Bartholomew 07 - An Order for Death

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘It will be a long time before you starve,’ said William, eyeing Michael up and down critically. ‘You will be able to live off that fat for years.’

  Michael glowered at him and stalked towards the door. Bartholomew followed, no more keen to sit in a cold hall that was full of the rank stench of rotten fish than was the monk. Other scholars were also taking advantage of the abrupt end to the meal, and the servants had even started to clear away bowls and goblets, anticipating with pleasure the treat of an early finish.

  ‘What is it that makes everyone want to comment on my figure?’ Michael demanded of Bartholomew. ‘Do people not realise that it is rude? Even people I barely know talk about it – like your nephew, and that Ringstead at the Dominican Friary. I am growing heartily tired of it.’

  ‘Eat less, then,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘The reason people comment is because you are an imposing sight. There are not many people your size in Cambridge.’

  ‘I am not that big,’ objected Michael. ‘And it is mostly muscle anyway. Just look at this. Grab it, go on.’ He flexed an arm for Bartholomew to feel.

  ‘Yes, I know,’ said Bartholomew, declining the offer. He had witnessed the previous night that the monk was sufficiently strong to break the leg of a corpse, and knew that his bulk belied an impressive power.

  ‘And if I am heavy, it is because I have big bones,’ said Michael sulkily. ‘I am not as fat as people believe.’

  ‘It is partly your habit,’ said Bartholomew, eyeing the black garment critically. ‘It makes you look enormous.’

  ‘That is an unkind thing to say,’ said Michael huffily. ‘What do you expect me to do? I can hardly go to my Bishop and tell him that I no longer intend to wear the Benedictine habit because it makes me look fat.’

  ‘Do not take it so personally,’ said Bartholomew. ‘People are always criticising me because my clothes are soiled or torn. I just ignore them.’

  ‘I shall punch the next person who calls me fat,’ vowed Michael angrily, marching down the newel stair that led to the lower floor and heading for the door that opened into the yard. ‘And that includes you, so just mind yourself.’

  ‘We should probably visit Prior Pechem of the Franciscans tonight,’ said Bartholomew, changing the subject, but not in the least intimidated by Michael’s bluster. ‘We need to ask him about his role at Walcote’s meetings. Now that Morden – and Kenyngham – know we are aware of these gatherings, there is no need for us to worry about putting them on their guard. They will already have been warned, and our enquiries can do no harm.’

  ‘I have already spoken to Pechem,’ said Michael irritably.

  ‘Since Clippesby introduced the subject so tactlessly with Morden, I decided there was nothing to lose by approaching Pechem directly.’

  ‘And?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He pretended he did not know what I was talking about, and said he had never been to St Radegund’s in his life. More lies, Matt. Just when we force the Carmelites to be honest, the Franciscans start bombarding me with falsehoods.’

  ‘Ah, Michael and Bartholomew. Just the men I wanted to see.’ Langelee was approaching the door from the darkness outside. ‘I would like to speak to you. Join me in my chamber, if you will.’

  ‘Why?’ demanded Michael irritably. ‘It has been a long day and I am tired. All I want to do is go to bed and forget about that monstrosity that paraded itself as dinner.’

  ‘Then that is even more reason why you should come to my chamber,’ said Langelee, laying a meaty arm across Michael’s shoulders. ‘A beef and onion pie, a barrel of French wine, and a couple of loaves of fresh bread are waiting there.’

  Michael eyed him suspiciously. ‘Why? So you can laugh about the amount I eat and tell everyone that I have a stomach like a bottomless well?’

  ‘Do you eat a lot?’ asked Langelee, genuinely surprised. ‘I cannot say I have noticed. But you and I are both large men, so healthy appetites are to be expected. Come and join me in my room, and we will do justice to this fine food. What do you say?’

  Michael gazed at him. ‘What kind of pie did you say it was?’

