An Order for Death (35 page)

‘She did try to seduce Kenyngham,’ said Michael, chuckling at the thought.

‘The nuns need the money she brings, and Eve cannot afford to lose it,’ said Langelee, ignoring him. ‘Still, I suppose the
Bishop is unlikely to find anywhere else that will take such a brazen whore, so perhaps he will turn a blind eye to the situation
for a while longer yet.’

Bartholomew stared into the flames of the fire, thinking about what they had learned. ‘If Walcote was killed because he came
too close to discovering Michael’s would-be killer, then we have a smaller list of suspects than ever. Morden claims the murder
was discussed at the meetings he attended; Kenyngham claims it was not.’

‘Kenyngham would never lie,’ said Langelee, settling back in his chair with his wine. ‘The poor man would not know how. I
cannot imagine how he has managed to live to such a ripe old age by telling the truth, but there we are.’

‘His ripe old age almost ended when he refused to tell me what passed during these gatherings,’ said Michael resentfully.
He raised Bartholomew’s overfilled cup to his lips with a steady hand that did not spill a drop.

‘We should return to the Carmelite Friary tomorrow,’ said Bartholomew, taking his cup from Michael, much to the monk’s annoyance.
Langelee had provided a decent brew. ‘I am not yet convinced that they are innocent of Kyrkeby’s death. Perhaps they murdered
him, and then killed Walcote because he heard or saw something on his patrols.’

‘Why do you think that?’ asked Langelee.

‘The timing,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Kyrkeby was last seen on Monday evening, while we know that Walcote was killed just after
dusk on the same day. Perhaps one witnessed the death of the other, and was murdered to ensure his silence.’

‘That is possible,’ said Michael, thoughtfully. ‘And do not forget that Simon Lynne fled his friary on Monday night, too.
We caught him in St Radegund’s Convent the following morning, pretending to visit his “aunt”.’

‘It seems a lot happened on Monday night,’ mused Langelee, voicing what Bartholomew had remarked upon at Faricius’s funeral,
when Lincolne had told them that Lynne had gone. ‘Kyrkeby and Lynne disappeared and Walcote died.’

‘Very true,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But I am more concerned with catching the person who may have designs on Michael’s life than
I am in looking for missing scholars.’

‘Walcote found that note three months ago,’ said Michael dismissively. ‘So, why should the killer strike now? It is entirely
possible that Smyth’s death made him realise that murder is not an easy thing to do properly, and he decided to abandon the
plan.’

‘Or perhaps the plan is already in action, and Walcote was killed because he stumbled on it,’ countered Bartholomew. ‘I do
not understand why you seem so unperturbed about it.’

‘Because there is nothing I can do, so what is the point
in worrying?’ replied Michael. ‘This is an excellent brew, Langelee. Is there any more of it? Matt seems to have taken mine.’

Bartholomew excused himself from Langelee’s room when the conversation degenerated into boastful accounts of Michael and Langelee’s
past lives. Bartholomew had heard the stories before, and did not want to spend the rest of the evening listening to wildly
exaggerated adventures that painted Michael and Langelee in ever more flattering light, so he returned to his own room to
work on his treatise on fevers.

He had not been writing for long, although his eyes were already beginning to close as the unsteady light of a candle made
him drowsy, and he was considering beginning the unpleasant transition from a cold room to a colder bed, when there was a
knock at the door and Cynric entered.

‘I thought I would find you awake,’ the Welshman said softly, so as not to wake Suttone and his students, who occupied the
room opposite. ‘I was just leaving home for the vigil in St Mary’s Church, when I met blind Father Paul, who used to be a
Fellow at Michaelhouse.’

‘What was he doing out at this time of night?’ asked Bartholomew in surprise, thinking about the kindly Franciscan who had
been so popular with the students. ‘He is too old to be roaming the streets so long after the curfew bell has sounded.’

‘He claims his blindness means that he is better equipped for wandering around in the dark than the others, and that by delivering
any night-time messages he can serve his community in a way that no one else can.’

‘What did he want?’ asked Bartholomew, knowing that the friar was proud of his blindness and the fact that he felt it gave
him an advantage over other men. ‘And where is he?’

‘Waiting by the gate,’ said Cynric. ‘He says Warden Pechem needs a physician.’

