An Order for Death хмб-7

by Susanna GREGORY

  Dame Martyn regarded him craftily. ‘Then I can tell you nothing more. I am under the sacred seal of confession.’

  ‘Do not be ridiculous!’ Michael exploded. ‘Are you claiming that you were Walcote’s confessor? I have never heard anything more outrageous in my life! Now, what was his business here, Dame Martyn? You will tell me, or I shall make a personal recommendation to the Bishop that he removes his niece from you with immediate effect.’

  Dame Martyn hastened to make amends. She evidently knew Michael well enough to guess that he would do what he threatened. ‘Actually, we have no idea what Walcote did here. And that is the truth.’

  ‘I see,’ said Michael coldly. ‘Shall I station my beadles here, then, to question anyone who comes or leaves? That would certainly deter visitors. Your happily married men will not like revealing the nature of their business here to interested beadles.’

  ‘You are a hard man, Brother,’ said Eve, when Dame Martyn seemed at a loss for words. ‘But the reason we cannot tell you what Walcote did is because we really do not know. As I mentioned earlier, times are hard, and we are obliged to raise funds in any way we can. One method is to rent this room for meetings that people would rather did not take place in the town.’

  ‘Do not tell him!’ cried Dame Martyn in horror. ‘The reason people come here is because they know they can rely on our discretion. Without that, we have nothing.’

  ‘Are you telling me that your convent is used as a venue for criminals?’ asked Michael quickly, as he saw Eve hesitate. ‘Men gather here to plan crimes and other evil deeds?’

  ‘We do not know what they plan,’ said Eve with blunt honesty. ‘All we do is make this parlour available to anyone who pays us four groats – no questions asked.’

  ‘And Walcote hired this room from you?’ asked Michael.

  Eve nodded, while the Prioress looked disgusted at what her Sacristan had revealed.

  ‘How often? Once a week? More? Less?’

  Eve Wasteneys regarded Michael for a moment, and then shrugged, looking at her Prioress as she did so. ‘Walcote is dead, Reverend Mother. He will not be paying us for any more meetings, and so we have nothing to lose by being honest with Brother Michael.’

  ‘But one of the others might pay us instead,’ said Dame Martyn plaintively. ‘There is no reason these gatherings should stop, just because one of their number is dead.’

  ‘They were Walcote’s meetings,’ said Eve. ‘He paid us and he organised them. That source of income is finished, and it is in our interests to co-operate with the proctors now. We do not want his beadles stationed at our gates, and we cannot afford to lose Tysilia – assuming the Bishop pays us eventually, that is. We have no choice but to tell Brother Michael what he wants to know.’

  ‘How often were these meetings?’ repeated Michael, breaking into their conversation.

  ‘Irregularly,’ replied Eve, while Dame Martyn shook her head angrily and turned her attention to the dregs at the bottom of her cup.

  ‘But how frequently?’ pressed Michael. ‘What were the intervals between meetings – days or weeks? And how many times did they occur?’

  ‘He hired the room perhaps eight or nine times,’ replied Eve, frowning as she tried to remember. ‘The first two or three meetings were last November or December – around the time the Master of Michaelhouse was murdered, if I recall correctly.’

  ‘You do not recall correctly,’ said Michael immediately. ‘When I was conducting that particular investigation, Walcote was in Ely. I remember quite distinctly, because there was a spate of crimes at that time, and I could have done with his help. He only arrived back in Cambridge the day Runham was buried and his cousin’s effigy was smashed in the Market Square.’

  That particular incident was vividly etched in Bartholomew’s mind. ‘He was one of the throng who managed to grab a handful of the coins that were hidden inside Wilson’s effigy, and that spilled out when the thing broke.’

  ‘She said around that time,’ said Dame Martyn, showing a remarkable clarity of mind for someone who was drunk. ‘She did not say exactly at that time.’

  ‘I know I am right,’ said Eve. ‘I was also one of the fortunate people who managed to seize a couple of gold coins. We used them to repair the leaking roof in this room. Walcote commented on it when he next came, which was after Christmas.’

