Bartholomew 07 - An Order for Death

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘I am sorry,’ said Michael gently to Morden. ‘We discovered Kyrkeby late last night, and have had him at St Michael’s Church to pray for his soul ever since. As you can see, Master Kenyngham has been active on this front.’

  ‘But how did this happen?’ asked Morden, his elfin face shocked and wan. ‘Why?’

  ‘I do not know how or why,’ admitted Michael. ‘I really am terribly sorry.’

  Morden moved to the coffin and pulled back the sheet to look at his Precentor’s face. ‘My God!’ he breathed in horror, dropping the cover quickly before his colleagues could see what was underneath. ‘Did you find him like this?’

  ‘Not quite,’ said Bartholomew, who had also glimpsed what Agatha had done to Kyrkeby. He was not surprised she had declined to show them her handiwork in the church. The dead man’s face was no longer grey and flat, but a lively assortment of colours. His cheeks had been carefully reddened with rouge, and his lips were verging on scarlet. His eyelids were blue, and even his nose had a curious orange glow to it.

  ‘I think it would be best if we took him to the chapel immediately,’ said Morden. He glanced anxiously at Bartholomew and the three pall-bearers. ‘Does anyone else know about this?’

  ‘Only us,’ said Michael.

  ‘Then perhaps we could keep it like that,’ said Morden. ‘He has done this before, you know.’

  ‘Done what before?’ asked Michael, bewildered. ‘Died?’

  ‘Put women’s paint on his face,’ said Morden in a whisper. ‘It was many years ago, and I thought he had put an end to such peculiarities. But it seems he has not.’

  ‘It was Agatha,’ began Bartholomew, not wanting poor Kyrkeby’s reputation sullied when he was not in a position to declare his innocence.

  ‘Who is Agatha?’ asked Morden. ‘A whore?’ He gave a sudden shudder. ‘No! Please do not tell me. It is better that I do not know.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Michael. ‘But Kyrkeby was found near the Carmelite Friary. Do you want to complain about that, or shall we keep it to ourselves for now?’

  ‘Do not tell me that the Carmelites saw him like this?’ whispered Morden in horror.

  ‘They did not,’ replied Michael truthfully. ‘But you can rest assured that I will do all in my power to discover how he died and why.’

  ‘I am not sure that would be best for our Order,’ said Morden nervously. ‘What do you plan to do? Ask around the vendors in the Market Square to ascertain which of them sold him the paints? I really would rather you did not.’

  ‘As you wish,’ said Michael smoothly. ‘I shall defer to you in that matter. But in return, I want certain questions answered.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Morden. He clasped Michael’s hand gratefully. ‘Thank you for what you have done, Brother – for tending Kyrkeby with such respect as well as for hiding him from prying eyes.’

  ‘Well,’ said Michael smiling in satisfaction as he watched Morden and his student-friars carry Kyrkeby to their chapel. ‘It seems we have averted a riot, Matt. The Dominicans will not march on the Carmelites today at least.’

  ‘Perhaps not, but word will soon spread that Kyrkeby was excavated from a tomb in the Carmelites’ graveyard. And then where will we be?’

  ‘That,’ said Michael complacently, ‘is a bridge we shall cross when we reach it.’

  When Prior Morden had seen the body of his Precentor escorted to the chapel, Michael led the way to the small chamber that served as the Prior’s sleeping quarters and office. The monk thrust open the door with such vigour that it crashed against the wall with a sound like a thunderclap. Morden sighed irritably.

  ‘I wish you would not do that, Brother. Every time you visit my friary, I am obliged to repaint part of the wall.’ He bent to inspect the damage, clicking his tongue over the flakes of plaster that fell to the ground.

  ‘How long do you think Master Kenyngham will stay?’ asked Ringstead worriedly. In the chapel below, Kenyngham’s voice rose in an ecstasy of prayer. ‘We appreciate his concern, but we have friars of our own to say masses for Kyrkeby. I told him this, but he did not seem to hear.’

  ‘Kenyngham hears very little once he is into the business of praying,’ agreed Michael. ‘But if he is still here when we leave, we will try to take him with us.’

