‘This is not a guess,’ said Bartholomew excitedly, as parts of the mystery became crystal clear. ‘It was your mention of Father Paul that made me think of the solution. All this trouble has been over Faricius’s essay.’
‘How?’ asked Timothy doubtfully. ‘And why should Paul make you think of it?’
‘The essay defends nominalism,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There is our first clue.’
Michael sighed. ‘I fail to see how.’
‘Horneby and Simon Lynne went to Faricius’s hiding place in St John Zachary after Faricius’s murder; the evidence, however, suggests that Faricius had already collected his essay and was returning to the friary with it when he was attacked.’
‘It was not on his body, and his last words were spent asking you to find it,’ agreed Michael, impatiently. ‘And?’
‘Meanwhile, Kyrkeby was struggling to write a lecture defending nominalism, to be presented at the most auspicious event of the University year. He was unwell anyway – I treated him for an irregular heartbeat – and the pressure was beginning to mount. Morden thought Kyrkeby’s first attempts at the lecture were poor. But the day after Faricius’s death, Ringstead said that Kyrkeby’s lecture had improved.’
‘You think Kyrkeby killed Faricius for his essay?’ exploded Michael in disbelief, exchanging a glance with Timothy that was half-amusement and half-annoyance that they had wasted time listening to the physician. ‘Matt, you are out of your wits! I have heard you suggest some peculiar motives for murder in the past, but never one as bizarre as this.’
‘Because it is bizarre does not mean it is inaccurate,’ said Bartholomew defensively. ‘Perhaps racked by remorse, Kyrkeby may have tried to return the essay to the Carmelites by using the tunnel–’
‘Your theory fails here, Matt,’ interrupted Michael. ‘Kyrkeby did not know about the tunnel. How could he have done? Even Prior Lincolne was unaware of it and he is a Carmelite who lives in that friary, not a Dominican who has probably never set foot in it.’
‘Well, there is another possibility,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But you will not like it.’
Michael sighed. ‘I do not like this one. But go ahead. We have heard one insane idea today. Another cannot harm us.’
‘Walcote was also a nominalist, who knew Faricius and admired his work. Walcote may even have known about the essay. He was with us when we interviewed the Dominicans the day after Faricius’s murder, when Ringstead told us about the sudden improvement in Kyrkeby’s lecture. Walcote also knew about Faricius’s stolen scrip. He may have deduced that the essay was in it, and therefore reasoned that the missing essay and Kyrkeby’s sudden improvement were more than coincidence.’
‘Why should he have reasoned that?’ demanded Michael. ‘We did not.’
‘Because at the time we did not know that Faricius’s missing scrip probably contained his essay – we did not know the essay even existed.’
‘Are you suggesting that Walcote killed Kyrkeby for stealing Faricius’s essay?’ asked Timothy, exchanging another uncertain glance with Michael.
‘Walcote killed Kyrkeby for stabbing a man he knew and admired. Horneby told us that Walcote knew about the tunnel, because he had caught him using it and had ordered it to be sealed. What a perfect hiding place for a corpse! Even if the Carmelite students did find Kyrkeby’s body, they would never be able to report it without admitting that they knew secret ways in and out of their friary.’
‘I do not know about this, Matt,’ warned Michael. ‘I can see a lot of holes in your arguments.’
‘Such as what?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘Such as the fact that Walcote was not the kind of man to kill, for a start,’ said Michael. ‘I complained to you many times about his gentleness and his annoying habit of looking for the good in people. Such men do not murder others.’
‘That is not true,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We have seen gentler men than Walcote commit all manner of crimes.’
Michael disagreed. ‘Your reasoning has a Dominican Precentor killing a Carmelite student-friar, and my Austin Junior Proctor murdering the Dominican. Such men do not go around slaughtering each other, Matt. And anyway, Faricius, Kyrkeby and Walcote himself were dead long before Arbury was murdered and Nigel was stabbed. How many killers do you imagine there are stalking the streets of Cambridge?’
Bartholomew regarded him sombrely. ‘I have no idea, Brother. But I suggest we should find out before anyone else dies.’
