‘I am still worried about Adam,’ he said, fiddling with the cover on his basket of food for the lepers. ‘He claims he feels better, and our prayers help, of course, but sometimes he seems so frail.’
‘He is old,’ said Bartholomew matter-of-factly. ‘I can ease his symptoms, but he will never be well again.’
Janius gave a startled laugh. ‘You do not mince your words, Matthew! I was expecting some comfort, not a bleak prediction. Have you no faith that God will work a cure if we pray hard enough?’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew practically. ‘Adam is almost eighty years old, and the wetness in his lungs will become progressively worse, not better. Such ailments are common in men of his age, and there is only one way it will end.’
Janius shook his head and gave Bartholomew a pitying glance. ‘Yours must be a very sad existence if you place no hope in miracles.’
‘My experience tells me that miracles are rare. It is better to assume that they will not happen.’
‘You should pray with us at Ely Hall,’ said Janius, patting Bartholomew’s arm sympathetically. ‘You strike me as a man who needs to understand God.’
‘Right,’ said Bartholomew vaguely, determined not to engage in a theological debate with a man whose eyes were already gleaming with the fervour of one who senses a challenge worthy of his religious attentions. He knew from personal experience that it was never wise to discuss issues relating to the omnipotence of God with men who had the power to denounce unbelievers as heretics, and he hastily changed the subject before the discussion became dangerous. ‘Do you often deliver eggs to the leper colony?’
Janius seemed taken aback by the sudden change in topics. He tapped Bartholomew’s arm a little harder. ‘Remember my offer, Matthew. It may save your soul from the fires of Hell.’
Bartholomew was relieved when Janius made his farewells, and watched the pious monk walk briskly up the footpath to where the chapel of St Mary Magdalene dominated the huddle of hovels occupied by the lepers. The chapel was a sturdy building, pierced by narrow windows, almost as if its builders did not want the light to shine in on the people inside. The huts were flimsy wooden-framed affairs, with thatched roofs that allowed the smoke from a central hearth to seep out and the rain to seep in. Bartholomew had visited them on many occasions, usually to help Urban, the Austin canon who had dedicated his life to tending those people whom the rest of society had cast out. He saw Janius turn a corner, then ran to catch up with Timothy and Michael.
‘Janius has a good heart,’ said Timothy, who must have had half an ear on the conversation taking place behind him, as well as on Michael’s descriptions of his new duties. ‘His own faith is so strong that he longs for others to be similarly touched. I understand how he feels, although I am less eloquent about it.’
‘Good,’ said Michael fervently. ‘I already wear the cowl, so you have no need to preach to me.’
‘Just because you are a monk does not mean that your faith is not flawed,’ began Timothy immediately, his face serious and intense. ‘I have met many clerics who simply use their habits to advance their own interests here on Earth, with no thoughts of the hereafter.’
‘And doubtless you will meet many more,’ said Michael brusquely. Given what he had told Bartholomew about the reasons most friars came to Cambridge, the physician supposed that Timothy was likely to meet a lot of men who were more interested in the earthly than the spiritual aspects of their existence. ‘But we have arrived. Here is the priory.’
Barnwell Priory was a large institution, and the fact that it stood in the middle of nowhere meant that it had been able to expand as and when its priors had so dictated. Its rambling collection of buildings sprawled along the ridge of a low rise that overlooked the river. It was in a perfect location – close enough to the river for supplies and transport, but high enough to avoid all but the worst of the seasonal floods. A substantial wall and a series of wooden fences protected it from unwanted visitors, although beggars knocking at a small door near the kitchens were often provided with a loaf of bread or a few leftover vegetables.
The conventual church stood next to the road, attached to the chapter house by a cloister of stone. To one side was a two-storeyed house, which comprised the canons’ refectory on the ground floor and their sleeping quarters above. The Prior of Barnwell had his own lodgings in the form of a charming cottage with a red-tiled roof and ivy-clad walls. Smoke curled from its chimney, to be whisked away quickly by the wind. From the nearby kitchens came the sweet, warm scent of newly baked bread.