  ‘Good,’ said Morden, leaving the door and clambering into the large chair behind the table, to sit with his short legs swinging in the air. ‘He is a saintly man, but I do not want members of other Orders inside our grounds at the moment. The different sects have never been easy in each other’s company, but I am sure you have noticed matters have been worse recently.’

  ‘It is because it is Lent, and spring is a long time in coming,’ supplied Ringstead helpfully. ‘And because this realism–nominalism debate has everyone agitated.’

  ‘It is the Carmelites who exacerbated that,’ said Morden disapprovingly. ‘We might have all agreed to differ if Lincolne had not been so aggressive and dogmatic.’

  ‘He is a fanatic,’ said Ringstead, just in case Bartholomew and Michael had not noticed. ‘He gives the impression that he would defend realism to the death. I am not entirely convinced that nominalism provides all the answers, but his very attitude makes me want to oppose him.’

  ‘Quite, quite,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘But we should not be discussing philosophy when your Precentor lies dead. I need to ask some questions. Did he own a purse or a scrip?’

  ‘He had a leather scrip, as do we all,’ said Morden, pulling a tiny one from his belt and showing it to Michael. It looked like something a child might carry. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘We did not find one with his body, and we need to know whether it was stolen,’ said Michael. ‘Is there anything distinctive about this scrip? Was it patterned in a particular way?’

  ‘No,’ said Morden immediately.

  ‘Yes,’ said Ringstead at the same time.

  Michael raised his eyebrows, and treated Morden to the kind of glance that was intended to remind him that a favour had been granted, but could just as easily be withdrawn. The tiny Dominican swallowed hard, then gestured for Ringstead to speak.

  ‘Kyrkeby’s scrip was of a very delicate design,’ said Ringstead. ‘You can see that ours are plain, but his was patterned with flowers and butterflies.’

  ‘Flowers and butterflies?’ asked Michael, startled. He raised his eyebrows. ‘Well, I imagine that will not be too difficult to identify!’

  ‘It was more like something a woman would own than the scrip of a friar,’ elaborated Ringstead. He saw Morden gesticulating not to give away more than was necessary, but went on angrily. ‘They already know about the face paint, Father Prior, so it cannot matter if they know about the scrip, too. Besides, we all want to know why he died.’

  Morden sighed. ‘Then I hope you will be discreet with this knowledge, Brother Michael. Kyrkeby liked pretty things. He had jewellery, too.’

  ‘I thought Dominicans were sworn to poverty,’ said Bartholomew, thinking about the fine collection of crosses and rings that Ringstead had shown them when Kyrkeby was first reported missing. ‘Why did your Order allow him to own such things?’

  Morden spread his hands and gave a sickly smile. ‘St Dominic did not intend us to live in poverty in a literal sense. He merely intended that we be aware of the dangers of earthly possessions, and that we eat bread and water from time to time.’

  ‘I see,’ said Michael wryly. ‘That is the most conveniently liberal interpretation of St Dominic’s Rule that I have ever heard. But let us return to Kyrkeby. Do you think he may have been wearing any of these rings when he died? It is important to know whether any are missing.’

  ‘You have already looked at his possessions,’ Ringstead pointed out. ‘And I have already told you that I do not know whether anything has gone.’

  ‘But I might,’ said Morden tiredly. ‘Fetch them, Ringstead, if you please.’

  Ringstead left to do his bidding, while Bartholomew sat in a seat in the window and
stared across the Dominicans’ yard. The rain had stopped, but there were deep puddles everywhere, the surfaces of which wrinkled and shivered as the breeze played across them. He turned when he heard a soft tap at the door, and was surprised to see Clippesby ease himself through it.

  The recent unrest had told on the Michaelhouse Fellow. His hair stood up in a wild halo around his tonsure, and Bartholomew suspected that he had been tearing at it. His eyes seemed unfocused, and he wore the serene smile that usually preceded some of his more peculiar antics. The scholars at Michaelhouse were growing used to Clippesby’s eccentricities, and many of the students and masters barely noticed them any more. But the friary was less tolerant, and Bartholomew had the impression that they would have been happier if Clippesby did not pay them such regular visits.

  ‘What are you doing here, Clippesby?’ demanded Morden, none too pleasantly. ‘Do not tell me that the pig has been giving you its philosophical opinions again?’

