will Walcote’s killer?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Michael. ‘We came to ask whether you recall any more details about these meetings. I am sure they are significant, so anything you can tell us might help.’

  ‘We told you all we knew yesterday,’ said Eve. ‘And we also told you that it was dark and late, and that we could not be certain about the identities of the men who came.’

  ‘Perhaps Tysilia can help,’ suggested Michael. ‘She is the gatekeeper, after all. She must have admitted these men to the convent when they attended these meetings.’

  ‘What meetings?’ asked Tysilia, speaking without closing her mouth, so that the scholars were treated to the sight of a half-chewed slab of ham. ‘I do not know about any meetings. We all went to bed early last night, because it was raining – the men tend not to come here when it is wet.’

  ‘I see,’ said Michael. Bartholomew saw that Matilde was having a difficult time controlling her mirth at Tysilia’s brazen revelations, and at the embarrassment of the two senior nuns as their secrets were so mercilessly exposed. ‘But I was referring to meetings that took place further back than yesterday – some of them before Christmas.’

  ‘I remember Christmas,’ said Tysilia brightly. ‘Dame Wasteneys took her bow and shot some duck for us to eat.’

  ‘Poaching on the Bishop’s land, were you?’ said Michael, raising his eyebrows in amused surprise, while Eve closed her eyes in weary resignation. ‘But never mind that. Do you recall letting any men into the convent at about that time?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Tysilia casually. ‘Lots of them, all dressed in dark cloaks and hoods, so that no one could see their faces.’

  ‘But did you see their faces?’ asked Michael. Bartholomew heard the sudden hope in his voice.

  Tysilia nodded. ‘I could not see to their needs while they wore their hoods, could I? There was Sergeant Orwelle from the Castle; there was that silly Brother Andrew from the Carmelites, who made a nuisance of himself until he fell in the King’s Ditch and drowned – good riddance, I said; then there was Mayor Horwoode, who comes when his whore Yolande de Blaston is unavailable …’

  ‘That is enough!’ snapped Eve sharply, apparently deciding to act before Tysilia destroyed the reputation of every man in the town. Dame Martyn had her nose in the breakfast ale again, and seemed too horrified to intervene. Eve turned to Michael apologetically. ‘These are not the men who came to the meetings Walcote arranged.’

  ‘But how do you know?’ asked Michael. ‘You said they were at pains to conceal their identities from you. How can you be sure that the Mayor and Sergeant Orwelle were not among those Walcote invited to his gatherings?’

  ‘Because the folk Tysilia mentioned are regular attendees here, and I know who they are no matter how far they draw their hoods over their faces. But the ones who came with Walcote were not the same.’

  ‘Walcote’s meetings certainly did not involve that rough Sergeant Orwelle,’ offered Dame Martyn. ‘He was not the kind of person with whom Walcote had business.’

  ‘Believe me, you would be wise not to trust anything Tysilia dredges up from that muddy nether-world she calls her memory,’ said Eve in an undertone, regarding the novice disparagingly. ‘Her memories of yesterday are hazy, let alone from four months ago.’

  ‘Are you gentlemen returning to the town?’ asked Matilde in a slow, croaking voice, fiddling with the ring on her finger to indicate that she wanted to speak to them. ‘If so, I have a message to send to my kinsman. Would you be so kind as to deliver it for me?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ sighed Michael ungraciously. ‘Hurry up, if you want to write it. We have a great deal to do today and we cannot wait for long.’

  ‘I do not write,’ said Matilde, in the tone of voice that suggested she considered literacy akin to some disgusting vice. ‘I will whisper my message and you can deliver it personally.’

  ‘I will do no such thing,’ replied Michael haughtily, playing his part well. ‘You can mutter any message you have into the ear of my friend here. He is a physician, and much more used to the ramblings of old women than I am. He will carry your message.’

  ‘And God bless you, too, Brother,’ retorted Matilde as she eased herself off the bench with a great show of making it look like a painful and laborious business.

