Lincolne regarded him uncertainly. ‘What have they to do with any of this?’
‘Just the fact that one of them forbids killing,’ said Timothy. ‘You are men of God, and yet here you are discussing how to raise armies to attack your rival Orders. You should be ashamed of yourselves. You are supposed to be setting a good example to the townsfolk, not demonstrating how to form armies and instigate street fights.’
‘The Dominicans started it,’ began Horneby hotly.
‘You do not know that for certain,’ said Michael. ‘And we will have no more of this talk of fighting. Is that clear?’
He glowered at each and every one of them until he was satisfied that they had acquiesced to his demand. Then he took a deep breath and resumed his questioning.
‘Now, we were discussing Kyrkeby’s death. I had just asked when the tunnel was last used. Horneby informed me with great conviction that no one has used the tunnel since Saturday. However, before that he admitted to using it with Lynne – on Monday – to see whether he could find Faricius’s essay. So, I will have the truth, if you please. When did anyone last use the tunnel?’
Horneby flushed a deep red, and had the grace to appear sheepish. ‘Lynne and I did use it on Monday night,’ he said in a low whisper. ‘But no one has used it since. I am sure of it.’
‘Very well,’ said Michael. ‘The next question that springs to mind is why are you so sure?’
‘Two very good reasons,’ said Horneby. ‘First, none of us wanted to be caught by the proctors, who we knew were keeping an eye on it. And second, none of us have had any desire to be out on streets teeming with hostile Dominicans.’
‘How do you know that applies to everyone here?’ pressed Michael. ‘Can you account for the movements of thirty students every single moment of the last few days?’
No one could answer him, although Lincolne blustered that his students should be given the benefit of the doubt, conveniently forgetting that they had lied to him as well as to Michael.
‘Damn!’ muttered Bartholomew, as the habit he was tugging on ripped in his hands. ‘This is impossible. We need a spade.’
‘A spade?’ asked Lincolne, horrified. ‘Are you suggesting that we excavate poor Humphrey de Lecton’s grave?’
‘Do you have any other suggestions?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Kyrkeby’s body is wedged very firmly inside it. I cannot work out whether someone rammed him down there with such force that he is stuck, or whether the tunnel has suffered some sort of collapse.’
‘I do not see why it should have collapsed if it has been here since 1290,’ said Michael. ‘I think it would be a peculiar coincidence if it stood whole and safe for so long, and only fell the moment a Dominican set foot in it.’
‘It is Humphrey de Lecton protecting us,’ said Horneby suddenly, his voice low and awed. ‘He saw that we were about to be invaded by a Dominican, and he caused the tunnel roof to collapse in order to save us!’
The Carmelites crossed themselves as Horneby made his pronouncement, and one or two of them dropped to their knees in a gesture of reverence. It was almost dark, and the curfew bells were beginning to toll, lending the graveyard an eerie atmosphere. Among the student-friars, a growing murmur that featured the word ‘miracle’ could be heard.
‘Oh, Lord, Matt!’ breathed Michael wearily. ‘This situation is going from bad to worse. As soon as I prevent them from following one wild belief, they simply come up with another. I always knew friars were not of the same intellectual calibre as monks, but this is ridiculous!’
‘We need to nip this one in the bud fairly quickly,’ said Timothy urgently. ‘The Dominicans will not sit by quietly while the Carmelites claim one of them was killed by divine intervention.’
‘Let us not jump to rash conclusions,’ said Michael loudly, silencing the reverent whispers that filled the dark graveyard. ‘As my colleague said, the body is stuck. There is nothing mysterious about a body stuck in a hole.’
‘Humphrey de Lecton saw this wicked man about to invade our sacred grounds and he struck him dead,’ proclaimed Horneby, the light of religious fervour already burning in his eyes.
‘No,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘That is not what happened. You can see for yourself that Kyrkeby’s feet are pointing this way. That means that he was leaving here, not coming to attack.’
‘He may have come feet first,’ said Horneby stubbornly.
‘The tunnel curves upwards,’ said Bartholomew. ‘No one goes up a tunnel feet first. It would be virtually impossible, not to mention uncomfortable. Where is that spade?’
