An Order for Death (31 page)

‘Why was he invited, then?’ asked Cynric bluntly. ‘I thought you had lots of brilliant scholars to choose from. At least,
that is what you told Gold Ear.’

‘We do,’ said Michael. ‘But we were obliged to invite a Dominican to speak, because it is their turn. The
Dominicans are short of brilliant scholars at the moment, and Kyrkeby was the best they could offer.’

‘So what did Tynkell suggest Kyrkeby should speak about instead of nominalism?’ asked Bartholomew curiously.

Michael’s grin widened. ‘The possibility of life on other planets. And that is the lecture Heytesbury will be obliged to give.
Can you imagine a great man like Heytesbury discussing such a ridiculous topic? And it was Richard who arranged it – he told
us so himself! Gold Ear will not be popular when Heytesbury learns that he is obliged to talk about civilisation on Mars!’

While Bartholomew, Michael and Cynric waited impatiently, Agatha gave her undivided attention to Kyrkeby’s body, dipping frequently
into a basket filled to the brim with mysterious phials and packages. When she finished, she covered the body with a sheet
to protect it from the driving rain, but declined to allow them to inspect her handiwork, claiming that tampering with the
sheet might spoil her efforts. Beadle Meadowman, who always seemed to be conveniently close when Michael needed him, took
one corner of the coffin, while Cynric, Sergeant Orwelle from the Castle and Bartholomew took the other. Then Michael led
the procession at a suitably sombre pace out of the church and towards the Dominican Friary on Hadstock Way.

‘This is rough wood,’ complained Orwelle, jiggling the coffin as he tried to find a better grip. ‘Can St Michael’s not afford
a decent parish coffin? Lord knows, with you scholars murdering each other all the time, it would certainly get some use.
I have a splinter already.’

‘A splinter?’ echoed Cynric in disbelief. ‘I thought you were at the battle of Crécy, lad. What is a splinter compared to
arrows, lances and broadswords?’

‘I did not have to endure arrows, lances and broadswords,’ replied Orwelle tartly. ‘I was an archer. I shot at other people;
they did not shoot at me. This splinter hurts!’

‘Brother Timothy was at Crécy,’ said Cynric admiringly.

‘He was a captain under the Black Prince, and apparently fought very bravely. That is why it is good that the University made
him Junior Proctor: a post like that needs a soldier, not just a cleric.’

‘Not necessarily,’ said Michael coolly, fixing Cynric with a look intended to remind him that some clerics made very good
proctors.

‘Damn this useless chunk of wood!’ swore Cynric suddenly. ‘Now
I
have a splinter!’

‘Be quiet,’ ordered Michael. ‘The whole point of delaying the return of Kyrkeby’s body to the Dominicans was so that our respectful
treatment of it will mollify them and prevent them from marching on the Carmelites. Do not spoil it by chattering like magpies
as we walk.’

‘We were speaking softly,’ said Orwelle, stung. ‘And Kyrkeby would not have minded, anyway; he was a charming fellow. Not
like that Richard Stanmore, who is too important to pass the time of day with the fathers of his old friends.’

‘Richard has only been home a few days, yet half the town seems to dislike him already,’ said Bartholomew, wishing his kinsman
had made a more agreeable re-entry into Cambridge.

‘We do not like his horse, either,’ Orwelle went on. ‘It kicked over a meat stall in the Market Square yesterday, and this
morning it bit the Franciscan Warden.’

‘Warden Pechem is back in Cambridge, is he?’ mused Michael. ‘Good. Now we can ask him why he attended Walcote’s meetings.’

‘Black Bishop bit Warden Pechem?’ asked Bartholomew, appalled. ‘What did Richard do?’

‘He told Pechem that if he wanted medical attention, he should summon you,’ replied Orwelle. ‘He said you would treat him
free of charge, whereas Robin of Grantchester and Father Lynton of Peterhouse would make him pay.’

‘There is Master Kenyngham, free from his Easter vigil,’ said Michael suddenly, stopping the procession and pointing.

‘Speak to him about his role in these meetings now,’ advised Bartholomew, watching the familiar figure of the former Master
of Michaelhouse walk dreamily along the High Street. Such was Kenyngham’s other-worldliness that Bartholomew noticed the hem
of his pale habit was black with the mud through which he had unwittingly ploughed. ‘He may start another vigil, and you could
find you have to wait until Easter Day for your information.’

‘Who is this?’ asked Kenyngham, looking at the coffin as he walked towards them. His halo of white fluffy hair blew gently
in the wind, like a dandelion clock.

