An Order for Death хмб-7

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘Walcote was weak,’ agreed Stanmore. ‘He was a nice man, who was a pleasure to have at the dinner table, but was far too conciliatory to make unpopular decisions. I cannot imagine him ever taking a stand on anything.’

  ‘He was a follower of nominalism, yet he readily agreed with you that realism was just as valid,’ said Bartholomew, recalling the discussion with Michael that had taken place after Faricius’s death. ‘He also thought you should have gone to interview the Dominicans the day that Faricius died, but was too diffident to press his point when you declared otherwise.’

  ‘He always did as he was told,’ said Michael thoughtfully. ‘And I can see he would have been poor at leading discussions. Very well, Richard. I accept that you are telling the truth about that. But why did anyone bother with these meetings, when nothing was ever achieved?’

  ‘I think the attenders enjoyed the opportunity to rant and rave to people who were of the same philosophical persuasion. Everyone loved the slander and lies that were hurled at the other side. The only things they did not agree on were those that really mattered – spending money on the Great Bridge and useful things like that.’

  ‘Why were you invited?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Everyone else was a cleric.’

  ‘Walcote needed a lawyer to read various documents. Heytesbury recommended me to him.’

  ‘And who else was at these nasty little covens?’ asked Michael.

  Richard rubbed his eyes again. ‘Kenyngham and Gretford of the Gilbertines, Pechem of the Franciscans, and a few of their minions. It was a waste of time. What we did afterwards was fun, though.’

  ‘And what was that?’ asked Bartholomew.

  Richard winked. ‘The nuns entertained us in ways that were quite extraordinary.’

  Stanmore regarded his son in disgust. ‘I thought you would have known better than to engage in that sort of activity. And in a convent, too! What would your mother say if she knew?’

  ‘Did Heytesbury join you?’ asked Michael innocently. ‘If the answer is yes, then I could have my deed signed this very afternoon.’

  ‘No,’ said Richard sullenly.

  ‘Do not lie,’ warned Michael. ‘You are already in a good deal of trouble for attending these illegal gatherings. If you are honest now, I may be prepared to overlook your role in them.’

  It was an empty bluster, given that there was nothing illegal in a group of scholars meeting each other in a convent, and, although it was hardly respectable behaviour, there was nothing unlawful in the frolics they had allegedly engaged in afterwards, either. But Richard’s mind was evidently not working as quickly as it might, and he gave way in the face of Michael’s belligerence.

  ‘Heytesbury was not invited to the meeting itself, because the business discussed was private to Cambridge, but he waited for me in the church and joined us for the fun afterwards.’

  ‘He would,’ said Stanmore in disapproval. ‘Mayor Horwoode told me that he was after Yolande de Blaston the instant he set foot in the town. I have never seen a man locate his prostitutes with such speed.’

  Bartholomew nodded. ‘Matilde told us days ago that Heytesbury had employed Yolande.’

  Michael rubbed his hands. ‘Excellent! I could not have hoped for a better way to persuade that sly Oxford rat to sign my deed.’

  ‘Really, Brother,’ said Bartholomew mildly. ‘I did not expect you to stoop so low. I thought you were anticipating a battle of wits with one of Oxford’s greatest thinkers, not that you would resort to blackmail because he is fond of a barrel of wine and enjoys the company of women.’

  ‘If I were not investigating four murders, I would concur,’ said Michael pompously. ‘But blackmail will be a good deal quicker, and I shall be assured of a favourable result. It may not be necessary anyway. If Heytesbury agrees to sign my deed on Sunday, I will not need to mention dalliances with nuns or frequent visits to taverns. But there is something else I want to know, since you are in a mood to talk, Richard: what is Tysilia’s role in all this?’

  Richard’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘Tysilia? None. Why do you ask?’

  ‘But you know her,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You met her in Bedford, and you travelled in the same party to Cambridge.’

  Richard shook his head in disbelief. ‘Nothing escapes the notice of you two, does it? But what of it? I cannot see that my brief dalliance with Tysilia is any of your affair.’

  ‘You allowed that whore to seduce you?’ asked Stanmore in horror. ‘You could not resist her vile charms? I expected more of you, Richard. I credited you with good taste.’