One of the students handed him one of the heaviest and bluntest tools Bartholomew had ever seen. It possessed a wooden handle so worn that it was as smooth as new metal, and the rivets that held the iron blade were loose and wobbled disconcertingly when he leaned on it. He scratched away some of the muddy earth, then took hold of the cold, white foot to pull again.
‘Have there been collapses of the tunnel before?’ asked Michael of Horneby, watching Bartholomew strain and pant with the effort.
Horneby shook his head. ‘Not that I know of. It is made of clay, and clay never collapses.’
‘Do not speak nonsense,’ snapped Michael irritably. ‘Clay subsides just as readily as any other soil.’ He saw Bartholomew lose his grip on the foot again, and the body slid back into its premature tomb. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake! Let me do it.’
He elbowed Bartholomew aside, and began hauling and tugging on the foot for all he was worth. His sizeable girth gave the impression that he was flabby and weak, but Michael was actually a very strong man. Everyone winced when a loud crack indicated a broken bone, and Bartholomew stopped him before his impatience resulted in the removal of Kyrkeby’s foot. He did not want claims of mutilation to accompany the accusations of murder that were sure to follow. He lay on his stomach and applied the spade with a little more vigour, digging while Timothy held the damaged leg. And then Bartholomew felt something give.
‘He is coming out,’ he gasped, digging harder. ‘Pull!’
In a shower of pebbles and liquid mud, the Dominican Precentor shot from the earth, landing on Timothy, who was not quick enough to move out of the way. Revolted, the Junior Proctor scrambled away, leaving Kyrkeby lying in a dishevelled heap on the ground. Bartholomew knelt next to the corpse, wiping sweat from his eyes with the sleeve of his tabard, while Timothy hastily retreated behind Humphrey de Lecton’s tomb, where Bartholomew was certain he was being sick.
The body was filthy, and the physician could barely make out the features of the face, even when one of the students obligingly held a lamp closer. Kyrkeby’s head was loose, and rolled at an unnatural angle, while a brownish-red mess on the back of his skull indicated he had received a crushing blow there at some point.
‘Well?’ asked Michael, standing with his hands on his hips. ‘You said we would know more when you had a whole body to inspect. You have a whole body, so what can you tell me?’
‘Not here, Brother,’ said Bartholomew quietly. ‘I recommend we take Kyrkeby to St Michael’s Church, where I can examine him properly. Then we can have him cleaned before returning him to the Dominicans.’
‘Why?’ demanded Horneby aggressively. ‘Let them clean their own dead. They did not treat Faricius so kindly.’
‘Because if you hand Kyrkeby back to his colleagues looking like this, you will have angry Dominicans massing outside your gates demanding vengeance,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We will break the news to them when we can show them a corpse that does not look as though it has been treated with disrespect.’
‘Very sensible,’ said Lincolne approvingly. ‘I do not want a horde of nominalists yelling at me all night when I am trying to sleep.’
‘Perhaps a prayer for this poor man’s soul might not go amiss,’ said Michael coldly. ‘Whatever you might think of Dominicans, you might at least do that.’
‘Very well,’ said Lincolne with a sigh. He gestured to his students to kneel in a circle, and drew himsel
f up to his full height to begin a mass that sounded impressive, even if it was probably not sincere. His flask of holy water emerged, and was splashed around with its customary vigour, splattering the students and the ground as well as Kyrkeby.
‘Fetch Cynric,’ said Michael in a low voice to Bartholomew. ‘Ask him to summon my beadles to carry Kyrkeby to the church. I will remain here with the body, and ensure they do not tamper with the evidence.’
‘Will you be all right alone?’ asked Bartholomew, reluctant to leave the monk in a graveyard where the killer might be kneeling in the praying circle around his victim.
‘Of course I will. Timothy will be with me, and anyway, even the most desperate of killers is unlikely to attack me in full view of the rest of his friary.’
‘Do you think any of them will stop him?’ asked Bartholomew nervously. ‘They might decide it is better for you to die, rather than the killer be exposed.’