‘Kyrkeby of the Dominicans,’ said Michael. ‘Did you know him?’

Kenyngham nodded sadly. ‘I suppose his weak heart must have failed him. But he now rests with God, in a better place than
us.’

‘He is in a cheap coffin covered with one of Agatha’s old sheets,’ said Orwelle, genuinely puzzled. ‘How is that better than
us?’

‘I was referring to his soul,’ said Kenyngham mildly. ‘It is with God and His saints, which is where we will all be soon.’

‘Not too soon, I hope,’ muttered Cynric, indicating to the others that they should begin walking again and that Michael could
catch them up when he had finished with Kenyngham.

But Kenyngham stood in front of them, inadvertently blocking their way so they were forced to stop, and then began a prayer
that looked set to expand to a full requiem mass. Cynric and Meadowman shifted hands uncomfortably as the dead weight began
to pull on their arms, and Bartholomew prodded Michael with his foot. Michael shrugged helplessly, not sure what to do in
the face of such sincerity.

‘I am going to drop this,’ Orwelle said in a loud whisper. ‘Tell him to hurry.’

‘Prayers for the dead are our sacred duty,’ said Kenyngham gently, admonishing the impatient soldier. ‘We
must never rush our time with God. But perhaps I should walk with you, and we can pray as we go.’

‘Good idea,’ said Michael quickly, taking his arm and pulling him forward. ‘Having you with us will certainly add favourably
to the kind of impression I intend to make on the Dominicans. But first I would like to ask you some questions. You can pray
in a moment.’

‘What sort of questions?’ asked Kenyngham nervously. ‘It is not about securing my vote for scouring the latrines twice a year
instead of once, is it? That is for Matthew and Langelee to sort out between them.’

Michael raised an imperious finger to prevent Bartholomew from pursuing a matter that was very close to his heart – Michaelhouse’s
drains were cleaner than most in Cambridge, but they still did not reach the physician’s exacting standards. ‘Why did you
meet my Junior Proctor and others at St Radegund’s Convent?’ he demanded of Kenyngham.

Kenyngham stared at him. ‘How do you know about that?’

‘How I know is not important. What were you discussing that warranted you walking all the way out there in the dark? And why
to such a place?’

Kenyngham shuddered. ‘It was like a foretaste of hell! I went perhaps five times, and on my last visit, that wicked woman
tried to manhandle me.’

‘I heard about that,’ said Michael, and Bartholomew sensed he was struggling to maintain his sombre composure while his fertile
imagination produced an image of Kenyngham wrestling with Tysilia. ‘But why were you there in the first place?’

‘I cannot tell you,’ said Kenyngham.

‘Why not?’ demanded Michael, peeved that Kenyngham should refuse to reveal what he was sure had a bearing on the case he was
struggling to solve.

‘Because I promised I would not,’ said Kenyngham simply. ‘And now I must pray for—’

‘Walcote was murdered, Master Kenyngham,’ said Michael
harshly. ‘Someone hanged him from a drainpipe. And in order to find out who did such a monstrous thing, and to prevent it
from happening again, I need to know why you and various others met him at St Radegund’s.’

‘I took an oath,’ said Kenyngham. ‘I cannot reveal what I know, however much I may wish to.’

‘But there is a killer at large,’ protested Michael in frustration. ‘What is more important – your promise or a life?’

‘A promise before God is a sacred thing and cannot be broken,’ replied Kenyngham with finality. ‘And now, if you will forgive
me, there is a soul that needs my attention.’ He clasped his hands, bowed his head and gave himself entirely to praying for
Kyrkeby.

‘He is so annoying when he does that,’ muttered Michael to Bartholomew irritably, casting a venomous glower at the saintly
Gilbertine. ‘How can he expect me to stand by and see my colleagues slaughtered by some maniac, just because
he
has sworn an oath?’

‘We are here,’ said Bartholomew, looking up at the great gates of the Dominican Friary. ‘Perhaps now we shall have some answers.
We can ask Morden about these meetings, since Kenyngham will not tell us.’

Michael rapped hard on the gate, until it was answered by a lay-brother, who immediately agreed to fetch his Prior when he
saw what they had brought. They saw him intercept Morden on his way to the chapel, then watched the tiny Prior rush across
the muddy yard towards them with Ringstead and Bulmer at his heels. Morden’s face turned white when he saw the coffin; meanwhile
Kenyngham prayed on, oblivious to the consternation and alarm that was ballooning around him.

‘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.’