Michael wanted to go straight to the Franciscan Friary, to ask Father Paul whether he had Simon Lynne secreted away, and then question the lad about the mysterious death of Kyrkeby. They were approaching the Barnwell Gate when they became aware of a commotion taking place just outside it. A small crowd had gathered, and was standing around a prostrate body on the ground. Thinking it was probably someone in need of a physician, Bartholomew hurried forward to see if he could help. Sighing irritably at the delay, Michael followed.
Bartholomew pushed through the ring of spectators, then stopped in horror when he saw that the person lying flat on his back in the town’s filth was his nephew.
‘I want a word with him,’ muttered Michael, eyeing Richard dispassionately. ‘I want to know why he conspired against me at St Radegund’s Convent with the leaders of the religious Orders.’
‘Not now, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, unlooping the medicine bag from around his shoulder and kneeling in the mud next to his stricken relative.
‘I can do nothing here,’ said Timothy to Michael. ‘You and Matthew can visit Paul when you have carried Richard home to his mother. Meanwhile, I am worried about the plight of the lepers Matthew told us about. With your leave, I would like to tell Matilde about them, so that she can arrange for supplies to be sent today.’
Michael knew that his Junior Proctor regularly distributed alms to the poor and sick, and that he had a good deal of compassion for the unfortunates who lived in the leper hospital. ‘Go ahead. I do not like to think of them starving either, and Matilde can be relied upon to help,’ he told him.
‘I will not be long,’ said Timothy, beginning to stride away. ‘As soon as I have spoken to Matilde, I shall return to help you at the Franciscan Friary.’
Bartholomew was pleased Timothy would urge Matilde to leave the convent; he knew she would not linger if there were people who had need of her charity. She would return home immediately, and then she would be safe. He turned his attention to Richard, whose white face and bruised temple suggested that he had swooned and toppled from his monstrous black horse.
‘I was here first,’ came a petulant voice. Bartholomew glanced up to see Robin of Grantchester. The town’s surgeon held a fearsome array of rusty, bloodstained knives, and was busily deciding which one he would use to slice through the veins in Richard’s arms.
‘Leave him, Robin,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘This is my nephew and I do not want you shoving your filthy instruments into him.’
‘He needs to be bled,’ protested Robin. ‘I will do it now, and he can pay me sixpence when he revives. He will not mind paying above the odds for an operation performed in the street.’
Bartholomew ignored him. ‘What happened?’ he asked, addressing the watching crowd.
‘I found him first,’ repeated Robin angrily. ‘With those expensive clothes and that fine black horse, he can afford to pay me what I ask. I will not stand by why you take the bread from my mouth. Go away.’
‘What happened?’ Bartholomew asked again, while the crowd, anticipating a fight between the surgeon and the physician, looked on expectantly.
‘Robin did find him first,’ offered Bosel the beggar, who had been relieved of a hand for persistent stealing and who now worked on the High Street, demanding money on the fraudulent claim that he had lost an arm fighting in France. He was not a man Bartholomew liked.
‘But Doctor Bartholomew has a right to him,’ replied Isnard the bargeman, who sang bass in Michael’s choir, and who was in debt to Bartholomew for once setting his brok
en leg, free of charge. ‘He is kin.’
‘Did anyone see what happened to Richard?’ pressed Bartholomew loudly, before the argument could escalate and everyone started to take sides.
‘He fell off his horse,’ said Bosel, gloating. ‘One moment he was riding along, trampling us under his hoofs and pretending to be a great man, and the next he was on the ground in the muck.’
‘He just fell?’ asked Bartholomew, pushing Robin’s hands away as the surgeon made a grab for Richard’s arm. ‘No one threw anything at him or pushed him off?’
There was a chorus of denials, although several of the crowd muttered that they wished they had.
‘The horse was prancing and waving its front feet around,’ explained Isnard. ‘But it always does that. It is the most badly behaved animal in the town.’
‘Let me bleed him,’ pleaded Robin, trying again to lay hold of one of Richard’s wrists. ‘If you wait until he regains his senses, he will refuse my services and I will have lost sixpence.’
