An Order for Death хмб-7

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘And then they went to my room?’ asked Michael, his eyes huge in his flabby face.

  Bartholomew sighed irritably. ‘I have no idea what they did next. All I can tell you is that I caught them leaving your chamber.’

  ‘All right, Matt,’ said Michael gently. ‘I know you are distressed by yet another unnecessary death – as am I – but that is no reason to snap at me. I am only trying to learn what happened.’

  Bartholomew rubbed his hand through his hair and stared away into the darkness of the night. Michael was right: the incident had left him badly shaken. But it was his own stupidity that made him angry. He should not have tried to take on the intruders without summoning help, and he now wished he had listened to Clippesby when he had met him earlier that evening. For all his ravings, the Dominican occasionally made very astute observations, and the physician realised he should not have dismissed him so readily.

  Langelee stood, grabbing Michael’s arm to steady himself. ‘Arbury is clearly beyond anything Bartholomew can do, so I commit him to your hands, Suttone. You can mount a vigil for him. Take him to the hall, though, not to the church. I do not want you leaving Michaelhouse at this hour of the night when there are killers at large.’ He turned to Bartholomew. ‘But before Suttone removes Arbury, is there anything you need to do? I know your examination of bodies in the past has helped you to identify killers.’

  Bartholomew shook his head. ‘All I can tell you is that he died from a single wound to the chest, and that he bled to death.’

  ‘And you think this happened some time ago, because he is cold?’ clarified Langelee.

  Bartholomew nodded. ‘But I cannot tell you exactly when.’

  ‘I see,’ said Langelee. He turned to Michael. ‘We should go to your room, to see whether anything is missing.’

  ‘Nothing will be missing,’ replied Michael. ‘I have very little to steal.’

  ‘What about your collection of gold crosses?’ asked Langelee immediately. ‘And your fine array of habits and expensive cloaks? And since your office at St Mary’s is not particularly secure, I expect you store certain documents here, too.’

  Michael shook his head. ‘I keep my crosses behind a stone in the hearth – and I defy even Cynric to identify which one. Meanwhile, there is not exactly a thriving market for used Benedictine garments. Mine are distinctively large, and a thief would be caught immediately if he tried to sell any of those at Ely Hall.’

  ‘And the documents?’ asked Bartholomew.

  The monk shrugged. ‘Anything important is locked in the chests at St Mary’s or the Carmelite Friary. There is nothing in my room worth taking.’

  ‘We should check anyway,’ said Langelee, beginning to walk across the courtyard towards Michael’s room.

  Bartholomew and Michael followed him, leaving Suttone and his students to carry Arbury to the hall and begin their prayers for a soul that had died without the benefit of final absolution. As he climbed the stairs, Bartholomew saw the deep groove where the knife had raked the plaster in the wall. He shivered, not wanting to think of the force behind a blow that had left such a mark. Michael reached out to touch it, then turned to scowl at the physician, making it clear that he was unimpressed by the foolish risk his friend had taken.

  The shock of the brief encounter with the intruders and finding Arbury dead was beginning to take its toll. Bartholomew felt exhausted, while his bare feet were so cold that he could barely feel them. The chill reached right through his bones to settle in the pit of his stomach, and he wondered whether he would ever be warm again.

  Langelee pushed open the door to Michael’s room and the three scholars looked around them. Michael’s possessions had been dragged from their shelves and chests and scattered, so that the chamber looked as if a violent wind had torn through it. Michael took a sharp intake of breath when he saw the mess, and Langelee whistled, holding up the lamp so that it illuminated every corner.

  ‘The thief was certainly thorough. I wonder if he found what he wanted.’

  ‘They,’ corrected Bartholomew. ‘There were two of them. I heard the feet of one running down the stairs, while the other fought with me.’

  ‘So, the first intruder did battle with you to allow the other to escape,’ summarised Langelee. ‘Was the first bigger than the second?’

  ‘I did not see the one who ran,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘I only heard his footsteps. I suppose he did sound small and light, though. Or perhaps he was on tiptoe because he was in the middle of a burglary. I really do not know.’