  Tysilia watched her with open curiosity. ‘She is fat,’ she declared uncompromisingly. ‘Fat women are ugly, and the Death should have taken them all.’

  ‘Tysilia!’ exclaimed Dame Martyn, genuinely aghast. ‘You really must keep such hostile thoughts to yourself. It is not becoming.’

  ‘I will never be fat,’ continued Tysilia, tearing off another lump of ham with her sharp white teeth, like a carnivorous reptile. ‘Men tell me I am a goddess, with my fine slim limbs and my smooth skin.’

  ‘Beauty fades,’ said Eve softly. ‘And then what will you have left?’

  ‘My mind,’ said Tysilia proudly.

  ‘Is she serious?’ asked Bartholomew of Matilde, as she made her clumsy way towards him, so they could speak without being overheard.

  Matilde leaned close to him, and pretended to be reciting her message. ‘I still have no idea whether she is the cleverest woman in the country or the most stupid. But I overheard Eve Wasteneys and Dame Martyn talking about those meetings this morning. I am fairly sure they are telling you the truth when they say they do not recall which other men were involved.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’ asked Bartholomew.

  ‘Because they were trying very hard to remember, and they could not. I think they wanted something with which to bargain, so you would leave them alone. I am not surprised that Dame Martyn recalls nothing; she is drunk most of the time. Meanwhile, Eve is so busy trying to keep the convent from falling about her ears that she is too overwhelmed to recall things like the names of men who visited the convent months ago.’

  ‘But this was not months ago,’ said Bartholomew. ‘They told us last time that some of the meetings were comparatively recent.’

  ‘A week or ten days,’ confirmed Matilde. ‘Although the first ones were held in late November. But they came cloaked and hooded, and the nuns deliberately did not pay them too much attention, because these men clearly did not want to be identified.’

  ‘I bet they did not,’ said Bartholomew.

  ‘That is why Eve and Dame Martyn honestly do not know the identities of these people, other than the few who stand out physically – Lincolne because of his size and funny hair; Kenyngham because he had forgotten to cover his face; and Pechem because only Franciscans wear grey. Incidentally, the earlier gatherings were better attended than the more recent ones.’

  ‘Why? Because to be caught at one might be dangerous?’

  ‘The nuns do not know. They were concerned that dwindling attendance might cause Walcote to stop holding them, which would have meant the loss of four groats.’

  ‘Are you all right?’ asked Bartholomew anxiously. ‘Does anyone have the slightest idea as to who you are?’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Matilde, her eyes gleaming through her mass of painted w
rinkles. ‘And I am thoroughly enjoying myself, so do not worry. Even if I were not trying to help you, Tysilia would present an interesting and amusing problem. She is the most brazen of thieves. She stole a pendant from me last night – a worthless bauble as it happens, but mine nevertheless. She took it when she thought I was asleep.’

  Bartholomew was horrified, visions of Matilde being smothered with pillows or knifed as she slept rushing through his mind. ‘She wanders unsupervised at night? But she may harm you when you are least suspecting it.’

  ‘No,’ said Matilde with a confident smile. ‘I will lock the door tonight. She will not hurt me. But you should go now, or they will wonder what we are talking about.’

  ‘You say your nephew is Robin of Grantchester, Mistress Horner?’ asked Bartholomew loudly, stepping away from her. Matilde’s eyes opened wide with horrified amusement when she heard he had chosen the unsavoury town surgeon as her fictitious relative. ‘I shall see that he has your message this morning.’

  Rain continued to fall heavily as Bartholomew and Michael walked back to Cambridge; by the time they arrived, they were soaked. Michael was disappointed that Matilde had nothing to report, and was not particularly comforted by the notion that Dame Martyn and Eve Wasteneys had actually been telling the truth when they said they could not recall which men had had business with Walcote. He claimed he would rather they had been lying, because then there would have been a chance of learning the identities of the men involved.

