‘He was not,’ agreed Michael. ‘How did he come to be thrust in it so tightly? I know it was growing dark, and that the Carmelites were fussing and flapping around us like bees at a honey pot, but what could you determine?’
‘Not much,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The body was in such a mess that it was difficult to tell what had happened to it.’
‘We will have a hard job cleaning it up,’ said Michael. ‘Will you do it? I will not.’
‘I did not imagine you would,’ said Bartholomew, sipping more of his ale, and relishing the warmth as it reached his stomach. ‘But perhaps Agatha will help. She had a lot of experience laying out bodies during the plague.’
‘You were right to suggest that we clean Kyrkeby before handing him to the Dominicans,’ said Michael thoughtfully. ‘I do not think I have ever seen a body in such a state. I know you said it was too dark to conduct a proper investigation until morning, but what are your first impressions?’
Bartholomew shrugged. ‘There was enough light for me to see that there was a serious wound to the head that would have killed him had he been alive when it was inflicted. It was also light enough for me to tell that his neck had been broken.’
‘So?’ asked Michael. ‘Are you saying that someone hit him on the head so hard that it broke his neck?’
‘Lord, no!’ said Bartholomew with a shudder. ‘At least, I sincerely hope not. That kind of strength would mean that we have some kind of monster on the loose.’
‘What then?’ asked Michael impatiently. ‘That someone broke his neck and he damaged his head when he fell to the ground?’
‘I cannot tell. And then, of course, there was his weak heart. I have been physicking him over several months for that complaint – and he was quite ill with it on Monday afternoon.’
‘But you must be able to tell how he died,’ pressed Michael, determined to have an answer. ‘And what about the tunnel? Did it collapse naturally? Or did someone tamper with it?’
‘I have no idea, although I cannot see that a body would be so firmly stuck just from someone pushing it inside.’
‘The body was swollen,’ suggested Michael. ‘Maybe it just got bigger, as corpses are wont to do after death – gasses, you once told me.’
‘It is possible, I suppose,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He has been missing for two days – since Monday evening – although the weather is cold, which tends to slow that sort of thing down. But if someone did use the tunnel as a hiding place, he did not do a very good job by leaving a foot sticking out. And if the tunnel were used fairly frequently, which was the impression I gained from Horneby and his friends, then it was not a very permanent hiding place, either.’
‘Perhaps it was not intended to be permanent. Perhaps it was intended to hide the body long enough until somewhere better could be found.’ Michael groaned suddenly. ‘What a mess, Matt! We do not know whether Kyrkeby was hit over the head, his neck broken, rammed down a hole that collapsed on him, or died naturally. And we do not even know when it happened.’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘But remember the position of the body? Kyrkeby appeared to be leaving the Carmelite Friary, not entering it.’
‘Then perhaps he was meeting someone there. But he was taking a risk if he were. It would have been safer to arrange a meeting outside both friaries, on neutral ground – for him and for the Carmelite with whom he had business.’
‘But that assumes that the person Kyrkeby was meeting knew Kyrkeby wanted to see him,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps he did not.’
Michael sighed and scrubbed hard at his temples with two forefingers that were flecked with oatcake crumbs. ‘I do not understand any of this, Matt.’
‘Nor me,’ admitted Bartholomew. ‘But I have the feeling that all the evidence we have gained so far has been very superficial and incidental, and that there is a lot more that we do not know.’
Michael agreed. ‘But tomorrow we will find out. We will tell the Dominicans what has become of their Precentor first thing in the morning, and then I will ask whether any of them knows anything about a missing essay on nominalism.’
The following morning, just as the first glimmerings of dawn lightened the sky, Bartholomew dragged himself from a deep sleep, and washed and shaved in the dim light, muttering under his breath when he could not find a clean shirt. Michael tapped on the door and they walked into the courtyard together, ready to process to the church for the morning mass. The other scholars had barely started to assemble when Brother Timothy arrived, breathless and white-faced. Michael regarded his Junior Proctor uneasily, anticipating more bad news, but it was not Michael that Timothy wanted: he had been sent to fetch Bartholomew, because old Brother Adam was having trouble catching his breath. The physician grabbed his bag and set off at a run with Michael following at a rather more sedate pace.