  ‘And the first?’ pressed Langelee. ‘Is there anything you can tell us about him? Was he taller than you? Fatter? Was he wearing a cloak, or just hose and shirt? Was there anything at all that you remember about him – perhaps a distinctive smell or a peculiar physical feature.’

  ‘It was dark,’ said Bartholomew wearily. ‘And he was waving a knife at me. I noticed very little about him, other than that. He knew what he was doing, though; he was a competent fighter.’

  ‘And you took him on,’ muttered Michael. He slumped down on his bed and surveyed the mess with round eyes. ‘I do not know whether I am more angry with you for risking your life, or with whoever had the audacity to enter the Senior Proctor’s College and go through his personal effects.’

  ‘Have you been keeping a record of your murder investigation?’ asked Langelee, sitting next to him and scratching his head as he tried to think of reasons why Michael’s room should have been subjected to such treatment. ‘Perhaps that is what they were looking for, so that they could see how close you are to catching them.’

  ‘I am not close at all,’ said Michael gloomily. He picked up a linen shirt that had been tossed carelessly on the floor, flinging it just as carelessly on to the chest that stood under the window. As he did so, something fell out. Bartholomew leaned down to retrieve it. It was a tiny glove, like something that had been made for a child.

  ‘A boy was one of the intruders?’ asked Langelee, taking it from him and turning it over in his hands. ‘I suppose it makes sense. A small child could search places that an adult could not reach. I have heard of monkeys being used for such purposes.’

  ‘You said the footsteps of the second intruder sounded light,’ said Michael to Bartholomew. ‘Could they have belonged to a child?’

  ‘It is possible,’ said Bartholomew, snatching the glove from Langelee and inspecting it in the candlelight. ‘But I do not think this belongs to a child. I think it belongs to Prior Morden, the leader of the Dominicans.’

  It was nearing dawn, and the dense black of the sky was just beginning to show signs of brightening, although it would be another hour before it was light enough to see. Even at that early hour the town was stirring, and a lone cart could be heard rattling up the High Street on its way to the Market Square. A dog barked, and somewhere two people were greeting each other cheerfully. A dampness was in the faint wind that rustled the few dead leaves remaining on the winter branches, threatening more rain that day, and the sky was its usual leaden grey.

  Bartholomew sat with Michael in Langelee’s room, sipping near-boiling ale that he knew nevertheless would not drive out the chilly sensation that still sat in the pit of his stomach.

  ‘And you say young Arbury was alive when you returned from tending Pechem at the Franciscan Friary?’ asked Langelee of Bartholomew again. ‘He opened the gate for you?’

  Bartholomew nodded. ‘He had been reading Heytesbury’s Regulae Solvendi Sophismata, and he asked me a question about it.’

  ‘Then you went to the kitchens, and on the way back the bells were chiming for the midnight vigil and you heard him groan,’ Langelee went on.

  ‘Not quite,’ said Bartholomew. He did not want to tell Michael about Kenyngham’s accusation in front of Langelee, who had demonstrated in the past that he was not averse to using such information to suit his own ends. He would speak to the monk later, when they were alone. ‘I heard a groan, but I thought it was Suttone or his students making n
oises in their sleep. I realise now that it may have been Arbury. I wish I had checked.’

  ‘But Clippesby knew what was happening,’ said Michael. ‘Damn the man! If he was not so habitually strange, you would have known to take him seriously.’

  ‘Arbury’s injury was serious; you would not have been able to save him anyway,’ said Langelee kindly. ‘I am no physician, but I have seen my share of knife wounds. I think it would have made no difference whether you had found him three hours earlier or not.’

  ‘We could have asked who attacked him, though,’ said Michael. ‘And we might have caught his murderers, who then spent half the night rummaging in my room.’

  ‘But more important yet, I might have been able to make his last moments more comfortable,’ snapped Bartholomew, nettled by Michael’s pragmatic approach to the student’s death. ‘He would not have bled to death all alone and in the bitter chill of a March night.’