  Clippesby smiled, his peculiar eyes shifty. ‘The pig is convinced that nominalism is a more rational theory. She is a true Dominican in her beliefs.’

  If Bartholomew had not known that Clippesby was verging on insanity, he would have suspected the man of playing a game with Morden. But Clippesby’s face was a picture of earnest innocence and there was no humour there. Bartholomew heard Michael give a snort of laughter.

  ‘What do you want, then?’ snapped Morden, glaring at Michael as well as Clippesby. ‘Can you not see that I am busy?’

  ‘I came to tell you that someone has put paint all over poor Kyrkeby’s face,’ said Clippesby helpfully. ‘Someone has made him look like a prostitute.’

  ‘You can take him with you when you go, as well as Kenyngham,’ said Morden nastily to Michael. ‘I will not allow the Dominican Friary to become a venue for Michaelhouse eccentrics, who are probably here only because Michaelhouse is too poor to afford fires.’

  ‘Michaelhouse is a cold place,’ agreed Clippesby. ‘But that will not matter soon.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Michael suspiciously. ‘You are not thinking of setting it alight, are you? I know that would solve our heating problems, but it would also render us all homeless.’

  Clippesby glared at him. ‘Do you think I am mad; that I would do something to damage the place where I live? All I am saying is that this cold weather will break in three days, and that Easter will be sunny and warm.’

  ‘Really,’ said Morden flatly. ‘And how do you know this?’

  ‘My voices told me,’ said Clippesby serenely. ‘And the river ducks confirmed it this morning.’

  ‘The man believes he is St Francis of Assisi,’ muttered Morden, regarding Clippesby as he might something he had trodden in on the High Street. ‘Can you not lock him away, Brother? I do not think he should be allowed to roam where he pleases. He may do himself some harm – and he is a danger to those on whom he foists his peculiar ideas.’

  ‘I am not some dog to be tethered just because you are too insensitive to hear the sounds of nature,’ said Clippesby angrily. ‘You are so ensconced in your own troubles and your own comforts, that you cannot hear the Earth speaking to you.’

  ‘Hello, Clippesby,’ said Ringstead pleasantly, entering the chamber again with a huge armful of clothes and Kyrkeby’s chest. ‘You were wrong about the cow, by the way. She did not have twins.’

  ‘But she told me she would,’ said Clippesby, puzzled.

  ‘Are these Kyrkeby’s belongings?’ asked Michael, changing the subject from one that promised to be increasingly bizarre, if Clippesby were to play a part in it. ‘Can you tell if there is anything missing, Prior Morden?’

  ‘His scrip is not here,’ said Ringstead, watching Morden sift through Kyrkeby’s jewellery with predatory eyes. ‘I should have noticed it was missing when you last came.’

  ‘Then we must assume it was stolen,’ said Michael. ‘Has anything else gone?’

  Morden selected an emerald ring and held it up to the light. It was huge in his tiny hands. ‘This is nice. It is a pity it is so large.’

  ‘It is not too large for me,’ said Ringstead, slipping it on to his middle finger and admiring it.

  ‘It looks valuable,’ said Michael, taking Ringstead’s hand and inspecting the jewel minutely. ‘Many people would commit murder in order to get something like this.’

  ‘Murder?’ echoed Ringstead, startled and pulling his arm away from Michael. ‘Are you telling us that Kyrkeby was murdered ?’

  ‘The Carmelites!’ exclaimed Morden, outrage mounting. ‘They did it – not for a ring, but to avenge themselves for Faricius’s death, despite the fact that we are totally innocent of it.’

  ‘Our students will riot when they hear about this,’ vowed Ringstead. ‘They will tear down the Carmelite Friary stone by stone!’

  Michael gave a heartfelt sigh of irritation. ‘There is no evidence that anyone murdered Kyrkeby. And I thought you wanted to keep the details of his death to yourselves. Do you really want to accuse the Carmelites of murder, and have it revealed that your Precentor died decorated like a whore?’

  Morden swallowed hard. ‘Of course not. But at the same time, we cannot stand by and see one of our most beloved masters killed in cold blood and do nothing about it.’