  ‘So, the roof leaked the first time Walcote was here, but it was repaired by the time he next visited,’ said Michael. ‘So, his first meeting may have been before Master Runham died.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said Eve. ‘We did not acquire the money and have the roof mended the next day. It took some time to reach an acceptable arrangement with a thatcher, and so Walcote’s first set of meetings could have occurred just before or after the effigy incident.’

  ‘But suffice to say he had two or three meetings in November or December and one after Christmas,’ said Dame Martyn, raising one hand to her lips to disguise a wine-perfumed belch. ‘I remember the Christmas meeting, because we spent the four groats he gave us on wine to celebrate Yuletide.’

  ‘I bet you did,’ muttered Michael, regarding the nun and her cup with rank disapproval.

  ‘And you do not keep records?’ asked Bartholomew hopefully. ‘You do not write that kind of income in your accounts?’

  Eve regarded him with weary amusement. ‘Brother Michael is probably right: the people who hire our room do not do so for legal purposes. Since we do not want to be accused of complicity in any crimes they commit, of course we do not keep records of when these meetings took place.’

  ‘Three meetings in November or December and one at Christmas is four,’ said Michael. ‘You said there were eight or nine. When were the others?’

  ‘Recently,’ said Eve. ‘They were not on any particular day, and they were all late at night.’

  ‘And who did Walcote meet?’ pressed Michael. ‘Were they local men or strangers? Did you recognise any of them?’

  ‘No,’ said Dame Martyn immediately. Michael raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Once I thought I glimpsed William de Lincolne, the Carmelite Prior,’ said Eve, who, unlike the Prioress, saw that it was unwise to play games with Michael.

  ‘Lincolne,’ said Michael casting a significant glance at Bartholomew. ‘I knew there was something odd about him. Who else?’

  ‘Possibly William Pechem, the warden of the Franciscans,’ said Eve, ignoring Dame Martyn’s angry signals to say nothing more.

  ‘A Carmelite and a Franciscan?’ asked Michael, surprised. ‘They always give the impression that they dislike each other, and that they would never meet on friendly terms.’

  ‘I do not know whether their meetings were friendly or not,’ said Eve. ‘And I cannot tell you whether they were both present at the same meetings.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Michael.

  Eve sighed impatiently. ‘Exactly what I say, Brother. I think I saw Pechem, and I think I saw Lincolne, but I do not remember whether I saw them both on the same night. I cannot tell you whether Walcote’s meetings were always with the same people.’

  ‘That is interesting,’ said Michael.

  Eve went on. ‘If you ask me to swear that it was definitely these men I saw I cannot do it – not because I mean to be unhelpful, but because I am simply not sure. As I said, it was dark.’

  ‘I saw no one,’ slurred Dame Martyn. She slipped suddenly to one side, so that she sat at an odd angle in her chair.

  ‘That I can believe,’ said Michael regarding her in disdain. He turned to Eve. ‘Who else?’

  ‘One other,’ said Eve nervously. ‘Although I do not know whether I should mention it.’

  ‘You should,’ declared Michael. ‘Who was it?’

  ‘Master Kenyngham of Michaelhouse.’ She watched Michael’s jaw drop in patent disbelief. ‘See? I knew I should not tell you.’

  Chapter 5

  ‘I KNEW THERE WAS SOMETHING MORE TO FARICIUS’S murder than a simple stabbing,’ said
Michael, as he and Bartholomew walked the short distance from St Radegund’s Convent back to the town.

  The day had grown even darker since they had been in the convent, and black clouds slouched above, moving quickly in the rising wind. Rain fell in a persistent, heavy drizzle that quickly soaked through Bartholomew’s cloak and boots. He was shivering by the time they reached the King’s Ditch, and longed to return to the comparative comfort of Michaelhouse, even if it were only to a room that was so damp that the walls were stained green with mould.

  ‘I said those Carmelites were hiding something,’ Michael went on, warm and snug inside his own oiled cloak and expensive boots. ‘Now I learn that the leader of the Carmelites and the leader of the Franciscans – sworn enemies – were having clandestine meetings with my Junior Proctor.’

  ‘Eve Wasteneys said she was not sure whether the two were at the same gatherings,’ Bartholomew pointed out.