  Chapter 8

  A SMALL FIRE BURNED IN LANGELEE’S ROOM, AND TWO lamps placed on the windowsills filled the chamber with a warm yellow glow. Bartholomew looked around him appreciatively, noting the tasteful wall-hangings and the clean but functional rugs that lay on the floor. Here was no wasteful decadence, but a pleasant and simple room that managed to create an atmosphere of industry and efficiency. Bartholomew, who had known Langelee for two years before the philosopher had been elected Master of Michaelhouse, was impressed by the room and the changes that had occurred in the man.

  ‘Where is this pie?’ demanded Michael, sitting in the best chair and looking aggrieved. ‘And what do you want to discuss? It is not those damned latrines again, is it? I have already told you that I do not care whether they are cleaned once a year, twice a year, ten times a year, or never again.’

  ‘All the Fellows except Bartholomew concur,’ said Langelee. ‘So, we will have them cleaned once a year, and we will use the money we save to buy a new bench for the hall.’

  ‘You will spend that money on medicines for intestinal disorders when summer comes,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘The latrines are not a problem now the weather is cold, but you remember how many flies they attracted last summer. The air was black with them.’

  ‘Please, Matt!’ said Michael with a shudder. ‘I am about to eat. And there is a very simple solution to this fly problem: only use the latrines at night. There are not nearly as many then.’

  ‘That is not the point,’ began Bartholomew, exasperated by their refusal to acknowledge that dirty latrines were likely to have serious repercussions on the health of Michaelhouse’s scholars.

  ‘I did not bring you here to talk about sewage,’ said Langelee, cutting across Bartholomew’s words as he sliced a decadently large piece of pie and handed it to Michael. ‘I brought you here because Clippesby told me the disturbing news that Prior Morden plans to commit murder.’

  Michael gave a small smile. ‘That is not what transpired at the Dominican Friary. Trust that lunatic Clippesby to get it wrong! What Morden said was that Walcote discovered evidence that there was a plan afoot to harm me, and that meetings were organised between the religious Orders to discuss what should be done about it.’

  ‘Why would anyone want to kill you?’ asked Langelee, tearing the bread into pieces and passing it to his guests. ‘I know that as Senior Proctor you cannot be popular with everyone, and that there are men who hate the power of the University that you embody. But it is another matter entirely to murder someone for it.’

  ‘So far, there has only been a plot to murder me,’ corrected Michael. ‘I am still alive, remember?’

  ‘But Walcote is not,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Do you think he was killed because he was trying to uncover the identity of the person who was planning to strike at you?’

  Michael nodded slowly. ‘As you pointed out earlier, the fact that he was hanged, rather than stabbed or hit over the head, smacks of execution rather than murder. It is obvious now that I think of it.’

  ‘My experience of these matters, while I was an agent for the Archbishop of York, leads me to think that you are probably correct,’ said Langelee, sitting opposite him and poking at the fire. ‘Do you have any idea who this killer is?’

  Michael shook his head. ‘And according to Morden, Walcote did not know, either.’

  ‘How did Walcote know about the plot?’ asked Langelee. ‘What evidence did he have?’

  ‘Apparently, he found a letter in which details of a proposed attack were given,’ said Michael. ‘This letter was in the possession of one of my beadles – a man I did not like, as it happens – whose body was discovered in a ditch on Christmas Eve.’

  ‘The beadle was called Rob Smyth, and he had been drinking in the King’s Head,’ elaborated Bartholomew. ‘On his way home, he drowned in a puddle. Bead
le Meadowman found the body.’

  Michael eyed the pie until Langelee cut him a second piece. ‘Matt inspected the corpse, and told me he was certain Smyth drowned accidentally – that no one else had done him any harm.’

  Bartholomew agreed. ‘It was obvious that he had slipped on some ice and tumbled face-down in a puddle. Being drunk, he was unable to move.’

  ‘And this Smyth was the recipient of the letter?’ asked Langelee doubtfully. ‘I thought most of your beadles could not read.’

  ‘Smyth was a courier,’ replied Michael. ‘The other patrons of the King’s Head – including Agatha – claimed Smyth had been very generous that night: he bought ale for all his acquaintances, as well as for himself. Now I understand why: he was spending the money he had been paid to deliver the letter.’

  ‘Only, fortunately for Michael, he never did,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Smyth died before he could deliver the message.’

