An Order for Death (51 page)

‘Is this what you were hoping to find, Matthew?’ asked Janius pleasantly, holding aloft a sheaf of parchment. ‘Here is Faricius’s
essay. I assume that is what you were looking for?’

Timothy closed the door behind them, a hefty broadsword in one hand. ‘Do not even think of howling for help, Doctor. If you
so much as try, I will kill you.’

For several moments, Bartholomew was too shocked to speak. He looked from the pile of parchments that Janius held, to Timothy’s
amiable face with its ready smile. Behind Timothy, Janius’s blue eyes, which usually gleamed with the light of religious fervour,
now seemed cold and sinister.

‘How did you know I was here?’ asked Bartholomew, trying to keep his voice steady and not to look at the monstrous sword that
Timothy brandished with practised ease.

Janius continued to grin. ‘We expected you yesterday, but we knew you would come sooner or later. We have been waiting.’

‘But how did you know?’ asked Bartholomew again.

‘We met Simon Lynne strolling along the High Street last night,’ said Janius. ‘He was under the impression that he was safe,
but he told us all about your suspicions before we killed him and hid him in the tunnel so conveniently vacated by Kyrkeby.
It was a squeeze, given that the thing has collapsed, but it will do for now.’

Bartholomew gazed at him. The intense blue gaze was just as sincere when he talked about murder, as it had been when he had
talked about his God. The physician tried to suppress a shudder.

‘I see you found my well-laundered black cloak,’ said Timothy, nodding at the garment that lay on the floor.

‘I found the grey one you stole from Pechem, too,’ said Bartholomew.

‘And the scrips that belonged to Kyrkeby and Faricius,’ said Janius, looking at the two purses that lay on the table. ‘Timothy
took them, so that Michael would believe that some passing outlaw was at work, murdering men for the contents of their purses.
It would have worked, if you had not insisted on looking for other motives.’

‘You took Walcote’s scrip and left it near Barnwell Priory for Sergeant Orwelle to find,’ said Bartholomew, looking hard at
Janius. ‘You had it in the basket you claimed was filled with food for the lepers. But the lepers received no food from you
that day – or any other day this Lent.’

‘We have been feeding the riverfolk,’ said Janius, offended that his good works were being questioned. ‘We cannot provide
for the whole town, and it has been a hard winter, even for us.’

‘You took Faricius’s essay from Paul yesterday,’ said Bartholomew, more bravely than he felt. ‘But only after you raided the
Dominicans, Michaelhouse and the Barnwell Priory to look for it. You stole a glove when you burgled the Dominican Friary,
and left it at Michaelhouse, so that we would accuse Morden of the crime.’

‘I was surprised you fell for that,’ said Janius, exchanging an amused glance with Timothy. ‘You must have seen that
neither of us was small enough to be Morden when you tussled with us. Why did you allow Michael to believe it?’

‘He believed it because of the way the other glove dropped from the rafter when Michael slammed open Morden’s door,’ said
Timothy gloatingly. ‘I flung it up there in the hope that Michael would see it “hidden”, but when it fell to the ground so
conveniently – as if God Himself wanted you to see it – it made Morden appear more guilty than ever.’

‘Janius spoke to Father Paul,’ said Bartholomew, more interested in the raid on the Franciscan Friary than in how Timothy
had laid false evidence against Morden. He watched Timothy test the blade of his sword with his thumb. It came away smeared
with blood, indicating that it was very sharp. ‘Timothy kept silent, because he knew Paul would recognise his voice, while
Janius demanded the essay.’

Janius inclined his head to indicate that Bartholomew had guessed correctly. ‘Obviously Paul could not see us, but we know
his powers of observation are greater than those of many sighted men. We acted accordingly. As long as I never have cause
to speak to him, he will never know our paths have crossed.’

‘If you spared Paul, why did you kill Arbury?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering whether he could shout and still evade the wicked
blade Timothy wielded. He realised it would be hopeless. Timothy had been a soldier, and it had probably not been an empty
boast when he promised to run Bartholomew through if he called for help. ‘There was no need to murder the lad.’

‘He recognised me,’ explained Timothy. ‘He addressed me by name, and politely offered to extract Michael from Langelee’s chamber,
even though I had my hood pulled well over my eyes. We had a choice: we could abandon the notion of searching Michael’s room
and fabricate some excuse as to why we were there, or we could continue with what we had planned.’

