An Order for Death (32 page)

‘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granted, but could just as easily be withdrawn.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 lecture 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.’

‘I know of no Carmelite essay, though,’ said Ringstead. ‘We use William Heytesbury’s books for our lectures, not essays by
unknown authors.’

‘Thank you for your help,’ said Michael, preparing to leave. He exchanged a glance with Bartholomew, who knew he wanted to
quiz Morden about his nocturnal meetings at St Radegund’s Convent but was reluctant to broach the subject and risk alerting
Morden that he was investigating them. Bartholomew racked his brain for ways to introduce the topic, but Michael gave a small
shake of his head, afraid that Morden would simply deny the accusation and promptly warn his associates that the Senior Proctor
had wind of their dealings.

‘Do not forget to collect Master Kenyngham on your way out,’ said Morden, scrambling down from his chair to prevent Michael
from opening the door. He was too late, and it crashed against the wall, so hard that he winced. ‘And take Clippesby with
you, too.’

‘I am leaving now anyway,’ said Clippesby, following Michael. ‘It is kind of you to be concerned for my safety in these times
of unrest, Father Prior, but you have no need to worry.’