It was raining steadily, and the High Street was little more than a river of thin, splashy mud. Those who were early risers looked cold and miserable as they trudged along, and seemed to be wearing clothes that had dulled to a shade of drab brown in the wet semi-darkness. Even the animals that were being herded to the Market Square were dirty and bedraggled. Roofs released thin trickles of filthy water into the streets below, and the plaster-fronted houses were grey with damp.
They reached Ely Hall, and Timothy shoved open the front door to precede them along the narrow corridor and up the stairs to the upper floor. What had once been a single large chamber had been divided into six small rooms to afford the Benedictines some privacy. Timothy had a chamber that overlooked a vile little yard at the back, while Janius and Adam had been allocated ones at the front with windows that boasted a view of the Market Square.
‘Thank God you are here,’ said Janius, crossing himself vigorously when he saw Bartholomew. ‘We were beginning to fear that you would be too late. We have been praying hard, but God has not performed a miracle yet.’
Bartholomew pushed past him to where Brother Adam lay wheezing and gasping on his bed. The old man’s face was grey, and his eyes indicated that he was very frightened. The room was stifling hot from the fire that blazed in the hearth, so the physician ordered the window opened. Then he helped Adam to sit and asked Timothy for a bowl of boiling water. While he waited, he gave Adam a small dose of poppy syrup to calm him, then a larger dose of lungwort in wine to ease the congestion. When the hot water arrived, he scattered myrrh into it and talked calmly while the old man inhaled the vapours with a cloth over his head.
After a while, Adam’s breathlessness eased and colour began to creep back into his cheeks. The monks who had clustered around the door heaved a sigh of relief, and Janius began to recite a prayer of thanksgiving in a loud, braying voice. He glared at his brethren until they joined in.
‘Thank you,’ said Adam softly, leaning back against his cushions and smiling weakly at Bartholomew. ‘This happens from time to time, especially when I go out.’
‘Why did you go out?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I recommended that you remain indoors, at least until the weather improves.’
‘At dawn today I felt like a stroll in the Market Square,’ replied Adam. ‘And in December I attended a meeting at St Radegund’s Convent. Other than that, I have obeyed your instructions to the letter.’
‘You were at the gatherings called by Walcote?’ asked Michael in astonishment, crouching next to the bed so that he could hear Adam above the strident prayers emanating from the corridor.
Adam nodded. ‘It was unpleasant walking there so late at night, and I was so ill afterwards that I told Walcote I would not attend any more. It was not a very interesting meeting, anyway.’
‘Why did you go?’ asked Michael. ‘Why not one of the others?’
‘Walcote invited me specifically, because I am Ely Hall’s senior Benedictine,’ said Adam. ‘I was going to suggest that Janius or Timothy went in my place, but the meeting was a waste of time, as it happened. We did nothing but talk about how to repair the Great Bridge and how to suppress the ideas of the realist
s. I do not hold with realism personally, but I do not like the notion of censoring theories and thoughts. It is a dangerous path to tread.’
‘Who else was there?’ demanded Michael.
‘Will Walcote and Prior Ralph represented the Austin canons, while Prior Morden put in an appearance for the Dominicans.’
‘The Austins and the Dominicans,’ said Michael in an undertone to Bartholomew. ‘That is new information. Matilde and Eve Wasteneys told us about the Carmelites, Franciscans and Gilbertines. If Adam is right, then virtually every Order in Cambridge was represented at Walcote’s nasty little covens.’
Bartholomew addressed Adam. ‘What about the Franciscans, Carmelites and Gilbertines? Did you see any of those at these meetings?’
Adam shook his head. ‘When Walcote told me that he was organising meetings for the leaders of the religious Orders, I told him I would be surprised if he could persuade the Dominicans to sit under one roof with Carmelites and Franciscans. I was right: he could not.’