‘They would find it difficult to explain my corpse and Timothy’s, as well as Kyrkeby’s, when you return with the beadles,’ said Michael, smiling wanly. ‘Go, Matt. Now that Cynric lives with his wife and not in Michaelhouse, he is not far away. You can be back within moments.’
Bartholomew glanced behind him as he left, and saw the lamplight gleaming around the edges of Lincolne’s funnel of hair, like a halo. The Prior’s prayers carried on the still air as the physician hurried out of the convent and into Milne Street, where his book-bearer occupied a pleasant room in Oswald Stanmore’s business premises.
Cynric answered the urgent knocking almost immediately, and Bartholomew was surprised to see the small Welshman cloaked and fully armed, as though he had anticipated being summoned on University business.
‘Have you been out?’ asked Bartholomew, as Cynric closed the door behind him so that their voices would not disturb his wife.
Cynric shook his head. ‘Not yet. Rachel and I have been going to the Holy Week vigils at St Mary’s Church. There is no point undressing when you have to put it all back on again in a few hours, so we sleep in our clothes. Anyway, it is warmer. But what is the problem? It would not be another murder, would it?’
‘How do you know that?’ asked Bartholomew warily.
Cynric grinned, his teeth gleaming white in the dim light from the candle he held. ‘What other business is there that brings you to me after dusk?’
‘I occasionally need you to go with me to see a patient,’ said Bartholomew.
‘But not often,’ said Cynric. ‘And anyway, you tend to use your students for that. No, boy. When I hear your soft tap on the door after the curfew bell has sounded, I know it only means one thing: the University has itself another killing.’
‘Well, that was an unpleasant day,’ said Michael, flopping into a comfortable chair in Michaelhouse’s kitchen much later that evening. He closed his eyes and willed himself to relax, aided by the large goblet of mulled ale that was pressed into his ready hand by Agatha the laundress.
It was very late, and most scholars were in bed, huddled under their blankets in an attempt to keep warm, even if they were not sleeping. It had been a long winter, and Michaelhouse had already spent the money allocated to firewood for the year. Langelee, juggling the College’s finances with a skill that surprised everyone who knew him, had managed to provide funds for fuel to warm the hall during breakfast and dinner, but the remainder of the day was spent in chilly misery. At nine o’clock that evening, the hall was abandoned, and lay dark, icy and silent.
The kitchen was a different matter. It was not possible to cook without a fire, and so it was always the warmest place in the College. Also, Agatha the laundress, who unofficially supervised the domestic side of Michaelhouse, was not the kind of woman to freeze while there was kindling in the woods and all kinds of ‘kinsfolk’ to acquire it for her. There was a cosy fire blazing, even at that late hour, with a cauldron of spiced ale bubbling over it and fresh oatcakes heating on a griddle to one side.
Agatha was a formidable figure, whose personal opinions rivalled those of Father William for bigotry and ignorance. She had been laundress at Michaelhouse for years – how many years no one could remember – although she did not look any different to Bartholomew than she had done when he had arrived to take up his appointment as master of medicine some ten years before. She was a big woman, although Bartholomew would not have called her fat, and had a large, open face with a bristly chin that was the envy of some of Bartholomew’s younger, beardless undergraduates.
‘Terrible business about Walcote,’ said Agatha, passing Michael the platter of oatcakes before settling herself in her large wicker throne near the fire. ‘I was sorry to hear about him. He seemed a nice man.’
‘He was,’ agreed Michael. ‘You have not heard any rumours about his death, have you? My beadles said you were in the King’s Head the night he died, and that is often a good place to pick up snippets of information about such matters.’
‘It was certainly discussed,’ replied Agatha. ‘Sergeant Orwelle from the Castle came into the King’s Head for a drink to steady his nerves after he found poor Walcote hanging by the neck like some felon on a gibbet.’
‘What did he say?’ asked Michael, hastily suppressing the unpleasant image she had created in his mind. ‘I spoke to Orwelle myself, but people often say more to their drinking companions than they do to the forces of law and order.’
‘Only that Walcote was hanging from the drainage pipe outside the Dominican Friary,’ said Agatha. ‘And that someone had stolen his purse.’