The canons were at prayer in their chapter house when Bartholomew, Michael and Timothy tapped on the gate and asked to see Walcote’s body. An Austin brother named Nicholas, whom Bartholomew had treated for chilblains all winter, escorted them to a small chantry chapel. He then returned to his duties, while the two canons who kept vigil on either side of Walcote’s coffin, climbed stiffly to their feet, and readily acquiesced to Michael’s request to spend time alone with his Junior Proctor.
The noose around Walcote’s neck had so distorted his features that Bartholomew barely recognised the serious man who had been Michael’s assistant for the past year. His face had darkened, and his eyes were half open and dull beneath swollen lids. A tongue poked between thickened lips, and a trail of dried saliva glistened on his chin. Michael declined to look at him, and retreated to the main body of the church where he pretended to be praying. Hastily following his example, and evidently relieved to be spared the unpleasant task of inspecting a corpse, Timothy went with him.
Suppressing his distaste at submitting to such indignities the body of a man he had known and liked in life, Bartholomew began his examination, using for light the two candles that had been set at the dead man’s head and feet. There was no question at all that Walcote had been strangled. The vivid abrasions around his neck attested to that. Bartholomew turned his attention to the hands, and saw that Michael had been right: more stark circles indicated that Walcote’s hands had been tied, and he had evidently struggled hard, because he had torn the skin in his attempts to free himself. His feet had been tied, too, perhaps to prevent him from kicking out at his killer or killers.
‘What can you tell me?’ called Michael from the shadows of the chancel. ‘Look at his fingernails. You always seem to be able to tell things from nails. And I want to know whether he was hit on the head and stunned. It would be a comfort to know that he was unaware of what happened to him.’
It was a comfort Bartholomew could not give, however, and it was apparent that Walcote had known exactly what someone intended to do to him, because he had struggled. The fact that he had been strangled by the noose, and that it had not broken his neck as was the case in many hangings, suggested it had not been an especially speedy end.
To humour Michael, Bartholomew inspected Walcote’s fingernails, but they told him little. They were broken, which implied that the Junior Proctor had started his bid for freedom before he had been trussed up like a Yuletide chicken. The only odd thing was that there was a sticky, pale yellow residue on one hand, just like the stain Bartholomew had seen on Faricius’s hand. He frowned, wondering what, if anything, it meant. He replaced the shroud, put the dead man’s hands back across his chest as he had found them, and left Walcote in peace. Michael and Timothy followed him out of the shadowy chapel, both clearly glad to be away from the unsettling presence of untimely death in a man they had known. Timothy heaved a shuddering sigh.
‘Nasty,’ he said unsteadily, although Bartholomew was not sure whether he meant the manner of Walcote’s death or the fact that he was now obliged to pay close attention to such matters.
Outside the church, Nicholas was waiting for them, clutching a bundle that he proffered to Michael. ‘These are Will’s clothes,’ he said shyly. ‘He was wearing a habit, a cloak and boots, all of which I removed when his body was brought here. I suppose we should distribute them to the poor, but it is hard to part with this last reminder of him. Will you do it?’
Nicholas swallowed hard. ‘We all liked Will, and were proud that an Austin was a proctor. We hoped he might even become Senior Proctor one day.’ He flushed suddenly, realising that for that to happen, Michael would have to be removed. ‘I am sorry, Brother. I did not mean…’
He trailed off miserably, and Michael patted his shoulder. ‘It is all right. I had hopes for Will’s future, too. He was a good man.’
‘Yes, he was,’ said Nicholas, tears filling his eyes. He gave them a surreptitious scrub with the back of his hand. ‘Laying out his body was the least I could do.’
‘You did that very carefully, but there is still a patch of something yellow on one hand,’ said Bartholomew. ‘What is it, do you know?’
Nicholas sniffed, hugging Walcote’s belongings to him. ‘I have no idea, but it would not wash off. The same substance was on his habit, too. Look.’
