An Order for Death (19 page)

‘You would ask me to reveal the personal secrets of a man who is now dead?’ asked Dame Martyn, her redrimmed eyes wide in
feigned shock. ‘That would not be a kind thing to do.’

‘Do not lie to me,’ snapped Michael. ‘We both know perfectly well that he did not come here to avail himself of the services
that your nuns like to offer. He was not that kind of man.’

‘No,’ said Eve, suddenly bitter. ‘None of them ever are. But that does not stop them from coming to us and taking advantage
of our poverty to snatch what they want. And then they return to their wives and their children, and pretend that they are
good and honourable – not “that kind of man”, as you put it.’

‘That is not what I meant at all,’ said Michael. ‘Walcote was engaged in a relationship with one of his brethren, and was
not interested in women. I know he did not come to you with the intention of romping in your dormitories.’

Dame Martyn regarded him craftily. ‘Then I can tell you nothing more. I am under the sacred seal of confession.’

‘Do not be ridiculous!’ Michael exploded. ‘Are you claiming that
you
were Walcote’s confessor? I have never heard anything more outrageous in my life! Now, what was his business here, Dame Martyn?
You will tell me, or I shall
make a personal recommendation to the Bishop that he removes his niece from you with immediate effect.’

Dame Martyn hastened to make amends. She evidently knew Michael well enough to guess that he would do what he threatened.
‘Actually, we have no idea what Walcote did here. And that is the truth.’

‘I see,’ said Michael coldly. ‘Shall I station my beadles here, then, to question anyone who comes or leaves? That would certainly
deter visitors. Your happily married men will not like revealing the nature of their business
here
to interested beadles.’

‘You are a hard man, Brother,’ said Eve, when Dame Martyn seemed at a loss for words. ‘But the reason we cannot tell you what
Walcote did is because we really do not know. As I mentioned earlier, times are hard, and we are obliged to raise funds in
any way we can. One method is to rent this room for meetings that people would rather did not take place in the town.’

‘Do not tell him!’ cried Dame Martyn in horror. ‘The reason people come here is because they know they can rely on our discretion.
Without that, we have nothing.’

‘Are you telling me that your convent is used as a venue for criminals?’ asked Michael quickly, as he saw Eve hesitate. ‘Men
gather here to plan crimes and other evil deeds?’

‘We do not know what they plan,’ said Eve with blunt honesty. ‘All we do is make this parlour available to anyone who pays
us four groats – no questions asked.’

‘And Walcote hired this room from you?’ asked Michael.

Eve nodded, while the Prioress looked disgusted at what her Sacristan
had revealed.

‘How often? Once a week? More? Less?’

Eve Wasteneys regarded Michael for a moment, and then shrugged, looking at her Prioress as she did so. ‘Walcote is dead, Reverend
Mother. He will not be paying us for any more meetings, and so we have nothing to lose by being honest with Brother Michael.’

‘But one of the others might pay us instead,’ said Dame Martyn plaintively. ‘There is no reason these gatherings should stop,
just because one of their number is dead.’

‘They were Walcote’s meetings,’ said Eve. ‘He paid us and he organised them. That source of income is finished, and it is
in our interests to co-operate with the proctors now. We do not want his beadles stationed at our gates, and we cannot afford
to lose Tysilia – assuming the Bishop pays us eventually, that is. We have no choice but to tell Brother Michael what he wants
to know.’

‘How often were these meetings?’ repeated Michael, breaking into their conversation.

‘Irregularly,’ replied Eve, while Dame Martyn shook her head angrily and turned her attention to the dregs at the bottom of
her cup.

‘But how frequently?’ pressed Michael. ‘What were the intervals between meetings – days or weeks? And how many times did they
occur?’

‘He hired the room perhaps eight or nine times,’ replied Eve, frowning as she tried to remember. ‘The first two or three meetings
were last November or December – around the time the Master of Michaelhouse was murdered, if I recall correctly.’

‘You do not recall correctly,’ said Michael immediately. ‘When I was conducting that particular investigation, Walcote was
in Ely. I remember quite distinctly, because there was a spate of crimes at that time, and I could have done with his help.
He only arrived back in Cambridge the day Runham was buried and his cousin’s effigy was smashed in the Market Square.’

