An Order for Death (24 page)

‘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 wrinkles. ‘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
in
tolerant 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 listening 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?’

Bartholomew nodded enthusiastically. ‘And just four years ago, Nicole Oresme devised a geometrical proof for the intension
and remission of qualities based on Heytesbury’s—’

‘You mentioned yesterday that you planned to attend Faricius’s requiem mass, Janius,’ interrupted Michael loudly, deciding
he had heard enough of nominalism as applied to the laws of physics for one day. ‘Did you go? Can I assume that your presence
here means that it is over?’

‘It was over at midday, and the afternoon has been spent in private prayer for his soul,’ Janius told him. ‘That was why I
was in Holy Trinity Church. But he is due to be buried about now, and I was on my way back there when I met you.’

‘Good,’ said Michael. ‘I want to talk to the Carmelites,
and if they are all gathered together at Faricius’s mass, I will not have to hunt them down individually.’

‘You would not have to do that anyway,’ said Janius. ‘Since Faricius’s murder, most of the Orders are keeping their students
inside. No one wants a retaliatory killing.’

‘There are those that would disagree,’ said Michael. ‘But it is cold standing here. Let us be on our way to this burial. Such
an occasion will suit my mood perfectly.’

F
ARICIUS’S REQUIEM MASS HAD BEEN A GRAND AFFAIR
. Prayers for him had been said in the church all afternoon, and the rough wooden coffin was being carried back to the friary,
where there was a small graveyard in the grounds near the river. Bartholomew and Michael joined the end of the procession,
which comprised mainly White Friars, but also a smattering of scholars from other hostels and colleges who had met Faricius
and been impressed by his scholarship. Both Timothy and Janius were among the mourners, as was Heytesbury, although he at
least had the good sense to keep his face hidden in a voluminous hood.

‘What are you doing here?’ Michael asked the Merton man in a soft whisper. ‘A procession of realism-obsessed Carmelites is
no place for the country’s leading thinker on nominalism. Are you mad?’

‘No such restrictions apply in Oxford,’ replied Heytesbury testily. ‘And I met Faricius once. I had the greatest respect for
him, and wanted to persuade him to study with me at Merton.’

‘I doubt he would have taken a nominalist master,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Have you not heard how the Orders have ranged themselves
around this debate? The Carmelites have decided that realism is the ultimate truth.’

‘Why should that make any difference?’ demanded Heytesbury. ‘The great nominalist William of Occam was a student of the equally
great realist Duns Scotus. Faricius had an excellent mind, and I would have welcomed the opportunity to help him hone it,
no matter what his beliefs.’

Bartholomew gazed at him, and wondered whether Oxford was really so different from her sister university. In
his own experience, Oxford scholars were every bit as belligerent and aggressive as those in Cambridge, and just as prepared
to prove their academic points with their fists. But given the strength of the feelings the debate seemed to have engendered
that Lent, he could not imagine a Cambridge nominalist being willing to train a realist student, who in time might use that
training against him and the beliefs he held dear. He wondered whether Heytesbury was a man of integrity who was devoted to
scholarship in all its forms, or simply a fool.

The sombre procession passed in silence through the Carmelites’ orchard and into the small plot of land that had been reserved
for burials. It was a pleasant place, sheltered by chestnut trees and overlooking the water meadows that stretched away to
the small hamlet of Newnham Croft. Several grassy mounds already graced the area, along with a sizeable knoll that Bartholomew
knew was where the friary’s plague victims had been laid to rest.

Under a spreading cedar tree was one of the town’s curiosities. In 1290, a man named Humphrey de Lecton had been the first
Carmelite to take a doctor’s degree in Cambridge, and later became the first Carmelite to lecture for the University. When
he died, he had been buried with some pomp and ceremony, and his grave was marked with an impressive piece of masonry: a disconcertingly
realistic coffin with a likeness of Lecton etched into the top, covered by a four-pillared canopy that had once been painted.
Wind and rain had stripped it of its colours, but the tomb still dominated the Carmelites’ peaceful burial ground.

A rectangular hole had been prepared for Faricius near Lecton’s monument, with a mound of excavated mud piled to one side.
Water had collected in the bottom of the grave, and the coffin landed with a slight splash as it was lowered inside. Rain
pattered on the wood and on the bowed heads of those who gathered around as Lincolne said his final words. Bartholomew saw
Horneby standing next to his Prior, scrubbing at his eyes with the sleeve of his habit; the
expression on his face was a mixture of anger and grief. Lincolne’s peculiar turret of hair had escaped from under his cowl,
and rose vertically from his forehead. Droplets of rain caught in it, so that it glittered in the dull light of the gloomy
March afternoon.