‘So, you chose the second option,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And you left Arbury to die.’

‘It was a pity,’ said Timothy. ‘But there is more at stake here than the life of a student.’

‘Such as what?’ demanded Bartholomew, realising that even if he did manage to shout for help before he died, the other monks
would merely applaud Timothy for protecting them against someone who had just forced a window to gain entry to their hostel.
‘What is more important than human lives?’

‘The University,’ said Timothy immediately. ‘It transcends all of us. We will be dead within a few years – sooner in your
case – but the University will still be here for centuries to come.’

‘Not if it has people like you in it,’ said Bartholomew, startled by the monk’s claim. ‘The King will not want a University
that is in the control of murderers and thieves.’

‘You are wrong,’ said Janius smoothly. ‘He needs the University to produce educated men to be his lawyers, secretaries and
spies. He will not care what we do as long as we continue to provide him with what he wants. But we had a Senior Proctor who
gave away University property to promote his personal ambition, and a Junior Proctor who was weak and ineffectual.’

‘Had?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily. ‘Michael has not gone anywhere.’

‘Not yet,’ said Timothy. ‘But his days as Senior Proctor are numbered. I will take that position soon, and I shall appoint
Janius as my deputy.’

‘Is that why you murdered Walcote?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Because you want to be proctors?’

‘Why do
you
think we killed Walcote?’ asked Janius, giving the impression that he was merely amusing himself at Bartholomew’s expense.
Bartholomew wondered how he ever could have imagined that the monk was a good man, when the glint in his eyes was so patently
cruel and cold.

Bartholomew spoke quickly, seeing that the longer he could engage their interest, the longer he would live, although a nagging
fear at the back of his mind told him
that he was merely delaying the inevitable. ‘Lynne said he heard Walcote shouting at Kyrkeby until he had a fatal seizure
and died. Lynne also heard “beadles” reminding Walcote of his appointment as Junior Proctor, and urging him to force the truth
about the stolen essay from Kyrkeby. No beadles would have done such a thing. The “beadles” were you.’

‘Quite right,’ said Janius patronisingly. ‘Walcote was going to let that murdering Kyrkeby go, and was quite willing to believe
the lying scoundrel when he said he did not have the essay.’

‘And did he have it?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Of course he did,’ replied Janius scornfully. ‘When we pressed him, he admitted that he had been loitering around the Carmelite
Friary, hoping to find one of Faricius’s friends, so that he could return it. He claimed he should not have stolen it, and
wanted to give it back. Foolish man!’

‘This happened on Monday night,’ said Bartholomew. ‘By then, Chancellor Tynkell had decided to change the topic of Kyrkeby’s
lecture, so Kyrkeby would not have needed Faricius’s essay anyway. He did not know it, but he killed Faricius for nothing.’

‘Walcote’s interrogation was pathetic,’ said Timothy in disgust. ‘Kyrkeby expected us to believe that he found Faricius already
stabbed, and all he did was take his scrip.’

‘So, Kyrkeby handed Walcote the essay, but then his weak heart killed him,’ said Bartholomew. ‘What happened next?’

‘Walcote offered to distract patrolling beadles, so that Timothy and I could hide Kyrkeby’s corpse without being seen,’ said
Janius resentfully. ‘We should never have trusted him. We were furious when we realised that he had taken the essay.’

‘So furious, that you broke Kyrkeby’s neck and smashed his skull when you hid the body?’

‘No,’ said Timothy. ‘That was not our fault. The tunnel collapsed on him.’

‘But why was Walcote prepared to hide Kyrkeby’s body in the first place?’ asked Bartholomew, puzzled. ‘Why not just say that
Kyrkeby’s heart had failed?’

‘We told Walcote that he would hang for murder if he tried that,’ said Janius smugly. ‘We said we should dispose of the body,
so he recommended using the tunnel he had discovered earlier. Timothy climbed through it, pulling the body behind him.’

‘I reached the other side, and was in the process of dragging Kyrkeby after me when the tunnel caved in,’ explained Timothy.
‘I suppose a combination of exceptionally wet weather and having a heavy object dragged through it caused it to collapse.
Unfortunately, I then found myself on the wrong side of the Carmelite Friary walls.’

