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.
‘Well, that was a waste of time,’ he said irritably, hauling his cowl over his head and drawing his warm cloak tightly around his shoulders. ‘It is a long walk here, and I expected to gain more than you telling me that Walcote had been hanged – which I already knew – and that I must look outside Barnwell to uncover the identity of his killer.’
‘That yellow stain might be important,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It may have been left there by his killer, and could help us identify the culprit.’
‘Perhaps,’ mumbled Michael ungraciously. ‘Although we do not even know what it is, so I cannot see how it will help us to track down the murderer. If you said it was something used by tanners or by parchment makers or some other tradesman, then we might have been able to act on it. But all we know is that it is a yellowish sticky grease of unknown origin.’
‘The Franciscan friars know a lot about peculiar substances,’ suggested Timothy. ‘Their rat poison is famous from here to Peterborough, so perhaps one of them might be able to identify it.’
Michael rubbed his eyes tiredly. ‘I hope it was not a Franciscan who killed Walcote and Faricius. They are at loggerheads with the Austins at the moment, because of this damned philosophical debate, so I suppose it is possible. But the Franciscans will not take kindly to being accused of harbouring a killer.’
‘Then we shall have to be more circumspect,’ said Timothy earnestly. ‘Ely Hall has mice, so I shall visit the Franciscans on the pretext of asking for a solution. While I am there, I shall have a good look for that yellow stuff. If I see any, I shall report back to you, and we can then decide how to proceed.’
‘Good,’ said Michael, approvingly. ‘That may lead somewhere, and if it does not, we will have antagonised no one.’
‘And what about the presence of Simon Lynne here and at the Carmelite Friary?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘That will probably amount to nothing,’ said Michael gloomily. ‘I wanted to find real clues. I was hoping to discover who killed Walcote quickly – today.’
‘At least we have been thorough,’ said Timothy encouragingly. ‘We needed to inspect Walcote’s body and we needed to visit his priory, just to be certain we had overlooked nothing. Just because we learned little does not make it a waste of time.’
Michael looked as though he disagreed, but the priory door opened, and Nicholas sidled out, casting a quick and agitated glance behind him before he closed it. He was already wearing Walcote’s boots, although they were too small and meant that he walked with a peculiarly mincing gait.
‘I know something that may help you,’ he said in a whisper, even though it was unlikely that he could have been overheard through the thick gates. ‘I did not want to mention it at first, because I promised Will I would tell no one. But then I decided I should tell you anything that might prove relevant to his death, although you probably know what I am going to say anyway. But I thought I should mention it, just in case you did not.’
‘I want to know anything that could have a bearing, however remote, on Will’s murder,’ said Michael, intrigued by Nicholas’s rambling discourse.
‘I do not know whether it has a bearing,’ said Nicholas. ‘It involves certain women, but I am sure you know what I am talking about.’
‘Women?’ asked Michael, mystified. ‘With Will? I always understood his affections ran in other directions – in yours, to be precise.’
Nicholas lowered his eyes and gazed at the ground. ‘We did have a certain understanding,’ he said. ‘We have been close since he arrived at Barnwell ten years ago. But that was not what I meant. Will had dealings with the nuns at St Radegund’s convent. Did you know about that?’
‘What kind of dealings?’ demanded Michael, indicating that he did not. ‘They were certainly not romantic ones. He was too devoted to you to indulge in that sort of thing.’
More tears brimmed in Nicholas’s eyes. ‘Thank you for saying that. But I do not know the nature of his business with the nuns. He never told me. I assumed it was something he was doing in relation to his duties as Junior Proctor, which is why I thought you would know about them.’
‘Well, I did not,’ said Michael shortly. ‘What makes you think these “dealings” had anything to do with the proctors’ office?’
‘Everyone knows that the students tend to congregate near the convent from time to time,’ said Nicholas. ‘I suppose they find a gathering of ladies irresistible. I assumed his business was related to preventing that from happening.’
‘Did you ask him about it?’ said Michael.