  Michael’s large face became gentle. ‘I am sorry, Matt. I did not mean to sound callous. It is just that I now have four murders to investigate – Faricius, Kyrkeby, Walcote and Arbury – and I have no idea what to do about any of them.’

  ‘At least you know the motive for Arbury’s death,’ said Langelee. ‘He was killed because someone wanted to search your room. Either they stabbed him as soon as he opened the gate, or they killed him when he would not let them in.’

  ‘The former, probably,’ said Michael thoughtfully. ‘And if Matt is right, then they spent at least three hours searching my room – from the beginning of the midnight vigil, by which time Arbury had been stabbed, until he heard the bells chime for nocturns, when they were just leaving.’

  ‘What do you possess – or what do they think you possess – that would warrant such an exhaustive search?’ asked Langelee. He gestured around his own quarters. ‘It would not take anyone long to rifle through my belongings, even including all the College muniments.’

  ‘I really cannot imagine what they wanted,’ said Michael. ‘As I told you, I leave the most sensitive documents in the University chests.’

  ‘All of them?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Are you sure there is nothing that you might have brought home? And Langelee has a good point – perhaps we should consider what they may have thought you had, rather than what you actually do have.’

  ‘What about the deed signing the two farms and the church to Oxford?’ asked Langelee. ‘Where do you keep that? Presumably there is only one copy, because Heytesbury has not signed it yet – there would be no point in copying it until he has agreed to its contents.’

  Michael dropped his hand to his scrip. ‘I have that in here. I do not know when Heytesbury will agree to sign, and so I have been carrying it about with me recently, so I can be ready the moment he relents. But why would anyone want to steal that?’

  ‘Because they do not want you to pass this property to Oxford?’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘Thanks to Langelee, a lot of people know you have some kind of arrangement in progress, and not everyone is sufficiently far sighted to see that you have the ultimate good of Cambridge in mind.’

  ‘I have apologised for that ad nauseam,’ protested Langelee wearily. ‘How much longer will you hold it against me?’

  ‘I suppose someone may think that the best way to prevent Oxford from getting what is perceived to be valuable property is to steal the deed of transfer,’ said Michael, ignoring Langelee’s objections and addressing Bartholomew. ‘But we are forgetting that one of the culprits seems to have been Prior Morden. I did not know he felt so strongly about it.’

  ‘We have never discussed it with him,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps he does. He is certainly the kind of man to latch on to an idea like a limpet and follow it doggedly. He seems to have done exactly that by championing the cause of nominalism.’

  Langelee sighed. ‘I am a philosopher by training, but I find this nominalism – realism debate immensely dull. Am I alone in this? Is there not another living soul who would rather talk about something else?’

  ‘Not among the religious Orders at the moment,’ said Michael. ‘They are using it as an excuse to rekindle ancient hatreds of each other. But I did not know that Morden was against passing property to Oxford. After all, Heytesbury is a nominalist, so Morden should approve.’

  ‘That is not logical,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Just because Morden is a nominalist does not mean that he is willing to share his worldly goods – or those of his University – with other nominalists.’

  ‘You have not explained how you happened to be outside Michael’s room at that hour of the night, Bartholomew,’ said Langelee, moving on to other questions. ‘Did you hear a sound that roused you from your sleep?’

  ‘The only sounds I heard were you and Michael finishing that barrel of wine,’ said Bartholomew evasively, so that Langelee would not ask him what it was that he had considered so pressing that it could not wait until the morning. ‘Doubtless the killers heard it, too, and they knew that they were safe from discovery as long as Michael was enjoying your wine.’

  ‘Damn!’ swore Michael softly. ‘If ever there were a moral to a tale condemning the sin of gluttony, it is this. And poor Arbury paid the price.’

  ‘Arbury would have died anyway,’ said Langelee. ‘And so might you, had you been asleep in your room and not here with me.’

  With a shock, Bartholomew realised that was true, and that Michael’s escape might have been as narrow as his own. He considered Arbury, and how the intruders – determined to search Michael’s room whether the monk was in it or not – might have gained access to Michaelhouse. It was obvious, once he thought about it.