That particular incident was vividly etched in Bartholomew’s mind. ‘He was one of the throng who managed to grab a handful
of the coins that were hidden inside Wilson’s effigy, and that spilled out when the thing broke.’

‘She said
around
that time,’ said Dame Martyn, showing a remarkable clarity of mind for someone who was drunk. ‘She did not say
exactly
at that time.’

‘I know I am right,’ said Eve. ‘I was also one of the fortunate people who managed to seize a couple of gold coins. We used
them to repair the leaking roof in this room. Walcote commented on it when he next came, which was after Christmas.’

‘So, the roof leaked the first time Walcote was here, but it was repaired by the time he next visited,’ said Michael. ‘So,
his first meeting may have been
before
Master Runham died.’

‘Not necessarily,’ said Eve. ‘We did not acquire the money and have the roof mended the next day. It took some time to reach
an acceptable arrangement with a thatcher, and so Walcote’s first set of meetings could have occurred just before or after
the effigy incident.’

‘But suffice to say he had two or three meetings in November or December and one after Christmas,’ said Dame Martyn, raising
one hand to her lips to disguise a wine-perfumed belch. ‘I remember the Christmas meeting, because we spent the four groats
he gave us on wine to celebrate Yuletide.’

‘I bet you did,’ muttered Michael, regarding the nun and her cup with rank disapproval.

‘And you do not keep records?’ asked Bartholomew hopefully. ‘You do not write that kind of income in your accounts?’

Eve regarded him with weary amusement. ‘Brother Michael is probably right: the people who hire our room do not do so for legal
purposes. Since we do not want to be accused of complicity in any crimes they commit, of course we do not keep records of
when these meetings took place.’

‘Three meetings in November or December and one at Christmas is four,’ said Michael. ‘You said there were eight or nine. When
were the others?’

‘Recently,’ said Eve. ‘They were not on any particular day, and they were all late at night.’

‘And who did Walcote meet?’ pressed Michael. ‘Were they local men or strangers? Did you recognise any of them?’

‘No,’ said Dame Martyn immediately. Michael raised his eyebrows.

‘Once I thought I glimpsed William de Lincolne, the Carmelite Prior,’ said Eve, who, unlike the Prioress, saw that it was
unwise to play games with Michael.

‘Lincolne,’ said Michael casting a significant glance at Bartholomew. ‘I knew there was something odd about him. Who else?’

‘Possibly William Pechem, the warden of the Franciscans,’ said Eve, ignoring Dame Martyn’s angry signals to say nothing more.

‘A Carmelite and a Franciscan?’ asked Michael, surprised. ‘They always give the impression that they dislike each other, and
that they would never meet on friendly terms.’

‘I do not know whether their meetings were friendly or not,’ said Eve. ‘And I cannot tell you whether they were both present
at the same meetings.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Michael.

Eve sighed impatiently. ‘Exactly what I say, Brother. I think I saw Pechem, and I think I saw Lincolne, but I do not remember
whether I saw them both on the same night. I cannot tell you whether Walcote’s meetings were always with the same people.’

‘That is interesting,’ said Michael.

Eve went on. ‘If you ask me to swear that it was definitely these men I saw I cannot do it – not because I mean to be unhelpful,
but because I am simply not sure. As I said, it was dark.’

‘I saw no one,’ slurred Dame Martyn. She slipped suddenly to one side, so that she sat at an odd angle in her chair.

‘That I can believe,’ said Michael regarding her in disdain. He turned to Eve. ‘Who else?’

‘One other,’ said Eve nervously. ‘Although I do not know whether I should mention it.’

‘You should,’ declared Michael. ‘Who was it?’

‘Master Kenyngham of Michaelhouse.’ She watched Michael’s jaw drop in patent
disbelief. ‘See? I knew I should not tell you.’

^‘
I
KNEW THERE WAS SOMETHING MORE TO FARICIUS’S
murder than a simple stabbing,’ said Michael, as he and Bartholomew walked the short distance from St Radegund’s Convent
back to the town.