‘I will give you sixpence if you leave him alone,’ said Bartholomew, covering his nephew with his tabard. He tapped the young man’s cheeks until Richard opened his eyes, squinting against the white brightness of the sky.
A grubby hand was thrust under Bartholomew’s nose. ‘All right, then,’ said Robin ungraciously. ‘Give.’
Seeing that the hand was likely to remain where it was until he paid, Bartholomew rummaged in his scrip for six pennies. He could find only three, even with the one Matilde had given him, and Michael was obliged to provide the rest.
‘What is wrong with him?’ asked the monk, crouching next to Bartholomew and peering at Richard’s pale face. ‘Has he swooned?’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘And then the horse threw him. That thing is far too powerful for a man of his meagre riding abilities.’
With Michael’s help, Bartholomew raised the dazed Richard from the ground, put a supporting arm around the young man, and walked him towards Milne Street, where he could be deposited at his father’s business premises. Michael paid Isnard a penny to find the escaped Black Bishop of Bedminster and bring it back before it ate someone, and then followed them.
Oswald Stanmore stared expressionlessly when he saw Richard helped across the courtyard, but did not offer to assist when the physician lowered the invalid gently on to a bench.
‘Has he been drinking with that Heytesbury again?’ Stanmore asked folding his arms and regarding his son with disapproval. ‘The man is leading him to a life of debauchery and lust.’
‘Heytesbury is leading Richard astray?’ asked Michael. He watched Bartholomew help Richard sip some water. ‘Why do you think that?’
‘Because Heytesbury is in an inn at every opportunity,’ said Stanmore crossly. ‘And when there is no tavern available, he insists on being provided with wine.’
‘Really,’ said Michael, interested. ‘Would you say that this affinity with wine is more marked than in most men?’
‘I certainly would,’ said Stanmore firmly. ‘He has already drunk the best of my cellars, and is inveigling invitations to friaries and Colleges all over Cambridge, so that he can have a go at theirs. He is one of those cunning imbibers – not the kind who becomes roaring drunk so that the whole town knows what he has been doing, but the kind who indulges himself steadily and heavily and shakes like a leaf when there is too long an interval between tipples.’
‘Like Dame Martyn,’ said Bartholomew. Stanmore nodded.
‘Well, now,’ said Michael, his eyes gleaming. ‘Perhaps Heytesbury will sign my deed sooner than he anticipates.’
‘Yes, blackmail him,’ said Stanmore harshly. ‘Then he will remove himself from my house and return to that den of iniquity he calls Oxford. I do not want to order him to leave, because he is Richard’s friend, but he cannot depart soon enough for me or Edith.’
Michael draped an arm over Stanmore’s shoulders with a grin of immense satisfaction. ‘Just leave it to me.’
‘I do not know why you needed Oswald to tell you this,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It has been apparent from the start that Heytesbury likes his wine. I have seen him in the Swan and the Cardinal’s Cap, and he carries gum mastic – a breath freshener – with him at all times to disguise the scent of wine on his breath.’
‘Then why did you not point this out to me sooner?’ asked Michael coolly. ‘Had I known, it would have made a big difference to the way I dealt with him.’
‘It was so obvious I did not think it necessary to mention it. You do not need to be a physician to detect the symptoms of a committed drinker. However, Richard has not been drinking – not today, at least.’
‘What is wrong with him, then?’ said Stanmore, finally becoming worried. ‘It is not the Great Pestilence again, is it? Oxford is exactly the kind of place it would come from a second time.’
‘It is not the plague,’ said Bartholomew, taking Richard’s wrist and measuring the pace of his life-beat. It was within the normal range for a man of his age and size, and Bartholomew did not think there was anything seriously wrong with his nephew. Richard’s eyes flickered and he began to show signs of awareness.
‘What happened?’ he asked. ‘Where am I? Where is my horse?’
‘You fell off it,’ said Michael unsympathetically. ‘It is too spirited for you; you would do better with a palfrey.’
‘I cannot be seen on a palfrey,’ said Richard, not too unwell to be indignant. ‘What would people think?’