  ‘I have a bad feeling that the killers watched me when I returned from the Franciscan Friary, and then did the same,’ he said.

  ‘Meaning?’ asked Michael.

  ‘Meaning that I did what we all do: hammered on the door and demanded to be let in. Arbury opened the wicket gate, I stepped inside and then pushed back my hood so that he could see who I was. If the killers were watching from the bushes opposite, it would have been easy to do the same, and then stab the lad before he saw that he should have been more careful.’

  ‘But the only people who have leave to be outside the College after curfew are you two,’ said Langelee. ‘Arbury should have been more careful – especially since he had already admitted Bartholomew, and he probably could hear Michael with me.’

  ‘That may be true generally, but not this week,’ said Michael. ‘It is Lent, and a number of our scholars have been attending midnight vigils and nocturns, especially those in the religious Orders. Arbury probably did not know who was out and who was in.’

  Langelee sighed. ‘Catch these killers, Michael. I want to see them hang for this.’

  ‘I will do my best,’ vowed Michael.

  ‘Well, the day is beginning,’ said Langelee, going to the window shutters and throwing them open. A blast of cold air flooded into the room, which rustled the documents and scrolls that lay in untidy piles on the table. ‘We all have work to do.’

  ‘You seem out of sorts this morning,’ said Michael, as he followed Bartholomew from Langelee’s chamber and across the courtyard. By unspoken consent, they made their way to the fallen apple tree in the orchard, where they could talk without fear of being overheard. Their rooms were usually sufficient for that, but neither felt much like being in the chaos of Michael’s chamber, while Bartholomew’s tended to be plagued by students with questions in the mornings.

  It was no warmer in the garden that dawn than it had been during the night, and a thin layer of frost glazed the scrubby grass and the leaves of Agatha’s herbs. Michael settled himself on the trunk of the fallen apple tree and watched Bartholomew pace back and forth in front of him.

  ‘What is the matter?’

  ‘These murders,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And the fact that I feel as though I am in a river where the current is dragging me relentlessly somewhere, but I do not know where.’

  ‘That sounds familiar,’ agreed
Michael. ‘I have worked hard to try to discover what plot is under way that makes necessary the deaths of a talented philosopher called Faricius of the Carmelites, a very untalented philosopher called Kyrkeby of the Dominicans and my Junior Proctor. I have interviewed at least fifty people who live near the places where these men were killed or found, and you have examined their bodies. But neither of us has come up with anything.’

  ‘What about the cases Walcote was working on before he died?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Have you discovered anything from them?’

  Michael shook his head. ‘He was busy, but there was nothing to suggest he was working on something that would result in murder.’

  ‘What about the plot to kill you?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘That sounds as though it might lead to murder to me.’

  ‘But I can find out nothing about that,’ said Michael plaintively. ‘I have questioned my beadles again and again, but none seems to know anything unusual about Walcote or secret meetings in St Radegund’s Convent. Certainly none of them accompanied him to any.’

  ‘Not even the ones who work closest with him?’ pressed Bartholomew. ‘Tom Meadowman follows you around like a shadow. Did Walcote have a beadle like that?’

  ‘If he did, then it would have been Rob Smyth, who drowned at Christmas. He latched himself on to Walcote, although I neither liked nor trusted the man.’

  ‘The fact that no one is honest with us does not help,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I did not want to mention it in front of Langelee, but I persuaded Kenyngham to break his vow of secrecy last night.’

  ‘You did?’ asked Michael, pleasantly surprised. ‘I will not ask how; I do not want my innocent mind stained by knowledge of your unscrupulous methods.’

  ‘There was a theft from the Carmelite Friary,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He thinks you are responsible for it, and so does Warden Pechem.’

  ‘What theft?’ asked Michael, puzzled. ‘Do you mean Faricius’s essay? I thought we had reasoned that it had been stolen from him after he was stabbed on Milne Street. Why do they think I had anything to do with that?’