  ‘There is still Pechem of the Franciscans to interrogate,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘Eve Wasteneys claims he was one of these mysterious midnight guests.’

  ‘He is visiting the Franciscan house at Denny and will not be back until tomorrow,’ said Michael with a sigh. ‘He seems to be elsewhere every time I ask for him. I wonder if that is significant. Still, unless he plans to evade me for ever, I shall run into him sooner or later.’

  ‘Then we should talk to Kenyngham,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He would never lie. He will tell us who the others were.’

  Michael gave a hearty sigh. ‘Really, Matt. Do you think that had not occurred to me? But Kenyngham is locked away in the Gilbertine Friary, engaged in some kind of prayerful fast for Lent. He is due to finish tomorrow, but until then, the Gilbertines will not interrupt him.’

  ‘That sounds like Kenyngham. Now that he is relieved of his duties as Master of Michaelhouse, he can fast and pray as much as he likes.’

  ‘True,’ agreed Michael. ‘But it is a wretched nuisance when I need his help so urgently. I tried every way I could think of to inveigle my way into the Gilbertines’ chapel, but they were immovable. I have the feeling they regard him as a saint in the making. If it were anyone but Kenyngham, I would question such religious fervour as suspect behaviour.’

  Bartholomew laughed. ‘For a monk, you are remarkably intolerant of men whose lives are ruled by their religious beliefs.’

  ‘Everything in its place, Matt,’ replied Michael. ‘I am extremely tolerant, actually. What I am intolerant of is men who use religion to further their own ends – men like Prior Lincolne, who state that nominalism is heretical because he happens to be a realist; and men who believe they are God’s chosen, and that everything that happens occurs for their benefit.’

  ‘Like Timothy and Janius, you mean?’

  ‘Especially Janius. I like them both, but their fanaticism unnerves me. It is dangerous to believe God controls everything to the point where you think what people do is irrelevant.’

  Bartholomew agreed. ‘Some of my patients are the same. Sometimes I wonder whether it is just so that they will not have to make difficult decisions or come to terms with things they find painful.’

  ‘We could be burned in the Market Square for having this kind of conversation,’ said Michael, jabbing his friend playfully in the ribs with one of his powerful elbows. ‘To say we believe God is not directly responsible for everything that happens, and that humans have a choice, would be considered heresy by some.’

  ‘Only because they have not thought it through,’ said Bartholomew. ‘If everything that happens is God’s will, then we may as well abandon this investigation of yours, because anything we do is irrelevant to the outcome.’

  ‘Now you are going too far. Next, you will be telling me you are a nominalist.’

  ‘There is a great deal to recommend nominalism,’ said Bartholomew defensively. ‘Especially when you apply it to natural philosophy. For example, Heytesbury’s Regulae Solvendi Sophismata says that variations in the intensity of a velocity increase with speed, just as the redness of an apple increases with its ripeness.’

  ‘I see,’ said Michael, nodding. ‘Velocity, like redness, is a universal and not a particular.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Bartholomew, warming to his theme. ‘So, a body, starting from rest or a particular speed, would travel a certain distance in a specific unit of time. Thus, if the same body were to move in the same interval of time with a uniform velocity equal to the speed acquired in the middle of its uniform acceleration, it would travel an equal distance.’

  ‘If you say so,’ said Michael, bored by the sudden delve into natural philosophy, and not making the slightest effort to follow Bartholomew’s reasoning. ‘Heytesbury worked all this out, did he?’

  ‘It is a very clever piece of logic. I am surprised you have never discussed it with him. There are many scholars who would love such an opportunity.’

  ‘I met Heytesbury only once before our encounter in Trumpington, and then we were more concerned with sizing each other up than with arguing about uniform acceleration. And I am not interested in his ideas about movement and motion anyway, only in what information I can persuade him to part with that will be to Cambridge’s advantage and the detriment of Oxford.’