Nicholas glanced at the fat monk with haunted eyes. ‘Of course I did. He merely treated me to that enigmatic smile of his and said it was better for me not to know too much about what transpired at the convent.’
‘What did he mean by “better”?’ pressed Michael. ‘Safer? Or was he suggesting that it was so secret that not even his closest friend could be told?’
‘I do not know,’ said Nicholas. ‘It had nothing to do with you, then? It was nothing you had asked him to do as Junior Proctor?’
‘No,’ replied Michael. He looked thoughtful, trying to guess what arrangement his Junior Proctor might have had with the nuns of St Radegund’s that was so secret he would not even tell his lover. ‘Thank you for telling us this, Nicholas. If everyone is as helpful, we might yet have this killer in front of the King’s justices.’
Leaving Nicholas to slip back into Barnwell Priory unnoticed, the monk turned on his heel and began to stride down the Causeway with Bartholomew and Timothy following. It was a miserable journey. The rain had turned to sleet and drove into their faces, and the wind sliced through Bartholomew’s cloak so that he wondered whether there was any point in wearing it at all. Even the uncharacteristically brisk pace set by Michael did not serve to warm him. The countryside was grey, dead and dismal, and there was not the merest trace of spring buds or leaves on the stunted trees.
Michael, however, seemed cheered by Nicholas’s intelligence, and walked purposefully, oblivious to the inclement weather that buffeted him. He declared that a visit to the good women of St Radegund’s Convent was in order, and instructed Timothy to begin his covert search for the yellow substance in the Franciscan Friary, while he and Bartholomew undertook the more pleasant task of asking the nuns about Walcote’s business with them. Obediently, Timothy hurried back to the town, while Bartholomew and Michael turned towards the convent.
The convent had suffered a serious fire in 1313, and everything had been rebuilt. The small community of Benedictine nuns now enjoyed a comfortable range of buildings that included a pleasant solar, a refectory with a substantial hearth so that they seldom ate in the cold, and a church that possessed some of the loveliest wood carvings Bartholomew had ever seen. All were linked by a cloister, which meant the nuns were not obliged to walk in the rain when they made their way to and from their offices.
Unfortunately, the reputation of St Radegund’s had suffered badly under the leadership of some of its prioresses. The one who had ruled during the Death had not been popular or pleasant, but she had at least maintained a degree of order over the women in her care. Her successors had not, and the convent had been visited by a number of bishops and other important Benedictines to investigate allegations of dishonesty and loose behaviour.
Personally, Bartholomew had little cause to deal with the nuns, and so had no idea whether the accusations were true or not, although his suspicions had been aroused when he had seen the state of Dame Martyn that morning. Michael, whose calling as a Benedictine meant that he was privy to information about the convent that was not widely available, cheerfully maintained that the allegations were entirely true. Bartholomew did not know whether to be
lieve him or not, given that the monk was not averse to flagrant exaggeration and that the notion of a convent of willing ladies was something that appealed to his sense of humour.
Michael strode up a path that wound through an attractive grove of chestnut trees, and tapped on the gatehouse door. Bartholomew followed him slowly, the once familiar track bringing back uncomfortable memories. The last time he had visited St Radegund’s was during the plague, when he had been betrothed to a woman named Philippa Abigny. Philippa had been deposited in the convent for safe keeping by her parents, although Bartholomew had visited her regularly. Once the Death had moved on, leaving the survivors to deal with its ravages as well as they could, Philippa had decided not to take an impoverished physician as a husband after all, and had married a wealthy merchant instead.
Bartholomew wondered how different his life would have been had he taken a wife. He would have been forced to resign his Fellowship, since Fellows of the colleges were not permitted to marry, and there would have been no teaching and no students. But there would have been compensations, such as a family and a real home. A sudden vision of Philippa entered his mind – tall, fair and lovely – and he experienced a sharp pang of loneliness. His painful reminiscences were interrupted when a metal grille in the door clicked open in response to Michael’s knock, and a pair of dark eyes peered out at them.