‘They would think that you are a man who is sensible, modest and steady,’ replied Michael. ‘They would not snigger behind your back because you have purchased a mount over which you have no control, and they would not think you are an ambitious toady, who is so aware of outward appearances that there is no substance to him.’
Richard’s eyes were wide. ‘Is that what you think?’
‘It is what you tell people to think with your Black Bishop of Bedminster and your dangling ear-ring and your glittering buttons,’ scolded Michael.
Richard turned on his father. ‘I told you that horse was too ostentatious and that we should have bought the brown one instead!’
Stanmore’s features hardened. ‘You told me you wanted to make an impact on the town. The brown nag would not have achieved the same effect.’
Bartholomew gaped at his brother-in-law. ‘You bought him that thing, Oswald? It was your idea?’
Stanmore sighed heavily. ‘Damn it all, Richard! The only condition I imposed on you for my generosity was that no one should ever know who paid for the Black Bishop.’
‘What were you thinking of?’ asked Bartholomew, appalled. ‘You must have seen that the impression your son was making was not a good one.’
‘On the contrary, Richard has secured a good deal of work since he arrived here,’ snapped Stanmore. ‘Several wealthy merchants have hired him. The black horse did exactly what we hoped. But you had better not tell Edith about this. She will be furious with me.’
‘Since we are on the subject of money, how do you afford all your fine clothes and your handsome saddle?’ asked Bartholomew of his ailing nephew. ‘I am sure Oswald did not give you funds to squander on those.’
‘The saddle came with the horse,’ admitted Stanmore reluctantly. ‘A splendid horse would be no good without a matching saddle, would it?’
‘The clothes are paid for with my own funds,’ said Richard sullenly, ‘although I cannot see it is any affair of yours. I worked hard in Oxford, and I have secured several lucrative customers here in Cambridge. I have no family to care for, so why should I not spend my earnings on clothes?’
‘Well, at least this tells us that not all your young nephew’s flaunted wealth was ill-gotten,’ whispered Michael to Bartholomew. ‘The most expensive item was a gift from his loving and very misguided father.’ He turned to Richard. ‘Never mind all this for now. I have a question to ask. What were you doing at St Radegund’s with Walcote?’
‘When?’ asked Richard, a trace of his old insolence
insinuating itself into his voice.
Michael’s eyebrows drew together in annoyance. ‘Do not play games, boy. One of the items on the agenda of these gatherings was my murder. Why would you implicate yourself in that?’
‘Oh, no!’ breathed Stanmore, as he slumped into a chair with one hand pressed over his heart. ‘Not again! Do not tell me that another member of my family is involved in something criminal! I thought my brother’s fate five years ago would have warned you against that sort of thing, Richard.’
Richard hung his head, and Michael eyed him with distaste. ‘You came to Cambridge to make your fortune, and immediately set about wooing the richest and most influential men in the town. These included Junior Proctor Walcote, who invited you to one of his nocturnal meetings, probably not realising that you were the nephew of my closest friend.’
‘Walcote did not know that,’ acknowledged Richard in a low voice. ‘He was horrified when he discovered I am Matt’s kinsman. He was afraid I would tell you about his business.’
‘And why didn’t you?’ demanded Michael.
Richard rubbed his eyes wearily. ‘I only went to one meeting; then Walcote died and there were no more. The discussion included raising funds for mending the Great Bridge, and then went on at length about nominalism and realism. There was mention that you had been seen stealing from the University Chest in the Carmelite Friary, Brother, but I told them that they were insane if they believed you would do such a thing.’
‘Quite,’ said Michael, a little mollified by Richard’s belief in his innocence, regardless of the fact that it was wholly unjustified. ‘What else did you talk about?’
‘That was all. I doubt the whole thing took more than an hour. Nothing was decided and nothing was resolved, because Walcote was not forceful enough to allow any item to be concluded.’
‘Explain,’ ordered Michael.
Richard gave a wan smile. ‘He meant well, but he wanted to please everyone. No one will ever be happy with everything, and there comes a point where you just have to go along with the majority. But Walcote did not want to offend the dissenters. We made no decisions, and everything was postponed until later. Pechem told me it had been like that from the start.’
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