‘His purse?’ asked Michael, startled. ‘I did not know about that, and no one mentioned it at Barnwell Priory. How did Orwelle come to notice such a thing?’
‘People do notice things like missing purses,’ said Agatha, surprised by the question. ‘These are hard times, Brother, and no one is paid what he deserves. The dead have no use for earthly wealth, and so it is only fitting that whoever finds a corpse and raises the alarm should have what is left.’
‘What are you saying?’ asked Bartholomew, astonished by the assertion. ‘That Tulyet’s soldiers regularly engage in corpse-robbing?’
‘You cannot rob a corpse,’ stated Agatha authoritatively. ‘A corpse cannot own anything, and so it stands to reason that you cannot steal from it.’
‘Well argued,’ said Michael. ‘Although I am not sure I concur. A corpse might not own anything, but his next of kin are entitled to what he leaves. But never mind the ethics of all this. Tell me more about the purse.’
‘Sergeant Orwelle noticed the purse was gone, because he was going to put it in a safe place for Walcote’s next of kin,’ said Agatha, unashamedly changing her story to protect Orwelle’s reputation. ‘We all asked him who might have killed poor Walcote, but he did not know. We all believe it was a scholar, though.’
‘Really?’ asked Michael, raising his eyebrows laconically. ‘And why would that be, pray?’
‘The proctors keep the scholars in order,’ said Agatha. ‘We townsfolk like proctors, but we do not always like the rest of you. You are always engaging in stupid squabbles. I heard in the King’s Head that the latest argument is about whether things that do not have names are real. It is all a lot of nonsense, if you ask me.’
‘Put like that, it sounds like a lot of nonsense to me, too,’ said Michael, smiling at Agatha’s terse summary of the nominalism–realism debate. ‘Still, you show a better understanding of the issues at stake than Father William does.’
‘Dear William,’ said Agatha fondly. ‘He does not indulge in all this subtle plotting and cunning quarrelling.’
‘I should say,’ agreed Michael wholeheartedly. ‘No one could ever accuse William of being subtle or cunning.’
‘It is Thursday tomorrow,’ said Agatha, easing her bulk from her chair. ‘Only three days left of Lent. I had better go to bed, because I have Easter supplies to buy, baking to supervise, and doubtless you will all want your albs washed for the celebrations; Matthew’s will almost certainly need mending.’
‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew, puzzled. ‘It is not torn.’
‘Everything you give me to launder is torn,’ Agatha admonished him. ‘Just look at you now. The hem on your tabard is down, your shirt cuffs are frayed, and you have ripped the knee out of your hose.’
‘That was from grovelling in the mud trying to pull Dominicans out of other men’s graves,’ muttered Bartholomew, noticing for the first time that thick, silty dirt still clung to him.
‘Brother Michael was also pulling dead men from the ground, but he is not in such a state. You need to improve yourself,’ instructed Agatha. ‘I am a laundress, not a muck-collector, and I do not want to be up to my elbows in filth every time you give me a bundle of clothes to clean.’
Having said her piece and expecting no argument, Agatha banked the fire and made her way to her quarters above the service rooms behind the kitchens. As the only female member of the College, she had more space and a better room than Master Langelee. She was proud of the sway she held in the College, and expected to be treated with deference.
When she had gone, Bartholomew took her place, settling himself down among the cushions that still held her warmth and that smelled of wood-smoke and cooked food. In pride of place was one that was blue with a gold fringe. It had been used to smother Langelee’s predecessor while the man had counted his money. Although Agatha swore it had been carefully cleaned, Bartholomew remained convinced that he could still detect a dark patch where the victim’s saliva had stained it. Picking it up between thumb and forefinger, he flung it to the other side of the room, where it was gratefully received by the College cat.
‘Pity about Kyrkeby,’ said Michael, taking another oatcake for himself and throwing one to Bartholomew, so hard that the physician found himself with a lap full of crumbs. ‘I confess I had not expected to find him dead when he was reported missing.’
‘And I had not anticipated finding his body stuffed inside an old tomb,’ said Bartholomew. ‘As you saw, he was not easy to extricate.’
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