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew, reaching for his cloak and slinging his medicine bag over his shoulder. Then he recalled what Sergeant
Orwelle had mentioned earlier that day. ‘It is nothing to do with being bitten by Richard’s horse, is it?’

Cynric grinned. ‘Apparently, the wound is sore. He was urged to send for you earlier, but he declined because he was afraid
that the Dominicans would hear about it and make fun of him.’

But Bartholomew knew the real reason why Pechem had dallied: he had lied to Michael about being at Walcote’s meetings, and
was now reluctant to talk to Bartholomew lest the physician also demanded some answers. That knowledge made Bartholomew even
more determined to prise the truth from the Warden of the Franciscans.

He followed Cynric across the yard and out of the gate, where Father Paul was a pale grey shape in the darkness. The blind
friar turned and smiled when he heard two sets of footsteps approaching him. Bartholomew took his arm and they began to walk
towards the High Street, with Cynric slipping soundlessly in and out of the shadows behind them, watching over them like some
dark guardian angel.

‘Warden Pechem will be pleased to see you,’ said Paul. ‘He is in pain.’

‘Bitten by a horse,’ mused Cynric, fighting not to smile.

‘It was not his fault,’ said Paul defensively. ‘He was lecturing to a group of novices in the Market Square, using his hands
to illustrate the point, as is his wont …’

‘He is like a windmill,’ confirmed Cynric. ‘Arms wheeling around like sails in the wind.’

‘… and one of his hands came too near that horrible beast that Richard Stanmore uses to transport himself around a town
where no distance is too great to walk.’

‘I take it you disapprove of the Black Bishop of Bedminster?’ asked Bartholomew mildly.

Paul nodded grimly. ‘The name suits it – overly large and unmanageable. Richard did not even apologise. A group of
Dominicans witnessed the incident, and he merely joined in their mirth.’

‘Oxford manners,’ said Cynric disapprovingly. ‘I remember how rude they were when I was there. People are far more gentle
here.’

Bartholomew was sure he was wrong: he recalled very little difference between the rowdy, belligerent scholars he had known
at Oxford and the rowdy, belligerent scholars he now knew at Cambridge.

They strode briskly up the High Street, where Paul proved that his memory of the larger potholes and ruts was better than
Bartholomew’s ability to peer into the gloom, and then turned right towards Bridge Street. The Church of All Saints in the
Jewry loomed out of the darkness, and Bartholomew saw the glimmer of light from the candles that had been lit by the vigil-keepers
within. Low voices murmured, some of them raised in a chant that rose and fell rhythmically. A pile of rubble lay to one side,
where part of the tower had collapsed and its owners – the nuns of St Radegund’s Convent – could not afford to have it repaired.

On the left was the dark mass of St John’s Hospital, where lamps gleamed under the fastened shutters, and shadows moved back
and forth as the friars tended their charges. Next to it was a noisy tavern called the Swan, and Sergeant Orwelle happened
to reel out of it as they passed. As the soldier struggled to close the door, Bartholomew glimpsed the smelly cosiness within.
He was surprised to see Richard and Heytesbury sitting at a table near the fire, raising slopping goblets in a drunken salute
to the surgeon Robin of Grantchester. Heytesbury’s face was flushed and he looked happy and healthy, although Richard seemed
pale. Their effusive camaraderie with their companions indicated that they had been enjoying the tavern’s ale for some time.
Bartholomew thought his nephew looked seedy now that he was halfway through his second night of debauchery in a row, and he
admired Heytesbury for his energy and dedication to his carousing.

Orwelle finally succeeded in closing the door, and the street was plunged into darkness again; the peace was then shattered
by the sound of the soldier’s slurred singing. Bartholomew, Cynric and Paul walked on, passing the Round Church, which stood
short and sturdy with its little lantern tower perched on top. Suddenly, a figure darted out of the blackness surrounding
the graveyard and snatched at Bartholomew’s arm. The physician yelped in alarm, while a quick rasping sound indicated that
Cynric had drawn his sword and was preparing to use it.

‘The owls saw them,’ hissed Clippesby wildly, gripping Bartholomew’s wrist so tightly that it hurt. ‘They told me to warn
you.’

‘Damned lunatic,’ muttered Cynric testily, sheathing his weapon and glancing uneasily up and down the street. ‘What is he
doing out? I thought Langelee had locked him in his room.’