  ‘I saw no reason to resist her,’ said Richard sullenly. ‘I only took what was freely offered.’

  ‘Like that pendant she stole from Mistress Horner?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I saw you with it this morning.’

  ‘This?’ asked Richard, pulling the gold locket and its chain from his scrip. ‘This is not stolen.’

  ‘It belonged to a convent guest, and Tysilia took it,’ said Bartholomew. He snatched it from his nephew and put it in his own scrip, determined that Matilde should have it back.

  ‘But it was given to me,’ said Richard indignantly.

  ‘By whom?’ demanded Bartholomew. ‘And why?

  ‘Tell him, Richard,’ said Stanmore wearily. ‘I am sure there is a good reason why you happen to have this thing.’

  Richard said irritably, ‘I did not know it was stolen. Tysilia told me her uncle had passed it to her.’

  ‘Why did she give it to you?’ asked Michael. ‘I thought she would have demanded payment from you, not the other way around.’

  Richard swallowed. ‘Because I was going to help her escape. She does not like St Radegund’s; she finds it too restrictive.’

  ‘Lord help us!’ muttered Stanmore, regarding his son in disgust. ‘You are a foolish boy, although not, I think, a dishonest one. How could you even think of embroiling yourself in a plan to free that whore? What do you think Bishop de Lisle would say when he learned that you helped spirit his niece away from her protectors?’

  ‘He might be grateful to be rid of her,’ muttered Michael. ‘She is more trouble than she is worth.’

  Stanmore stood and loomed over his son. ‘I have been tolerant of your idiosyncrasies since you returned, Richard, but I am rapidly losing patience. You will abandon this life of debauchery, and you will remove Heytesbury from my household by Sunday – as soon as his lecture is over. And then perhaps we can begin to forgive and forget.’

  Richard stared at the floor, and Bartholomew could not tell whether he intended to follow his father’s orders or whether he would revert to his old ways as soon as Stanmore’s back was turned.

  ‘And that ear-ring will go, too,’ added Stanmore as an afterthought.

  Without looking up, Richard slowly removed the offending jewellery from his lobe. He drank more water, then claimed he was tired and asked that he be allowed to rest. He closed his eyes, and Bartholomew imagined he could already see a hardening of the youthful features, indicating he was unwilling to give up his pleasantly debauched lifestyle in Heytesbury’s company. Perhaps both of them would return to Oxford together.

  Bartholomew stayed with Richard a little longer, then followed a chuckling Michael down the stairs and across the courtyard to the road outside. Michael sniggered all the way up the High Street, although Bartholomew was not sure whether his amusement derived from the fact that Richard had been cut down to size or that he now had two very powerful weapons with which to bully Heytesbury into signing his document.

  ‘Here we are at the Franciscan Friary,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Now we will find out whether Paul is hiding Simon Lynne, as you believe.’

  ‘And, if he is, we shall have some answers at long last,’ said Michael, rubbing his hands together in gleeful anticipation.

  Chapter 11

  BARTHOLOMEW AND MICHAEL REACHED THE FRANCISCAN Friary just as the first gloom of dusk was approaching, and were startled to find its normally sedate atmosphere shattered, with grey-r
obed friars running here and there in panic. Warden Pechem stood in the middle of it, his hand swathed in the bandage Bartholomew had tied, as he answered questions put by Brother Timothy. Pechem was shivering, and Bartholomew noticed he was not wearing his cloak, as though he had been dragged from his warm quarters too suddenly to allow him to grab it.

  Standing to one side was Clippesby, his eyes so wild that the white parts gleamed peculiarly against the black of his Dominican habit. His hair jutted in all directions, so that he looked even more eccentric than usual. Bartholomew saw that his robe was dirty, as if he had been rolling in mud.

  ‘What is the matter?’ asked Bartholomew, watching Clippesby twist one of his sleeves so hard that he threatened to do it permanent damage. ‘All this has nothing to do with you, does it?’

  ‘No!’ wailed Clippesby, his voice loud enough to draw the hostile attention of several Franciscans. ‘If they had listened to me, this would not have happened.’