‘The Dominicans will pay for this,’ Bartholomew heard Horneby mutter.

‘Faricius was a peaceful man who abhorred violence,’ said Brother Timothy gently. ‘He would not have wanted his friends to
indulge themselves in a rampage of hatred on his behalf.’

‘He would not have wanted the Dominicans to murder him and then laugh about it,’ snapped Horneby. ‘They are in their friary
celebrating what they have done. Look! They have even sent one of their number to observe his funeral and then report the
details back to them.’

All eyes followed his accusing finger, and Michael was astonished to find himself the object of their scrutiny.

‘I am not Dominican,’ he said, aggrieved, pushing back his cowl to reveal his face. ‘I am a Benedictine, as well you know.’

‘Oh, it is you, Brother Michael,’ said Lincolne. ‘In this poor light it is difficult to tell Dominicans from Benedictines.
Both wear black cloaks.’

‘Rubbish,’ said Michael brusquely. ‘Anyone with the merest glimmer of sense can tell a mendicant from a monastic. I am a monk,
not a friar.’

‘One look at his girth should tell you that,’ Bartholomew thought he heard Heytesbury mutter. ‘Only Benedictines grow to such
a size.’

‘Have you come to tell us that you have arrested Faricius’s killer?’ asked Lincolne, in a tone of voice that suggested he
did not think they had. ‘It would be a fitting tribute at his funeral.’

‘I have come to ask more questions,’ said Michael. ‘But I am a good deal wiser about this case now than I was yesterday. The
truth will prevail, have no doubt about that.’

Bartholomew hoped the monk’s confidence would not turn out to be a hollow brag. As far as he could see, they were even further
from an answer, because all they had learned indicated that there was more to Faricius’s death than they had first thought.

Lincolne did not look as if he believed it, either. He turned to the watching mourners with a few words of dismissal. ‘Thank
you for coming. It is gratifying to see that a Carmelite commanded such respect among so many people.’

The mourners began to move away in respectful silence. Heytesbury and Janius went with them, so that soon only Lincolne, Bartholomew,
Michael and Timothy remained under the cedar tree. Horneby and several of his friends worked nearby, shovelling sodden earth
that landed with hollow thumps on top of Faricius’s coffin. Horneby’s face was wet, although from the rain or from bitter
tears, Bartholomew could not tell.

‘The proctors have more questions to ask!’ the student-friar jeered, shovelling hard at the earth. ‘There have been more than
enough of those already. What we want now are answers.’

‘I would not need to ask more questions if you had told the truth,’ snapped Michael, rounding on him. ‘How can you expect
me to catch your friend’s killer when you were dishonest with me?’

‘I was not—’ began Horneby, startled by the attack.

‘You told me it was impossible for Faricius to have left the friary, and yet he was found dead outside,’ Michael continued
relentlessly.

‘I only said—’ attempted Horneby.

Michael cut through his words. ‘You are a fool, Horneby. I will find out what happened to Faricius, and I will discover how
and why he happened to be outside when the rest of you were in here. But, by not telling me the truth, you are running the
risk that the culprit may have fled the town before I uncover him. Is that what you want?’

‘No! Of course not. But—’

‘Then tell me what you know,’ said Michael, in full interrogatory mode. Even Bartholomew felt intimidated by the flashing
green eyes and the unwavering gaze. A mere novice like Horneby was helpless under the monk’s onslaught.

‘Nothing,’ stammered Horneby, casting an agonised glance at Lincolne that would have told even the most inexperienced investigator
that he was lying.

‘Why was Faricius out?’ repeated Michael. He appealed to Lincolne. ‘Are we to stand here all day waiting for this half-wit
to speak? Instruct him to answer me immediately, before any more time is wasted on his petty deceits.’

‘You had better tell him what you know, Horneby,’ said Lincolne tiredly.

‘But we decided to keep it a secret,’ wailed Horneby miserably, looking at his fellows, who seemed as unhappy as he did.

‘What are you talking about?’ asked Lincolne, bemused. ‘Keep what a secret?’

‘About Faricius,’ said Horneby. ‘What he was doing had no bearing on his death, and we decided it was better the secret died
with him. There was no point in telling the Senior Proctor.’

‘Worse yet, it will lead the investigation in the wrong direction,’ said one of the others, appealing to his Prior. ‘It is
entirely irrelevant, and we decided Brother Michael would have a better chance of catching the killer if the waters were not
muddied by what we know.’

‘What is it?’ demanded Michael. ‘I am quite capable of deciding what is and what is not relevant to a murder investigation.
I was solving crimes such as this while you were still mewling and puking on your mothers’ knees.’