  ‘So, there are at least two people conspiring against you,’ observed Langelee. ‘The person who sent the letter, and the person to whom the letter was addressed.’

  ‘Right,’ said Michael. ‘But, according to Morden, Walcote had failed to uncover the identity of either. Damn! I wish Walcote had told me about this!’

  ‘Why did he keep it from you?’ asked Langelee, politely sucking the pie knife clean before cutting Michael a piece of cheese. ‘Had I found such a letter, you would have been the first to know, so that you could be on your guard against attack.’

  ‘Apparently, he decided that Michael had enough to worry about, and thought he would be better not knowing,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘It was only a few weeks after that business with Runham and the stolen gold at Michaelhouse, and Walcote considered that more than enough anxiety for a while.’

  Michael scraped the pie crumbs from the table into his hand and slapped them into his mouth. ‘Matt is being politic,’ he informed Langelee. ‘It seems Walcote knew I was disappointed not to be elected Master of Michaelhouse, and thought I did not need to know that someone disliked me enough to end my life.’

  ‘But this does not tally,’ said Langelee, after a moment of thought. ‘A few days ago you told me that Walcote’s secret meetings started around or just after the time when Michaelhouse’s stolen gold spilled across the Market Square. That was in late November. But Smyth died at Christmas. Ergo, Walcote’s secret meetings had been taking place before he found the letter on the dead Smyth.’

  ‘We had fathomed that, thank you,’ said Michael testily. ‘According to Morden, Walcote had been anticipating trouble between the religious Orders for months. The meetings were his attempt to understand the causes, so that he could try to minimise the effects. The subject of the intended murder was raised at a later gathering.’

  ‘But I still do not understand why someone would want to kill you,’ said Langelee, poking the fire again. ‘Have you been involved in any especially dubious business recently that may have upset anyone? We all know about the arrangements with Oxford, of course.’

  ‘Thanks to you,’ said Michael, not without resentment. It had been Langelee’s announcement regarding his liaison with Heytesbury that had ultimately deprived Michael of the Michaelhouse Mastership. ‘But my Oxford business cannot be the reason. All I am doing is passing some property to Heytesbury in exchange for a couple of names and one or two bits of information.’

  ‘Controversial information?’ pressed Langelee, keenly interested.

  Michael could not suppress a gleeful grin. ‘Not yet, but it will be. Heytesbury is almost ready to sign. He thinks I want to use the information to become Chancellor – which I might, as it happens – but I have other plans for it first. And Cambridge will emerge richer and stronger from it.’

  ‘Good,’ said Langelee, smiling warmly. ‘It is gratifying to see Cambridge besting Oxford. But what about the other men whom Walcote met? You say one was Morden, and I know another was Kenyngham.’

  ‘You do?’ asked Michael, startled. ‘How? He refused to speak to me.’

  ‘He refused to speak to me, too,’ said Langelee. ‘So, I paid a visit to his Prior instead. Gretford admitted that he and Kenyngham had attended about four of these meetings, but told me that the main issues discussed were repairing the Great Bridge – anonymously, so that the town would not expect the University to pay in the future – and the relative merits of nominalism and realism.’

  ‘Morden said much the same,’ said Bartholomew.

  ‘It seems to me that the person who wishes Michael dead may well be one of those powerful men who attended Walcote’s meetings,’ said Langelee thoughtfully. ‘To kill a proctor is to strike at the heart of the University’s authority – as I remarked when you first started to investigate this business. Thus, the would-be killer may be a high-ranking cleric.’

  ‘I think you are right,’ said Michael. ‘He probably kept Walcote alive long enough to learn from him what was happening regarding the investigation of Smyth’s letter, and then murdered him when he started to come too close to the truth.’

  ‘Then all we have to do is find out precisely who attended these meetings,’ said Bartholomew. ‘That will at least give us a manageable list of suspects. Otherwise, we have to assume it could be anyone – not just in the University, but in the town, too.’

  Langelee agreed. ‘You have apprehended a lot of killers in your time, Brother. Many believed their crimes were justified and hated you for thwarting them, while others doubtless had families or friends who might want vengeance.’