The day had grown even darker since they had been in the convent, and black clouds slouched above, moving quickly in the rising
wind. Rain fell in a persistent, heavy drizzle that quickly soaked through Bartholomew’s cloak and boots. He was shivering
by the time they reached the King’s Ditch, and longed to return to the comparative comfort of Michaelhouse, even if it were
only to a room that was so damp that the walls were stained green with mould.

‘I said those Carmelites were hiding something,’ Michael went on, warm and snug inside his own oiled cloak and expensive boots.
‘Now I learn that the leader of the Carmelites and the leader of the Franciscans – sworn enemies – were having clandestine
meetings with my Junior Proctor.’

‘Eve Wasteneys said she was not sure whether the two were at the same gatherings,’ Bartholomew pointed out.

‘But she did not say they were not,’ said Michael.

‘Do you believe her?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘She and Dame Martyn have no reason to be truthful with you. You threatened them,
and they have good cause to dislike you.’

Michael shrugged. ‘Dame Martyn might try to fool me, but Eve is a practical woman who knows that lying to the Senior Proctor
is not a clever thing to do. I believe what she said. Also, the fact that she was a little vague about some of the details
gives her story a ring of authenticity, as far as I am concerned.’

‘I wonder what Walcote could have been discussing with
them,’ mused Bartholomew, trying to imagine the kind of business that would bring the leader of the Franciscans, the fanatical
Prior Lincolne and the gentle, unworldly Kenyngham together in the depths of the night at a place like St Radegund’s Convent.
‘Perhaps he was trying to resolve the conflict between the Orders.’

‘No,’ said Michael, after a moment of thought. ‘Eve said the first meeting was in November or December, and there was no trouble
to speak of between the Orders at that point. It has only come to a head during the last few weeks – since the beginning of
Lent.’

‘But that is when Eve claimed there were several more meetings,’ said Bartholomew.

Michael rubbed his hands together in sudden enthusiasm. ‘This is more like it, Matt! I thought at first that Walcote’s death
was a simple case of some embittered student striking a blow at the University’s authority. Now I discover that he was organising
secret meetings, and that he had been doing so for months.’

Bartholomew regarded him doubtfully. ‘Why should that make you feel better about his murder? And you do, Brother; you are
looking pleased with yourself.’

‘Because this is the kind of mystery that I am good at solving. I possess a cunning mind, and am far better at resolving complex
plots than I am at uncovering random acts of violence. We will get to the bottom of this, and we will see Walcote’s death
avenged. Now I know that a plot involving the University lies at the heart of it, I am more hopeful of success.’

‘Well, I am not,’ said Bartholomew gloomily. ‘The webs of deceit and untruths spread by scholars are often extremely difficult
to unravel. We might still be looking into this at Christmas.’

‘Nonsense, Matt,’ said Michael confidently. ‘We will have this solved by Easter Sunday.’

‘In five days?’ asked Bartholomew uncertainly. ‘I do not think so!’

‘We will. I wager you a fine dinner – with as much wine as you can drink – at the Brazen George that by Easter Sunday we shall
have this resolved. Do you accept?’

‘Murder is hardly a matter for betting,’ said Bartholomew primly. ‘You are wrong, anyway. It will be impossible to solve this
muddle in five days.’

Michael slapped him on the shoulders. ‘You will see. But one of the first things we shall do is visit the Carmelite Friary.
I want to inspect Faricius’s belongings, to see if there is something to indicate that he was not the hard-working, scholarly
man everyone seemed to admire. And then I shall ask Lincolne what he was doing with my Junior Proctor at St Radegund’s Convent.’

‘What if he denies it? Eve Wasteneys said she could not be certain.’

Michael rubbed his chin. ‘You are right. Perhaps a full-frontal assault on the man would not be wise, given that we do not
have a witness who is prepared to be unequivocal. It may warn him to be on the alert, or he may tell his coconspirators.
I shall have to be a little more circumspect.’

As they entered the town through the Barnwell Gate and started to walk down the High Street towards the Carmelite Friary,
they met Brother Timothy, who had completed his business with the Franciscans. His covert search for the curious yellow substance
that Bartholomew had seen on Faricius and Walcote had been unsuccessful, although he carried a bag of ominous-looking black
powder that he was assured would rid the Benedictines of their mice.