  ‘I warned you to stay away from the Franciscans,’ said Michael angrily. ‘You know they do not like Dominicans on their property.’

  ‘But I wanted to see Father Paul,’ howled Clippesby. ‘He is the only person in this town who is not short of a few wits. I have a right to sane conversation if I want it.’

  ‘Lord save us,’ muttered Michael. ‘If the likes of him are demanding sane discussions, what does that say about the rest of the University?’

  ‘What is going on?’ asked Bartholomew of Clippesby a second time. ‘What has caused this disturbance?’

  ‘You will get no sense out of him,’ said Michael, giving Clippesby a disparaging glance as he took Bartholomew’s arm and pulled him away. ‘Timothy will tell us what is happening.’

  ‘Another robbery,’ explained Timothy as they approached. ‘And it happened just moments ago.’

  ‘We were lucky Brother Timothy happened to be passing when it occurred,’ said Pechem unsteadily. ‘He and Brother Janius gave chase, but the culprits disappeared into the scrub-land that leads to the Barnwell Causeway.’

  ‘We did our best,’ said Timothy apologetically to Michael. ‘But they were too fast for us.’

  ‘Was anyone able to identify the thieves?’ asked Michael. ‘Who were they?’

  ‘We do not know,’ said Pechem. ‘But they were brazen. Two men just joined the end of our procession as we walked home from the church after vespers. Everyone assumed they were the guests of someone else, and no one questioned their right to be inside.’

  ‘I did,’ shouted Clippesby, coming to join them. ‘I told you they were not Franciscans, but no one took any notice of me.’

  ‘They did worse than not listen to him,’ explained Timothy to Michael. ‘They ejected him from their premises, because they thought his warnings were the ramblings of a madman.’

  ‘Whatever gave them that idea?’ asked Michael.

  ‘They threw me in the mud,’ cried Clippesby, looking down at the front of his habit as though he had only just noticed that it was splattered with the grime of the road. ‘They picked me up and hurled me into the street.’

  ‘What would you have done if some lunatic from a rival Order thrust his way into your premises and started making wild accusations?’ asked Pechem, appealing to Michael. ‘It is not the first occasion he has made a nuisance of himself here, and there was no reason to assume that this time was any different.’

  ‘Did anyone recognise these robbers?’ asked Michael, exasperated that everyone seemed to be more willing to discuss Clippesby and his antics than the real culprits. ‘It is only just growing dark, so there must have been sufficient light to see their faces when they were here.’

  With Michael’s appearance, the Franciscans had calmed down, and now stood in a quiet circle around the monk and their Warden, listening. They shook their heads when Michael glanced around at them: it seemed no one had recognised the intruders. Pechem began to shiver more violently than ever in the frigid breeze of early evening, and Clippesby, in a rare moment of sensitivity, removed his own cloak to drape around the man’s shoulders.

  ‘You should not be out here,’ Bartholomew reprimanded Pechem gently. ‘That horse bite may have unbalanced your humours and rendered you more susceptible to chills.’

  ‘Those thieves stole my cloak!’ cried Pechem, agitated again. He realised with a start that he was wearing a Dominican’s robe, and almost flung it away. But it was a warm garment, and he was very cold. He clutched it more closely around him.

  ‘So, what happened is that two strangers calmly joined the end of your procession and entered your friary,’ said Michael. ‘And not one of you asked who they were. Is that what you are telling me?’

  ‘We could not see their faces because their hoods were up,’ said a short, obese friar called John de Daventre, whom Bartholomew regularly treated for trapped wind. ‘All of us had our cowls drawn, because it is windy and there is rain in the air. It did not seem odd that these two men were also protecting themselves against the weather.’

  ‘And what happened when these two were inside?’ Michael demanded. ‘Did they dine with you, too, before they decided to commit their crimes?’

  Daventre treated him to an unpleasant look. ‘We all went about our own business, and no one noticed where this pair went. But it seems they followed Father Paul to his cell and forced their attentions on him.’

  Bartholomew’s stomach churned. ‘What do you mean? Did they hurt him?’

  ‘No,’ came Paul’s familiar voice as he elbowed his way through the watching friars. ‘They only questioned me. They did me no harm.’