‘Yes?’ asked the owner of the eyes expectantly. Bartholomew recognised her as the novice who had been so blunt about her Prioress’s condition earlier that morning; he also recalled that her name was Tysilia. ‘What can we do for you?’
Michael sniggered and waved his eyebrows at her. ‘Let us in and I will tell you.’
The grille snapped shut and Bartholomew shot the monk a withering look, seeing that Michael’s inappropriate flirting had lost them the opportunity to talk to the nuns about Walcote’s death. They were hardly likely to admit such a flagrant lecher into their midst. So Bartholomew was startled when the door was flung open, and Tysilia swung her arm in an expansive gesture to indicate that they were to enter.
‘Come in, then, good scholars, and tell us what you had in mind,’ she said, giving Michael an outrageous wink. ‘Do not keep us wondering.’
Michael shot through the door, leaving Bartholomew to follow more cautiously. ‘I have a bad feeling about this,’ he muttered. ‘Perhaps we should have Edith with us, or Matilde …’
‘Oh, yes, we should have brought Matilde,’ Michael whispered back facetiously. ‘It is always a good idea to bring a prostitute to a convent as an escort, Matt – although I confess that, in this case, I do not know who would be protecting whom.’
‘Well?’ asked Tysilia, hands on hips as she looked the two scholars up and down appraisingly, as a groom might survey a horse. She no longer wore the cloak that had covered her that morning, and Bartholomew was surprised to note that her black Benedictine habit was fashionably tight, cut rather low at the front, and sported a large jewelled cross that was a long way from the simple poverty envisioned and recommended by St Benedict. ‘What do you want?’
‘We have questions of a confidential nature that pertain to a delicate investigation I am conducting,’ said Michael pompously.
‘Eh?’ said Tysilia, a blank expression on her pretty features. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘We want to speak to the Prioress,’ translated Michael.
‘Oh! Why did you not say so? Come upstairs, then. I expect our Prioress will not mind a couple of guests. She likes surprises.’
‘Perhaps you should announce us first,’ suggested Bartholomew tactfully. ‘It is time for sext, and she may not want to be disturbed at her offices by unexpected visitors.’
Tysilia and Michael regarded Bartholomew as if he were insane.
‘Follow me, then,’ said Tysilia, after an awkward silence. ‘Everyone is in the day-room.’
‘I believe “solar” is the fashionable way to refer to that chamber these days,’ said Michael conversationally, as they walked with her through a narrow slype between the church and a parlour to reach the cloister. ‘I have not heard anyone referring to a “day-room” for years. Even my grandmother does not use such an antiquated term.’
‘I keep forgetting it,’ said Tysilia. She gave a weary sigh. ‘There is such a lot for a young woman to remember these days – like threading a needle with silk before starting the embroidery; not wiping my lips on the tablecloth at mealtimes if anyone else is watching; and going to church occasionally.’
‘It must be very taxing for you,’ said Michael sympathetically, his eyes fixed on her swaying hips as she preceded him through the cloister. Aware of his attention, she lifted her robe higher than was necessary to keep it from trailing in the puddles on the paving stones, revealing a pair of shapely white calves and some shoes that were ridiculously inadequate for anything other than lounging indoors.
‘I am Tysilia de Apsley,’ she said, glancing around to give Michael a smile that had the undeniable qualities of a leer. Her disconcerting behaviour confirmed the impression Bartholomew had that morning: that she was not clever, and that she was being trained to hide the fact by flaunting her good looks. She certainly knew how to charm Michael. ‘I expect you have heard of me.’
‘I hear a great many things,’ replied Michael ambiguously, stepping quickly around her to open a door before she reached it. She disappeared inside, and then gave a shriek of delighted indignation. Bartholomew glanced up just in time to see Michael returning his hands to their customary position inside their wide sleeves. ‘But just remind me in what context I might have heard a pretty name like Tysilia de Apsley.’