‘Nothing?’ asked Michael, disappointed.

The Benedictine shook his head. ‘I had my fingers in all manner of jars and bottles, so that even the herbalist, who loves
to talk about his potions and concoctions, was beginning to grow suspicious. I pretended that my spare habit had a yellow
stain that I was keen to remove, but I am sure he genuinely did not know the nature of the substance we saw on Walcote.’

‘Did he suggest anyone else who might?’ asked Michael.

Timothy scratched his head. ‘I did not want to press him too hard, because Franciscans are intensely loyal to each other.
If the herbalist thought we believed one of his brethren to be involved in a crime, he would close ranks with his colleagues,
and we would never be allowed inside the gates again.’

‘Never mind,’ said Michael, not sounding surprised that the yellow stains had led nowhere. ‘We are going to inspect Faricius’s
belongings. Perhaps they will yield some kind of clue.’

The Carmelite Friary was a compact institution on Milne Street, the buildings of which were smaller than those of the Dominicans,
but which boasted a large and pleasant garden that ran down to the river near Small Bridges Street. Like the other friaries,
it was dominated by a two-storeyed building that had a refectory on the ground floor with a dormitory on the upper floor.
With it, stables, a kitchen and a chapter house formed a neat quadrangle, while the Prior’s house was a pleasant extension
that jutted out to the south. The Prior’s quarters boasted a private chapel on the ground floor, with a chamber on the upper
floor that was an office during the day and a bedchamber for Lincolne at night.

When they were shown into his chamber, Prior Lincolne was standing on a stool with a stick in his hand, making lunging swipes
at the cobwebs that hung in silken threads from the rafters. Already several large splinters of oaken beam lay scattered across
the rugs, where he had been overly rough with his cleaning.

‘Spiders,’ he announced as they walked in. ‘I hate spiders. I do not like the way their webs entangle themselves in my hair.’

Looking at Lincolne’s peculiar topknot, Bartholomew understood why. The tuft of hair barely cleared the lowest of the beams,
and would have acted like a magnet to anything hanging from them. The physician imagined that it collected all manner of dirt
as it rubbed its way across the
ceilings in the various rooms Lincolne would have been obliged to enter during the course of a day.

‘We would like to inspect Faricius’s belongings, if we may,’ said Michael, flinching backward as an especially vigorous poke
from Lincolne brought down a shower of plaster. He pursed his lips in disapproval. ‘Do you not have servants for that sort
of thing?’

‘We do,’ replied Lincolne, stepping down from the stool, but still towering over his three visitors. ‘However, I have exacting
standards, and they seldom reach them. You want to inspect Faricius’s belongings, you say? Why?’

‘We are taking his death very seriously,’ replied Michael. ‘And we want to leave no stone unturned. It is possible that there
is something in his possessions that may throw light on the identity of the killer.’

‘Are you saying that your other enquiries have come to nothing?’ asked Lincolne astutely. ‘What about the Dominicans? You
would be better concentrating your efforts there, as I have told you before.’

‘And so we will,’ said Michael. ‘But first, I want to see Faricius’s cell.’

Lincolne sighed impatiently. ‘Very well, then. Come with me.’

‘I am sure you have more important things to do than accompany us,’ said Michael. He glanced up at the ceiling. ‘There are
spiders to declare war upon.’

‘They can wait,’ said Lincolne, casting a venomous glower at the hapless beings in the rafters. ‘Perhaps the respite will
lure them out, and I shall be able to catch them when I return.’

They followed him across the yard to the dormitory. It was afternoon, and a time when the friars were accustomed to a period
of rest or private prayer before attending vespers, so a number of them were in the dormitory, some sleeping and some reading.
The dormitory comprised a large room that was blocked into tiny cells just large enough to house a mattress, a prie-dieu and
a couple of hooks on the wall.
Lincolne led the way to a cell near a window that overlooked the street.

‘This was Faricius’s bed. As you can see, he owned very little, but what he had is here.’