He freed a sleeve from the carefully packed bundle, revealing a patch of something that was sticky to the touch, slightly greasy and pale yellow.
‘How much of it was there?’ asked Bartholomew, touching it with his forefinger.
‘Just the patch on his hand and the little bit on his sleeve,’ said Nicholas. ‘It seems to repel water. I borrowed some soap from Prior Ralph, but it still would not come off.’
‘I need to see Ralph,’ said Michael. ‘I have a few questions to ask.’
Nicholas went to fetch him, leaving Bartholomew, Michael and Timothy standing in the cloister alone.
‘What is that stain exactly?’ asked Timothy, bending to touch the residue on the garment Nicholas had put carefully on a stone bench.
‘I have no idea,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘The only other time I have seen it was on Faricius.’
‘So is that why you imagine it to be significant?’ asked Timothy, straightening to look at him. He gave an apologetic grin. ‘Forgive my questions. I am just trying to learn as much from you as I can, so that I can fulfil my new duties. But if you do not know what this yellow slime is, then how can you be sure that Walcote and Faricius did not acquire it quite independently of each other?’
‘I cannot be sure,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But it is a peculiar substance, and I think it odd that it should appear on two corpses that were killed within a couple of days of each other.’
‘But Faricius was stabbed during a riot in broad daylight, and Walcote was hanged in the shadows of dusk,’ pointed out Timothy. ‘I can see nothing that connects them.’
‘You are probably right,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is doubtless irrelevant.’
But something in the back of his mind suggested that it was not, and that it was an important clue in discovering who had killed a studious Carmelite friar and the University’s Junior Proctor.
Bartholomew shivered as he waited for Nicholas to fetch Prior Ralph de Norton. It seemed colder at Barnwell than it had been in Cambridge, and the wind sliced more keenly through his clothes. The cloisters, lovely though they were, comprised a lattice of carved stone that did little to impede the brisk breeze that rushed in from the north east. Bartholomew had heard that the wind that shrieked across the Fens with such violence every winter came from icy kingdoms above Norway and Sweden, where the land was perpetually frozen and the rays of the sun never reached.
‘I wondered when you would visit us, Brother,’ said a fat man with large lips and very protuberant eyes, who followed Nicholas through the cloister towards them. ‘I am so sorry about Will Walcote – sorry for the loss to my priory as well as the loss to you.’
Michael inclined his head. ‘I will find whoever did this, Prior Ralph. Believe me, I will.’
‘I do believe you,’ said Ralph softly. ‘I have heard that you and Doctor Bartholomew make a formidable team when it comes to solving murders.’
Bartholomew was not sure he liked being known as a solver of murders: he would have preferred his name to be associated with his work as a physician, which, after all, claimed most of his time. Still, he thought optimistically, perhaps the appointment of Timothy would mean he was obliged to help the monk less frequently in the future. Timothy seemed more proficient and eager than most of Michael’s junior proctors. When Ralph’s bulbous eyes shifted questioningly to Timothy, Michael introduced him as Walcote’s successor.
‘Good God!’ breathed Ralph, horrified. ‘You do not waste any time! Will is barely cold, and yet you have already appointed a Benedictine in his place. I was going to suggest you took another Austin canon – Nicholas, for example.’
Nicholas was mortified, and hung his head in embarrassment. But Timothy was unabashed, and rose to deal with the issue with cool dignity.
‘I appreciate that my appointment must seem sudden, but that happened only because the Chancellor is determined to catch the monster who killed Will. If you, or anyone else, is dissatisfied with my performance once the culprit is caught, I will willingly resign and someone else can take my place.’
Ralph relented in the face of Timothy’s disarming graciousness. ‘I am sure that will not be necessary. I am sorry, Brother; I was merely taken aback by the speed with which Will was replaced.’
‘Do you know anyone who had a grudge against Will?’ Michael asked, finally getting down to business. ‘I hate to ask such a thing, but we must leave no stone unturned, if we are to bring his killer to justice.’