  ‘What did they want?’ asked Michael.

  ‘Faricius’s essay on nominalism,’ replied Paul. ‘I am afraid I was obliged to give it to them.’

  ‘But you do not have it,’ said Michael. ‘You told Matt that you were distressed it had gone missing, and that you hoped it would reappear one day, so Faricius’s name would be remembered.’

  ‘I never told Matthew I did not have it,’ said Paul. ‘He did not ask me that specific question, and so I did not feel obliged to answer it and tell him it was in my room.’

  Michael gave a heavy sigh. ‘That is hardly acting in the spirit of the truth, Father. How did it come into your possession? And why did you decline to tell Matt?’

  ‘I thought he would be safer knowing nothing about it, and anyway, I swore to tell no one. Oaths are sacred things.’

  Angrily, Michael said, ‘You sound like Kenyngham. Has it never occurred to you that it is sometimes better to be honest with the forces of law and order? We are hunting someone who has taken the lives of four people, Father. Surely that transcends any promises you made?’

  Paul’s usually expressive face was unreadable. ‘I am a novice in the world of killers and thieves, and I find it hard to see what is right and wrong in such circumstances. But suffice to say that Faricius’s essay was brought to me for safe keeping.’

  ‘By whom?’ asked Michael. ‘And where is Simon Lynne of the Carmelites? He seems to be missing, too.’

  ‘Here I am.’ Simon Lynne, wearing a Franciscan novice’s habit that was far too large for him, pushed his way past Daventre and stood next to Paul. He and his brother had been telling the truth, Bartholomew thought: they were indeed peas in a pod. He saw Pechem’s jaw drop in astonishment.

  ‘But you told us this boy was your kinsman,’ cried the Warden, regarding Paul accusingly. ‘You said he wanted to stay here until he decided whether or not to take the cowl.’

  ‘That is true,’ said Paul, smiling benignly in Pechem’s direction. ‘I just did not specify which cowl he would be taking – it will be that of a Carmelite, not a Franciscan. And as for him being my kinsman, well, we are all brothers in the eyes of God.’

  ‘That is a rather liberal interpretation,’ said Pechem sternly. ‘We Franciscans are not in the habit of taking waifs and strays from other Orders.’

  ‘We Franciscans also never close our doors to those in need,’ retorted Paul sharply. ‘Here is
a young man who came to me because he was in fear of his life. I did what I thought was right; I would do the same again in similar circumstances.’

  ‘But I was not safe here,’ said Lynne unsteadily, on the verge of tears. He pressed more closely against Paul, who put a comforting arm around his shoulders. ‘I thought no one would find me in a friary of Franciscans, but I was wrong. It took those devils less than four days to hunt me down.’ He scrubbed at his nose and sniffed loudly.

  ‘Who are these “devils”?’ asked Michael gently. He saw the lad was frightened, and realised that now was not the time to give vent to his irritation that Lynne had eluded him for days and probably had been withholding information that might have allowed him to solve the case far sooner.

  ‘The men who murdered your Junior Proctor,’ said Lynne miserably. He glanced around him fearfully. ‘You must see how dangerous these men are, Brother Michael. If I, a Carmelite, feel driven to seek refuge in a convent of Franciscans – with whom we have been at loggerheads for years – you will understand how deeply I am afraid.’

  ‘It is clear to me that the men who have terrified Lynne are the same ones who marched in here and demanded Faricius’s essay,’ added Paul.

  ‘How do you know that?’ asked Bartholomew, a little bewildered by the sudden flow of information.

  ‘It is complex,’ said Paul. ‘And I do not want to discuss it here. It is cold and there is rain in the air. It is fine for you youngsters, but not for an old man who has just had a dagger at his throat.’

  ‘But you said they did not harm you,’ said Bartholomew, alarmed. ‘Now you say they held you at knife point?’

  Pechem gave a hearty sigh. ‘I understand none of this. My friary is robbed, I learn that Carmelites have invaded the sanctity of our walls, and now you are talking about the murder of the Junior Proctor and stolen essays on nominalism. I think you all have some explaining to do.’