The cell was spartan, as a friar’s home was supposed to be, unlike most of the others they had passed, which boasted rugs
on the floor and colourful blankets. A bloodstained cloak, that was evidently the one Faricius had been wearing when he died,
hung on one hook, while a spare habit adorned the other. A simple wooden cross had been nailed to the wall and a psalter lay
open on the bed, as though Faricius had been reading it before he took his fateful last journey.

Michael knelt and peered under the bed, reaching out to withdraw a rough chest that was stored there. Inside were several
clean shirts, some woollen undergarments, a spare scrip, and several pens and some parchment. There was also a much-fingered
copy of William Heytesbury’s
Regulae Solvendi Sophismata
. Lincolne gave a gasp of horror and snatched it from Michael’s hands.

‘What is this work of the Devil doing in our friary?’ he demanded. The fury in his voice brought the resting friars, including
the gap-toothed Horneby, scurrying to see what was happening.

‘Ah, Horneby,’ said Michael with a predatory smile. ‘Just the man I wanted to see. You do not know where I might find young
Simon Lynne, do you?’

Horneby looked furtive. ‘He is probably in the garden, praying.’

Even Lincolne looked doubtful. ‘He will be in the friary somewhere,’ he said to Michael. ‘I have been keeping our students
in, because I do not want them attacked by violent Dominicans.’

‘Then I want to speak to Lynne,’ said Michael. He flicked his fingers at a youngster with bad skin. ‘Fetch him, if you please.’

‘Never mind Lynne,’ said Lincolne, turning his attention
back to the book, away from the student who scrambled to do Michael’s bidding. He held the tome carefully by one corner,
as if it were a dead mouse. ‘I want to know what this filth is doing in my friary.’

‘I imagine Faricius was reading it so he could refute Heytesbury’s arguments,’ said Horneby, although he was unable to disguise
the doubt in his voice. ‘It is difficult to prove someone wrong if you are unacquainted with the essence of his argument.’

Lincolne thrust the book into Horneby’s hands. ‘Burn it,’ he ordered uncompromisingly.

‘We have just returned from St Radegund’s Convent,’ said Michael, in the silence that followed. Evidently, none of the student-friars
was easy with the notion of burning Faricius’s property. Horneby certainly did not hurry away to do his Prior’s bidding; he
stayed where he was, cradling the book in his arms, although at the mention of St Radegund’s, he shot Michael one of the most
furtive looks Bartholomew had ever seen, so that the physician suspected the student knew exactly where his friend had been.
Lincolne merely seemed surprised by the monk’s statement.

‘What were
you
doing there?’ he asked in distaste. ‘It is not a place frequented by decent men.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Michael innocently. ‘It is a community of Benedictine nuns.’

‘It is a community of loose women who wear Benedictine habits,’ corrected Lincolne. ‘Why the Bishop does not expel them and
donate the buildings to the University is quite beyond me.’

‘Have you never been there, to observe the nuns at prayer?’ asked Michael casually, although Bartholomew was aware of the
intense interest behind his seemingly careless question.

‘That would be an impossibility,’ said Lincolne, taking Michael quite literally. ‘I hear they do not keep their offices –
or rather, they keep their offices at times that suit them, rather than when they are supposed to be.’

‘Do you know this from personal observation?’ pressed Michael, still trying to ascertain whether Lincolne was prepared to
admit that he had been to one of Walcote’s nocturnal gatherings.

‘I know from rumours,’ replied Lincolne, frustratingly obtuse. ‘I say all my offices here or in the chapel. But you have not
told us what took
you
to such a place, Brother.’

‘Matt was called there to physick the Prioress,’ lied Michael.

‘What was wrong with her?’ asked Lincolne. ‘Was it anything to do with the fact that she had to be carried through the streets
of Cambridge in a drunken stupor just after dawn this morning? What did you recommend, Doctor? A dish of raw eggs and pepper,
and that she should be more abstemious in the future?’

‘Is that what the Carmelites use?’ asked Bartholomew, answering with a question because he was reluctant to discuss the Prioress’s
medical details with Lincolne.

Lincolne nodded, unabashed by the implication that his colleagues should require such a remedy in the first place. ‘And if
we have no pepper, we use salt.’