That was not strictly true. Michael had held his appointment as Proctor only since the plague, although he had been an agent
of the Bishop of Ely before that.

‘What is all this about?’ demanded Lincolne, growing impatient. ‘What are you not telling Brother Michael?’

‘There is a tunnel,’ said Horneby unhappily. ‘It allows us to come and go as we please. Of course, we use it very rarely,’
he added when he saw Lincolne’s jaw drop in horror.

‘A tunnel?’ demanded Lincolne, appalled. ‘What do you think this is? Some dungeon where prisoners must dig for their freedom?’

‘We did not make it,’ said Horneby defensively. ‘It has been here for hundreds of years – ever since our Order moved to Cambridge,
in fact.’

‘That was in 1290,’ Timothy pointed out pedantically. ‘The Carmelites were granted land in Milne Street in 1290 by the Archdeacon
of York, which is why Humphrey de Lecton was buried here. It was certainly not hundreds of years ago.’

‘Well, it has been here a long time,’ said Horneby, dismissive of such details. ‘Each year, new students are shown the tunnel,
then made to swear an oath that they will never tell anyone about it. The masters are never informed.’

‘Why did you not mention this before?’ demanded Michael angrily. ‘You must see that this has a bearing on our enquiries. It
explains how Faricius left the friary without using the gates.’

Horneby cast a nervous glance at his Prior. ‘No masters are ever told, and you have always questioned us when Prior Lincolne
was present. And anyway, Walcote knew about it. We assumed he would tell you.’

‘Walcote is dead,’ said Michael harshly. ‘And why are you so sure that he knew, anyway?’

‘He caught Simon Lynne using it a few days ago,’ replied Horneby reluctantly. ‘He was furious, and ordered us to close up
the entrance immediately. He said he would return in a week, and if it were not blocked, he would report all of us to Prior
Lincolne.’

‘And I assume he did not?’ asked Michael.

‘He died,’ explained Horneby. ‘The week expired today. We were going to obey him, but when we learned he was dead, we saw
we would not have to. You clearly did not know about it, or you would have guessed how Faricius left the
friary on the day he was murdered. Walcote was as good as his word when he promised to tell no one if we did as he ordered.’

‘That is outrageous!’ exploded Lincolne, his topknot trembling with anger. ‘Such a tunnel is a breach in our security, and
it was extremely foolish of you to keep it from me.’

‘But we have not always been at loggerheads with our rival Orders,’ Horneby pointed out. ‘It is only a security problem if
we are under attack, and that has not happened until recently.’

Lincolne favoured him with an icy glare. ‘Perhaps that is so during the few months that you have graced us with your presence.
But in past years there have been nasty incidents – perhaps not with other Orders, but with the Colleges and the hostels –
where such a tunnel might have been very dangerous for us. Where is the damned thing, anyway?’

Horneby walked to the tomb of Humphrey de Lecton and pulled back a nearby tree branch to reveal a sinister black slit.

‘Here it is. You slide through this hole, make your way forward on your hands and knees for about the length of a man, then
a short tunnel leads to the garden of the house next door. You climb the wall, which is lower than ours and easier to scale,
and you are in Milne Street.’

‘I could not fit down that,’ said Michael, eyeing it doubtfully.

‘No,’ agreed Horneby, looking him up and down. ‘It would be much too tight for you. But most of us students have done it at
various times.’

‘Why?’ demanded Lincolne. ‘What would you leave the friary for?’

Horneby had the grace to look sheepish, and one of the younger novices was unable to prevent a nervous giggle escaping from
his lips. Lincolne glowered at him, and the boy shrank backwards in abject embarrassment.

‘To do what most young men do of a night, I imagine,’ said Michael, seeing that none of the student-friars were
prepared to furnish their Prior with an honest answer. ‘The taverns and the town’s women are an enticing proposition compared
to an evening seated in a cold conclave with someone reading from the Bible.’

‘But that is against the University’s rules,’ cried Lincolne, appalled.

‘Yes,’ said Michael dryly. ‘So, I recommend that you seal up this hole before any more of your students clamber through it
and pay the price. But you still have not answered my original question, Horneby. I want to know what Faricius was doing outside
the walls, not how he got there.’

Horneby exchanged more glances with his fellows, some of whom Bartholomew saw were shaking their heads, warning him not to
tell. Michael saw them, too.

‘Enough of this!’ he snapped angrily. ‘Faricius is dead. He was stabbed in the stomach and he bled to death with no priest
present to give him spiritual comfort. It was a brutal, violent end for a man you say was gentle and peace-loving. If his
memory means anything at all to you, you will tell me why he happened to be outside at the wrong time.’