‘How did you escape?’ asked Bartholomew, glancing at the small window to assess whether he could hurl himself through it before
Timothy reached him. He could not: it was too small and he knew Timothy would get him before he even turned.

‘Walcote obligingly fetched a rope from St Mary’s Church,’ said Timothy. ‘He always did what he was told. He threw it to me,
and I was able to climb out.’

‘And, of course, it came in useful to hang him with,’ said Janius, chillingly cold.

‘I am confused,’ said Bartholomew, glancing at the door and realising that his chances of reaching it before Timothy acted
were even less than an escape through the window. ‘You killed once to gain possession of the essay, and you killed again because
you wanted rid of Walcote. Which was more important – obtaining the essay or being appointed as proctors?’

‘One led nicely to the other,’ said Timothy. ‘Faricius’s essay is a brilliant piece of logic that no one has yet seen, because
his narrow-minded Order forced him to keep his ideas hidden. But now he is dead, there is no reason why Janius and I cannot
take credit for them. Blind Paul
obviously has not read the essay and Lynne is dead, so no one will ever be able to prove that Faricius wrote what we will
claim as our work.’

‘It will make us rich,’ said Janius smugly, ‘and we will be able to use the wealth that will accrue to spread the word of
God among disbelievers. If the world does not mend its wicked ways, the plague will come again. It is my intention to prevent
that.’

‘And is that why you want to become proctors?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Because such positions of power will enable you to force
your own rigid religious views on people?’

Janius’s blue eyes were hard. ‘It will be for their own good. If we do not want God to send another Great Pestilence, we must
act now. Walcote was too weak, and Michael is a debauched glutton who is more interested in making suspect deals with Oxford
than in safeguarding the spiritual well-being of the University. Neither was fit to be a proctor.’

Bartholomew gazed at him. ‘Walcote uncovered a plot to kill Michael at Christmas: your plot.’

‘Unrealised plot, unfortunately,’ said Janius. ‘That stupid beadle drank so much with the money we paid him to deliver our
message to a hired assassin, that he fell into a puddle and drowned. Walcote found the document, and started to investigate.
It was me who suggested that it would be kinder not to tell Michael about it.’

‘And, as everyone knows, Walcote could be made to agree to anything,’ added Timothy. ‘When Janius said sharing such information
would only upset Michael, he immediately agreed to keep it from him.’

‘Walcote told the men who attended his nocturnal meetings, though,’ said Janius, peeved. ‘I have no idea who told him to hold
those gatherings, but I am sure they were not his own idea.’

‘They were,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He paid for St Radegund’s room with money he had seized from Master Wilson’s broken effigy.
He believed he was acting in the best interests of the University.’

‘And look what he did,’ said Janius in disgust. ‘He encouraged the two factions in the realism–nominalism debate to argue
with each other more fiercely than ever. The issue would never have become so violent if he had not provided a forum for like-minded
men to whip each other into a frenzy. Stupid man!’

‘It did work in our favour, though,’ said Timothy thoughtfully. ‘It showed all those scholars that Walcote was acting behind
Michael’s back, and that Michael was too incompetent to prevent it.’

‘Then why
kill
Walcote?’ asked Bartholomew, rubbing a hand through his hair. He was finding the discussion exhausting, and was not sure
how much longer he could keep it up. And why should he try anyway? Help would not be coming. Even if Cynric thought he was
taking too long, there would be little the book-bearer could do. ‘Why not wait until someone complained that Walcote was not
the man for the job? Michael said his days as Junior Proctor were numbered.’

‘This business with Oxford forced us to act sooner,’ said Janius. ‘We do not approve of it.’

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Michael plans to use the information from Heytesbury to Cambridge’s advantage.’

‘No,’ said Janius. ‘He wants to use the information to ensure he will dine on good cheese and fresh butter for the rest of
his days. Imagine how it will look when word spreads that the Benedictine Order dispenses with University property for the
good of its stomach.’

‘Michael may have allowed people to believe that personal greed is his motive, but I can assure you it is not,’ said Bartholomew.
‘He was simply trying to fool Heytesbury into thinking he had the better end of the bargain. And it worked. Heytesbury signed
the deed today.’