  ‘But she did not say they were not,’ said Michael.

  ‘Do you believe her?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘She and Dame Martyn have no reason to be truthful with you. You threatened them, and they have good cause to dislike you.’

  Michael shrugged. ‘Dame Martyn might try to fool me, but Eve is a practical woman who knows that lying to the Senior Proctor is not a clever thing to do. I believe what she said. Also, the fact that she was a little vague about some of the details gives her story a ring of authenticity, as far as I am concerned.’

  ‘I wonder what Walcote could have been discussing with them,’ mused Bartholomew, trying to imagine the kind of business that would bring the leader of the Franciscans, the fanatical Prior Lincolne and the gentle, unworldly Kenyngham together in the depths of the night at a place like St Radegund’s Convent. ‘Perhaps he was trying to resolve the conflict between the Orders.’

  ‘No,’ said Michael, after a moment of thought. ‘Eve said the first meeting was in November or December, and there was no trouble to speak of between the Orders at that point. It has only come to a head during the last few weeks – since the beginning of Lent.’

  ‘But that is when Eve claimed there were several more meetings,’ said Bartholomew.

  Michael rubbed his hands together in sudden enthusiasm. ‘This is more like it, Matt! I thought at first that Walcote’s death was a simple case of some embittered student striking a blow at the University’s authority. Now I discover that he was organising secret meetings, and that he had been doing so for months.’

  Bartholomew regarded him doubtfully. ‘Why should that make you feel better about his murder? And you do, Brother; you are looking pleased with yourself.’

  ‘Because this is the kind of mystery that I am good at solving. I possess a cunning mind, and am far better at resolving complex plots than I am at uncovering random acts of violence. We will get to the bottom of this, and we will see Walcote’s death avenged. Now I know that a plot involving the University lies at the heart of it, I am more hopeful of success.’

  ‘Well, I am not,’ said Bartholomew gloomily. ‘The webs of deceit and untruths spread by scholars are often extremely difficult to unravel. We might still be looking into this at Christmas.’

  ‘Nonsense, Matt,’ said Michael confidently. ‘We will have this solved by Easter Sunday.’

  ‘In five days?’ asked Bartholomew uncertainly. ‘I do not think so!’

  ‘We will. I wager you a fine dinner – with as much wine as you can drink – at the Brazen George that by Easter Sunday we shall have this resolved. Do you accept?’

  ‘Murder is hardly a matter for betting,’ said Bartholomew primly. ‘You are wrong, anyway. It will be impossible to solve this muddle in five days.’

  Michael slapped him on the shoulders. ‘You will see. But one of the first things we shall do is visit the Carmelite Friary. I want to inspect Faricius’s belongings, to see if there is something to indicate that he was not the hard-working, scholarly man everyone seemed to admire. And then I shall ask Lincolne what he was doing with my Junior Proctor at St Radegund’s Convent.’

  ‘What if he denies it? Eve Wasteneys said she could not be certain.’

  Michael rubbed his chin. ‘You are right. Perhaps a full-frontal assault on the man would not be wise, given that we do not have a witness who is prepared to be unequivocal. It may warn him to be on the alert, or he may tell his coconspirators. I shall have to be a little more circumspect.’

  As they entered the town through the Barnwell Gate and started to walk down the High Street towards the Carmelite Friary, they met Brother Timothy, who had completed his business with the Franciscans. His covert search for the curious yellow substance that Bartholomew had seen on Faricius and Walcote had been unsuccessful, although he carried a bag of ominous-looking black powder that he was assured would rid the Benedictines of their mice.

  ‘Nothing?’ asked Michael, disappointed.

  The Benedictine shook his head. ‘I had my fingers in all manner of jars and bottles, so that even the herbalist, who loves to talk about his potions and concoctions, was beginning to grow suspicious. I pretended that my spare habit had a yellow stain that I was keen to remove, but I am sure he genuinely did not know the nature of the substance we saw on Walcote.’

  ‘Did he suggest anyone else who might?’ asked Michael.