‘I speak to the beasts of the night,’ raved Clippesby. ‘The owls and the bats and the unicorns.’

‘Take him home, Cynric,’ said Bartholomew, freeing his arm and feeling the fluttering panic in his stomach begin to subside.
‘And make sure he cannot escape again – stay with him, if you have to. He may harm himself when he is like this.’

‘He had better not try to harm me,’ said Cynric sternly, grabbing Clippesby by the hood and beginning to march him away down
the High Street. ‘Or I shall see that his days with bats and unicorns are numbered.’

‘The poor man,’ said Paul with compassion, when the sound of Clippesby’s deluded ranting had faded into the night. ‘He is
quite mad.’

Bartholomew took Paul’s arm and guided him the short distance to the Franciscan Friary. ‘You do not know anything about secret
meetings held in St Radegund’s Convent, do you?’ he asked, as they waited for their knock to be answered, suspecting that
Paul did not, but deciding he should question anyone who might have snippets of information, given
that Michael’s life might be at stake. The blind friar was disconcertingly perceptive, and it was possible he had heard something
pertinent in his friary.

‘No,’ came the disappointing reply. ‘Is it connected to the murders of Walcote and Faricius?’

‘Possibly. Have you heard anything about those that may help us?’

Paul shook his head. ‘But I knew Faricius. Were you aware that he was writing an essay defending nominalism? I think his room-mates
knew, but they are unlikely to mention it, and his Prior was certainly not party to this information.’

‘So how do you know?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I thought you Franciscans, like Carmelites, were of the opinion that nominalism
is heresy.’

‘They are in general,’ said Paul. ‘But the Franciscan Order has not yet reached the point where it informs its members precisely
which philosophical tenets they should embrace. Personally, I lean towards nominalism, although I do not feel it is wise to
discuss it with my colleagues at the moment. This silly row will soon die down, and then we will all begin to see sense again.’

‘And Faricius talked to you about nominalism?’ asked Bartholomew. He closed his eyes, disgusted with himself as he realised
the answer to that question was staring him in the face. When the dying Faricius had learned that his scrip was missing, he
had asked Bartholomew to find it and hand it to Father Paul. And the Carmelite students had mentioned that Faricius had sought
other nominalists in the University, including Paul.

Paul’s opaque eyes were curiously glassy in the lamplight. ‘Faricius attended a lecture on nominalism I gave last year, and
he came to ask if we could discuss it. We discovered that we shared similar ideas, and he regularly read parts of his essay
to me.’

‘How long was it? His friends mentioned it, but I have no idea of its size.’

Paul turned his blind eyes on Bartholomew. ‘Obviously, I
never saw it, but I imagine it ran to several large pieces of parchment. It was of a very high quality, too: well argued
and concise. It would have become a standard text in time.’

‘It was that good?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I thought it was just an undergraduate analysis of the ideas proposed by Heytesbury.’

‘Faricius’s work was original and clever. He would have been a great scholar, had he lived.’

‘Do you know where this essay is?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Faricius kept it under a stone in the churchyard of St John Zachary. His friends Simon Lynne or Horneby will tell you where
to look.’

‘Lynne has fled,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But Horneby said the essay is missing.’

‘How dreadful,’ said Paul. ‘I hope it comes to light. I can recall some of his arguments, but Faricius had a writing style
that was beautifully concise. I could never hope to emulate it accurately.’

‘When he was dying, he asked me to find his scrip and to bring it to you,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He wanted you to have his essay.
What would you have done with it?’

Paul was moved by this, and tears spilled from his eyes and made their way down his leathery cheeks. ‘I would have kept it
safe until this latest bout of bickering is over and we all have regained our senses. And then I would have had it read at
one of the University lectures, so that our greatest scholars would be able to appreciate the purity of his logic and the
clarity of his writing.’

A lay-brother came to open the gate, and Bartholomew followed Paul across a courtyard and up some stairs to where Prior Pechem
occupied a pleasant suite of rooms that were located above a barrel-vaulted storeroom. The physician looked around him as
he entered the Warden’s quarters. Like the leaders of the other Orders in Cambridge, the head of the Franciscans knew how
to look after himself. Thick rugs spared him the unpleasantness of placing bare feet on the flagged floor, while tapestries
adorned with exotic birds
and plants meant that he was not obliged to stare at bare walls. There was a large bed heaped with furs near the window.