Ralph appeared surprised by the question. ‘I thought you would be better placed to answer that. I imagine many people objected to the long arm of the law as personified by Will.’
‘I meant here, in the priory,’ said Michael. ‘Of course we will be reviewing his recent cases, but we need to know whether anyone had taken against him at his home.’
‘Of course not,’ said Ralph, a little offended. ‘He was not here much, despite the fact that he enjoyed our company. He always said that walking home to us after a day of chasing miscreants and malefactors around the town made him feel as though he were properly escaping from his duties for a few hours.’
‘That is how I feel about Michaelhouse,’ said Michael, blithely ignoring the fact that his beadles regularly visited him there, and that he was constantly at their beck and call. ‘So, there is no one at Barnwell who you think might have been jealous of his success or resentful of his connections with the University?’
‘No,’ replied Ralph smugly. ‘We Austins are not given to jealousy and feelings of resentment against our fellows.’
Michael gave a snort of laughter. ‘Do not take me for a fool! I am a cleric myself, do not forget. There will be resentment and jealousy wherever there are gatherings of people, and religious Orders are no different from secular folk.’
‘Well, I can assure you that no one here minded Will’s success,’ said Ralph coldly. ‘Indeed, it was generally assumed that it was good for us, because through him we had a certain degree of influence in the University.’
Bartholomew could see that Ralph genuinely believed what he was saying, and the more humble Nicholas had said much the same. It seemed Walcote was exactly as he had appeared – an affable, somewhat quiet man who had probably not enjoyed his duties, but who had continued to perform them to the best of his ability because his priory gained prestige from his appointment.
Bartholomew supposed that Michael would have to look into Walcote’s recent cases, and see whether any of the scholars he had caught or fined might have had a reason to kill him. His heart sank at the prospect. Students were a rebellious lot, and he imagined that Walcote would have dealt with a good many of them over the last year. Cambridge possessed a very transient population, and it was even possible that someone might have returned to the town specifically to exact revenge for some past incident, and had already l
eft.
Ralph began to recite a long list of Walcote’s virtues, to which Michael listened patiently and politely. It was clear the Austin Prior had nothing more to say that could help them, and after a while Michael suggested, very gently, that they should be on their way to continue their investigation in the town. Ralph agreed, and left the shuffling Nicholas to see them out. Timothy walked with him, asking him for his own impressions of Walcote, while Michael nodded approvingly at his new deputy’s initiative.
As they headed towards the gate, a bell chimed to announce the midday meal. The canons began to converge on the refectory building, some spilling out from the chapter house and others coming from the gardens or the nearby fields. All walked briskly and purposefully, suggesting that breakfast had been a long time ago. A few chattered together as they walked, but most were silent, their dark robes swinging about their legs as they hurried towards the delicious buttery smell of baked parsnips and pea soup. Bartholomew spotted a familiar figure with tousled hair and a liberal collection of freckles.
‘Look!’ He grabbed Michael’s arm and pointed. ‘It is Simon Lynne. Remember him? He is one of the Carmelites we questioned about Faricius’s murder.’
‘So it is,’ said Michael thoughtfully. ‘Only those are not a Carmelite’s robes he is wearing. That is the habit of an Austin canon.’
‘He cannot be both,’ said Bartholomew, puzzled. ‘What can he be thinking of?’
‘I do not know,’ said Michael, watching the youth disappearing inside the refectory. ‘But we shall find out.’
‘Now?’ asked Bartholomew, pausing and preparing to visit the refectory there and then.
‘In my own time, when I know exactly what questions to put to him. It seems I was right after all, Matt. There does seem to be a link between the murder of Faricius and the murder of Walcote.’
Michael stepped outside the gates of Barnwell Priory and gave a sigh. The wind had sharpened since they had been inside, and a blanket of thick grey clouds made midday feel like evening. It had started to rain, too, unpleasant little splatters that had the bite of ice in them and that stung uncovered hands and faces.
An Order for Death хмб-7 Page 13