  Timothy scratched his head. ‘I did not want to press him too hard, because Franciscans are intensely loyal to each other. If the herbalist thought we believed one of his brethren to be involved in a crime, he would close ranks with his colleagues, and we would never be allowed inside the gates again.’

  ‘Never mind,’ said Michael, not sounding surprised that the yellow stains had led nowhere. ‘We are going to inspect Faricius’s belongings. Perhaps they will yield some kind of clue.’

  The Carmelite Friary was a compact institution on Milne Street, the buildings of which were smaller than those of the Dominicans, but which boasted a large and pleasant garden that ran down to the river near Small Bridges Street. Like the other friaries, it was dominated by a two-storeyed building that had a refectory on the ground floor with a dormitory on the upper floor. With it, stables, a kitchen and a chapter house formed a neat quadrangle, while the Prior’s house was a pleasant extension that jutted out to the south. The Prior’s quarters boasted a private chapel on the ground floor, with a chamber on the upper floor that was an office during the day and a bedchamber for Lincolne at night.

  When they were shown into his chamber, Prior Lincolne was standing on a stool with a stick in his hand, making lunging swipes at the cobwebs that hung in silken threads from the rafters. Already several large splinters of oaken beam lay scattered across the rugs, where he had been overly rough with his cleaning.

  ‘Spiders,’ he announced as they walked in. ‘I hate spiders. I do not like the way their webs entangle themselves in my hair.’

  Looking at Lincolne’s peculiar topknot, Bartholomew understood why. The tuft of hair barely cleared the lowest of the beams, and would have acted like a magnet to anything hanging from them. The physician imagined that it collected all manner of dirt as it rubbed its way across the ceilings in the various rooms Lincolne would have been obliged to enter during the course of a day.

  ‘We would like to inspect Faricius’s belongings, if we may,’ said Michael, flinching backward as an especially vigorous poke from Lincolne brought down a shower of plaster. He pursed his lips in disapproval. ‘Do you not have servants for that sort of thing?’

  ‘We do,’ replied Lincolne, stepping down from the stool, but still towering over his three visitors. ‘However, I have exacting standards, and they seldom reach them. You want to inspect Faricius’s belongings, you say? Why?’

  ‘We are taking his death very seriously,’ replied Michael. ‘And we want to leave no stone unturned. It is possible that there is something in his possessions that may throw light on the identity of the killer.’

  ‘Are you saying that your other enquiries have come to nothing?’ asked Lincolne astutely. ‘What about
the Dominicans? You would be better concentrating your efforts there, as I have told you before.’

  ‘And so we will,’ said Michael. ‘But first, I want to see Faricius’s cell.’

  Lincolne sighed impatiently. ‘Very well, then. Come with me.’

  ‘I am sure you have more important things to do than accompany us,’ said Michael. He glanced up at the ceiling. ‘There are spiders to declare war upon.’

  ‘They can wait,’ said Lincolne, casting a venomous glower at the hapless beings in the rafters. ‘Perhaps the respite will lure them out, and I shall be able to catch them when I return.’

  They followed him across the yard to the dormitory. It was afternoon, and a time when the friars were accustomed to a period of rest or private prayer before attending vespers, so a number of them were in the dormitory, some sleeping and some reading. The dormitory comprised a large room that was blocked into tiny cells just large enough to house a mattress, a prie-dieu and a couple of hooks on the wall. Lincolne led the way to a cell near a window that overlooked the street.

  ‘This was Faricius’s bed. As you can see, he owned very little, but what he had is here.’

  The cell was spartan, as a friar’s home was supposed to be, unlike most of the others they had passed, which boasted rugs on the floor and colourful blankets. A bloodstained cloak, that was evidently the one Faricius had been wearing when he died, hung on one hook, while a spare habit adorned the other. A simple wooden cross had been nailed to the wall and a psalter lay open on the bed, as though Faricius had been reading it before he took his fateful last journey.

  Michael knelt and peered under the bed, reaching out to withdraw a rough chest that was stored there. Inside were several clean shirts, some woollen undergarments, a spare scrip, and several pens and some parchment. There was also a much-fingered copy of William Heytesbury’s Regulae Solvendi Sophismata. Lincolne gave a gasp of horror and snatched it from Michael’s hands.