‘My uncle is the Bishop of Ely,’ she said, her voice echoing back down the stairs as she climbed them. ‘Thomas de Lisle.’
‘Damn!’ muttered Michael to Bartholomew. ‘I would not have done that, had I known. Still, I think she enjoyed it.’
‘And what did you do exactly, Brother?’ asked Bartholomew.
Michael chuckled softly. ‘Nothing I would recommend you try, now that we know who she is. I should have remembered she was here. My lord Bishop told me that he had placed his wanton niece at St Radegund’s out of harm’s way; I recall telling him it was a very good place for her.’
Bartholomew glanced sharply at him. ‘Do you mean it is good because it is a convent and will cure her indecent behaviour, or because she will probably feel at home in an institution with a reputation like St Radegund’s?’
Michael’s smile was enigmatic. ‘What do you think?’
‘I do not know,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But it is unwise to trust someone like her with gate duties. It seems to me that she will allow anyone inside as long as he is male.’
‘The Sacristan, Eve Wasteneys, is no fool,’ replied Michael ambiguously. ‘I expect she knows what she is doing, although I cannot say the same for that sot who is currently drinking her way through the convent’s once-impressive wine cellars.’
‘Do you mean Prioress Martyn?’ asked Bartholomew, recalling that she was happy to avail herself of other people’s wine cellars, too, if her collapse at the side of the road that morning had been anything to go by.
‘Have you met her?’ asked Michael. ‘I suppose you have been called to give her cures for over-indulgence, although the nuns usually try to conceal her excesses.’
‘You look familiar,’ said Tysilia, turning to Bartholomew with a slight frown marring her pretty features. ‘I think I have seen you before.’
‘This morning,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You were on your way home from the Panton manor, and your Prioress was taken ill.’ ‘She was not ill; she was drunk,’ stated Tysilia uncompromisingly. ‘But, yes, I think I remember you. However, you wore a pretty ear-ring this morning. What happened to it?’
‘An ear-ring?’ queried Michael, startled.
‘That was my nephew,’ replied Bartholomew.
‘Your nephew is an ear-ring?’ asked Tysilia, frowning harder than ever.
‘Lord help us!’ breathed
Michael, regarding her uncertainly. ‘No wonder the Bishop wanted her out of the way.’
‘I am sorry I am confused,’ said Tysilia, looking anything but contrite. ‘But all men look the same to me when they wear black. If they wear pretty colours, I recall them better, but there is nothing memorable about black.’
‘That must be awkward for you, considering men of your own Order wear black habits,’ said Michael dryly.
Tysilia giggled, then pushed open a door at the top of the stairs. ‘It has proved embarrassing on occasion. But here is our day-room – I mean our … what did you say it was called again, Brother? I have forgotten already.’
Bartholomew gazed at the scene in the solar, and fought hard not to gape in open-mouthed astonishment. A large fire burned in the hearth, and so that the room was warm to the point of being overheated. A number of nuns were there, some sitting at a large table and engaged in communal embroidery, while others lounged on cushion-covered benches or were comfortably settled in cosy window-seats. Two things caught Bartholomew’s eye immediately. The first was that not all the nuns were fully clothed, although they did not seem to be especially discomfited by the sudden presence of two men in their midst; the second was that they were not alone.
Simon Lynne was there. He sat near a window, his freckled face flushed and his mop of thick hair tousled and unruly. He regarded Bartholomew and Michael warily, then rose slowly to his feet. The physician was not surprised that the Carmelite student-friar was red and tangle-haired, given that he must have run very quickly from Barnwell Priory to reach the convent before Bartholomew and Michael. He wondered whether Lynne had overheard Nicholas telling Michael about Walcote’s mysterious visits to the convent, and had determined to ask his own questions before the Senior Proctor could – or perhaps he had even come to warn the nuns that Michael was heading their way.
‘You arrived here remarkably quickly, Lynne,’ said Michael coolly. ‘But it is good to see you, nevertheless. There are a few questions I would like to put to you.’
Bartholomew 07 - An Order for Death Page 14