  ‘And you accuse Janius of being single-minded,’ said Bartholomew, smiling. They reached the Barnwell Gate, and nodded to Sergeant Orwelle as they passed through. Seeing a familiar figure nearby, Bartholomew grabbed Michael’s arm and pulled him into the shadows of the guardhouse. ‘Speaking of Heytesbury, there he is. What is he doing?’

  ‘He is with Prior Morden of the Dominicans,’ said Michael, watching the two men, who were talking earnestly under the shelter of the west door of Holy Trinity Church. ‘I wonder what could draw those two together.’

  ‘Nominalism, probably,’ said Bartholomew. ‘As I have just told you, there are many scholars who would love an opportunity to cross intellectual swords with Heytesbury. Morden is doubtless one of them.’

  ‘Morden is a decent administrator, and rules the Dominicans well enough,’ said Michael. ‘But he is scarcely one of our most astute thinkers. Have you noticed that is often the case? You have only to look at Michaelhouse to see that we have fared better under someone who is good at organisation but weak on wits.’

  ‘You approve of what Langelee has done?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised. ‘I thought you were still angry with him for ruining your own chances of becoming Master.’

  ‘I am,’ said Michael stiffly. ‘And I, of course, would prove that it is possible to have a brilliant mind and run an efficient College. But I admit Langelee is doing better than I imagined, and he is very tolerant of my duties as Senior Proctor. He allows me whatever freedom I need, and never asks me to explain my absences.’

  ‘Perhaps he did you a favour, then,’ said Bartholomew. ‘At the next election, you will inherit a College that is in much better condition than the one he took over.’

  Michael smiled. ‘True. But we should not linger here reviewing my career. I wish I knew what Heytesbury and Morden are discussing.’

  ‘It is nothing of relevance to you, your negotiations with Oxford, or your investigation, Brother,’ came a rather sibilant voice from behind them. Bartholomew almost leapt out of his skin, unaware that anyone had been close enough to hear what they had been saying. Michael merely smiled as he recognised the smooth black hair and twinkling blue eyes of Brother Janius.

  ‘Have you been listen
ing to Heytesbury and Morden?’ he asked.

  Janius nodded. ‘Now that God has seen fit to appoint Brother Timothy as Junior Proctor, all us Benedictines feel obliged to be watchful, so that we can gather information that you may find helpful in your duties. That is why God appointed Timothy – because He knew he would make a good and honest servant for the University.’

  ‘But it was I who appointed Timothy,’ said Michael. ‘God had no feelings on the matter one way or another.’

  ‘How do you know?’ flashed Janius, anger flashing briefly in his blue eyes. ‘God is all powerful, and determines every aspect of our lives.’

  ‘Then tell me what He permitted you to overhear of the conversation between Morden and Heytesbury,’ said Michael, apparently deciding that argument was futile in the face of such rigid conviction.

  Janius brought his ire under control, and the serene expression returned to his pale face. ‘I was praying in Holy Trinity Church – God drew me there, so that is how I know He wanted me to eavesdrop on the discussion – and I heard Morden inviting Heytesbury to the Dominican Friary next week for a private discussion about nominalism.’

  ‘Is that it?’ asked Michael disappointed. ‘That is rather mundane.’

  ‘Not for the Dominicans,’ replied Janius. ‘They consider it a great honour, and plan to have a feast to celebrate the occasion. I wonder whether Heytesbury might consider coming to visit the Benedictines of Ely Hall. We will not be able to fête him in the same lavish way as will the Dominicans, but we can offer stimulating conversation and keen minds.’

  ‘Then do not invite me, please,’ said Michael. ‘I cannot think of a more tedious way to spend an evening. Matt has just been telling me all about accelerating bodies and uniform velocity, and I have no desire to hear any more of it.’

  Janius smiled at Bartholomew. ‘I have heard your lectures on the physical universe are complex and not for novices. Were you telling Michael about Heytesbury’s mean speed theorem?’