  ‘True,’ said Michael. ‘But luckily, most of them were either killed in the chase or were subjected to the justice of the King’s courts – it was not I who hanged them; it was the Sheriff.’

  ‘Then what about criminals’ families?’ asked Langelee. ‘There are probably wives, children, parents and siblings who want you struck down for what you did to their loved ones.’

  ‘That kind of person would not plot to kill Michael,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He – or she – would just strike, not devise elaborate plans and send details via disenchanted beadles.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Michael.

  ‘So, let us consider your list of likely suspects, then,’ said Langelee, passing Michael another hunk of yellow cheese and taking an equally large slice for himself. Bartholomew was not halfway through his pie. ‘Who do you know for certain attended these meetings?’

  ‘Dame Wasteneys and Matilde claim that Kenyngham, Lincolne and Pechem were regular attenders,’ said Michael with his mouth full. ‘Brother Adam added Ralph of the Austins and Morden of the Dominicans. However, Morden denies seeing Kenyngham, and Kenyngham denies seeing Morden and Pechem.’

  ‘We have explained that, though,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Walcote simply arranged separate gatherings for the two factions of the realism–nominalism debate, because he knew they would squabble if he did not.’

  Michael nodded. ‘Eve Wasteneys told us Walcote held eight or nine meetings in total: Morden and Kenyngham both claimed to have attended four or five. Since they were not at the same ones, we can deduce that Eve was telling us the truth about the total number.’

  ‘Can we be sure that Walcote’s reason for separating the factions was honourable?’ wondered Bartholomew thoughtfully. ‘He may have been playing a game, pitting one group against another.’

  ‘That would have been risky,’ said Langelee, topping up his own goblet, then doing the same for Michael. Bartholomew had barely touched his, but the Master gave him more anyway, filling the goblet so that a trembling meniscus lay over the top. ‘These are powerful men, who would not appreciate being pawns in the game of a mere Junior Proctor.’

  ‘Then perhaps that is why he died,’ said Michael soberly.

  ‘Do you know a novice at St Radegund’s Convent called Tysilia de Apsley?’ asked Bartholomew, changing the subject slightly. ‘She is tall with dark hair.’

  ‘I know her,’ said Langelee. He gave a salacious grin. ‘And so does every other red-blooded man in the town, I shoul
d imagine. Why? Had she worked her charms on Walcote? I thought he had a long-standing affection with one of his Austin colleagues. Still, with a woman like that …’

  ‘Matt thinks there is more to her than an evening of romping among the pews of the conventual church,’ said Michael bluntly.

  ‘Walcote’s meetings took place at St Radegund’s Convent,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘It is not the kind of place influential scholars should be seen frequenting, so they must have had good reason for choosing it over one of their own halls. I think the reason was that it suited Tysilia.’

  Langelee rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘I would dismiss any of our students foolish enough to be caught in that den of iniquity, and something far more important than philosophy would need to be on the agenda to attract the heads of the religious Orders there. However, it is an excellent place for clandestine meetings, because no one would ever think of using it for such purposes.’

  ‘That is true,’ said Michael bitterly. ‘I certainly had no inkling that they were taking place.’

  ‘But Bartholomew is wrong about Tysilia,’ Langelee went on. ‘I have never met a person with fewer wits.’

  ‘No one believes Tysilia is involved, because they say she is too dense,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But what if that is an act? She is related to the Bishop of Ely, who is as cunning a man as I have ever met. Why will no one accept that she may be clever enough to fool us all?’

  ‘Because you only have to look at her face to see that there is nothing there,’ said Langelee, tapping his temple as he spoke. ‘It is like gazing into the eyes of a dead trout.’

  ‘Is that something you do often?’ asked Michael.

  Langelee gave an irritable frown at Michael’s flippancy. ‘There is no earthly way Tysilia is involved, Bartholomew. I doubt the nuns even trusted her to open the convent doors on the nights these meetings took place. They would be afraid she would try to seduce their guests en route, or that she would forget they were supposed to be allowed in and see them out instead.’