  ‘No one is asking you to do nothing,’ said Bartholomew reasonably. ‘You are helping the proctors to investigate, which is the best way to establish what really happened.’

  ‘Kyrkeby was a dull man,’ announced Clippesby bluntly. ‘He was not the kind of person anyone would want to kill, even if he did paint his face. Are you sure he was murdered?’

  ‘It is possible,’ said Michael calmly, as though he were discussing the weather and not the brutal death of the Dominicans’ second-in-command. ‘As I said, I intend to discover how he died and why, which I can only do if you co-operate. Now, was Kyrkeby involved in anything we should know about?’

  ‘No,’ said Morden. He closed his eyes for a moment, deep in thought, and then shook his head. ‘No. His main task was ensuring the proper liturgy was chanted in our offices, and he seldom left the friary, except to go to church.’

  ‘And you say that nothing, other than his scrip, is missing from his belongings?’ pressed Michael.

  Morden sighed. ‘I cannot be certain, but I thought he had more rings than this. One or two may be missing.’

  ‘He must have been wearing them, then,’ reasoned Michael.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Morden, bitterly. ‘He was probably wearing them when he painted his face to make himself look like a woman.’

  ‘When precisely did you last see him?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘You said he was supposed to supervise the students on Saturday when they marched on the Carmelites, but that he was avoiding his duties because he wanted to spend more time on his lecture. When was he first missed?’

  ‘Monday evening,’ said Ringstead. ‘You had been tending him all that afternoon, and at dinnertime – after you had gone – I took him a bowl of soup. He was not in his room, and I could not find him anywhere in the friary. I was worried, because I could not understand why he had abandoned his lecture so suddenly – especially since it was going so well.’

  ‘No one here recalls seeing him after dusk on Monday,’ summarised Morden. ‘I suppose he must have slipped out when no one was looking.’

  ‘That makes him sound furtive,’ pounced Michael. ‘Why do you say he “slipped” out?’

  Morden gave an expressive shrug. ‘It seems he “slipped” out to indulge his inclination to daub himself with women’s paints, Brother. How else would you have me put it?’

  ‘The Chancellor was concerned about the subject matter of Kyrkeby’s lecture,’ said Michael cautiously. ‘Have you heard anything about this?’

  ‘No,’ replied Morden. ‘But I can see why. Realists are narrow-minded bigots, who would have been unwilling to listen to what Kyrkeby had to say.’

  ‘Very likely,’ said Michael. ‘And so Chancellor Tynkell decided to change the title of the lec
ture to that of life on other planets. You know nothing about this, you say?’

  ‘That must be the letter waiting for Kyrkeby in the chapter house,’ said Ringstead, looking at his Prior. ‘It arrived yesterday, and we wondered what it was about.’

  ‘None of you opened it?’ asked Michael.

  ‘Of course not,’ said Morden, offended. ‘That would have been most improper.’

  ‘It is a pity no one will ever hear Kyrkeby talking about nominalism,’ said Ringstead loyally. He paled suddenly as a thought occurred to him. ‘But what shall we do about that? We Dominicans are supposed to give the University Lecture, and now that Kyrkeby is dead, we shall have to find a replacement!’

  ‘Lord!’ breathed Morden in alarm. ‘We do not have anyone else who can give such a lecture – on nominalism, life on Venus or anything else! We need more time to prepare.’

  ‘A replacement has already been appointed,’ said Michael soothingly. ‘Tynkell invited someone else to take Kyrkeby’s place when he failed to acknowledge Tynkell’s letter.’

  ‘Do you know anything about an essay on nominalism?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking about Faricius. ‘We believe one of the Carmelites may have been writing one, but it has disappeared.’

  ‘A Carmelite?’ asked Morden in surprise. ‘But they follow the heretical and outdated principles of realism.’

  ‘Not all of them,’ said Michael. ‘Just as I imagine that not all Dominicans are nominalists. There are exceptions.’

  ‘I doubt any Dominican would be foolish enough to believe in realism,’ said Morden superiorly. He glanced covertly at Clippesby, as if expecting him to announce that he did, but the Michaelhouse man was silent, staring at the flames that burned in Morden’s large hearth. ‘But it is possible that the odd Carmelite may have seen the light, I suppose.’