‘I see,’ said Bartholomew in sudden understanding. ‘Walcote probably divided his gatherings between those who follow nominalism and those who follow realism. That is why Matilde – whose information came from the Carmelite Lincolne – only knew about him, the Franciscans and the Gilbertines. And that is why only Benedictines, Dominicans and Austins were at the gathering attended by Adam.’
‘It also explains why Eve Wasteneys said she was not sure whether the men she saw attended the same meetings,’ said Timothy thoughtfully. ‘She knew different people came on different occasions.’
Michael sighed heavily. ‘But this still does not explain why no one told me about these wretched events. I am the Senior Proctor. It was not right for Walcote to have organised them without my knowledge.’
‘It was not,’ said Janius, who had finished his prayers and was apparently honing his talent for eavesdropping. ‘But now Timothy is your Junior Proctor, such things will not happen again.’
‘Did you know about all this?’ Michael asked him.
Janius nodded slowly. ‘Adam confided in me. He had been sworn to secrecy and so obviously I could not mention it to anyone else. However, I confess I had forgotten about it until Adam reminded me just now. It happened months ago – before Yuletide.’
‘I remember it clearly, because it was the walk in the cold and the rain that caused my illness,’ said Adam. ‘I was stupid to have gone in the first place, and Janius recommended that I should attend no more of them.’
‘And Walcote invited no one in your place?’ asked Michael.
There were shaken heads all around. ‘If he had, I would have suggested that we did not go,’ said Janius. ‘Who would want an assignation in a place like that, anyway?’
‘The fact that the Benedictines did not attend after the first time explains something else, too,’ said Bartholomew thoughtfully. ‘Matilde mentioned that the numbers of people at the meetings had been dwindling. Now we learn that Adam declined to go because he considered them a waste of time. I was worried that there might be a more sinister reason for the dropping attendance.’
‘But someone still should have told me,’ persisted Michael.
‘There was very little to tell,’ said Adam apologetically. ‘As I said, we chatted about whether to donate money to repair the Great Bridge and the nominalism–realism debate.’
‘But why did Walcote hold his gatherings in the middle of the night if you discussed such mundane matters?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘I suppose subsequent ones might have been more interesting,’ admitted Adam. ‘As I told you, I only went to one.’
‘We will have that information from Prior Morden of the Dominicans,’ determined Michael. ‘We shall ask him about it when we deliver his dead colleague. Meanwhile, if you receive another invitation to one of these affairs, please tell me.’
‘We can do better than that,’ said Timothy with a grin. ‘Janius or I will go in Adam’s place and report everything that is said.’
Michael smiled his appreciation, then followed Bartholomew down the stairs and out into the Market Square, leaving Adam to rest. Timothy walked with them, then made his way to St Mary’s Church, where the beadles were assembling to receive their daily orders. Michael watched him go.
‘I made a wise decision when I chose a Benedictine as Junior Proctor. Timothy has held office for only two days, and yet I can trust him to direct my beadles already. I would have far less time to investigate these murders, if it were not for him.’
‘There is Heytesbury,’ said Bartholomew, pointing to a small, neat figure who stood near one of the farmers’ stalls in the Market Square.
‘He is an early riser,’ said Michael.
‘It looks to me as though he has not yet gone to bed,’ said Bartholomew, smiling at Heytesbury’s display of whiskers and dishevelled appearance. ‘He and Richard have probably been enjoying Cambridge’s taverns. Look, there is Richard’s horse.’
‘Heytesbury is not the kind of man to indulge in all-night debauchery,’ said Michael. ‘I do not believe he has been carousing with your errant nephew.’
Heytesbury was watching with amusement the antics of the Black Bishop of Bedminster, which had managed to slip its tether and was browsing a stack of wizened apples. The outraged farmer was powerless to stop it: slaps on its gleaming rump resulted in flailing back hoofs that threatened to kill, while no one dared to grab the reins because they were too near its battery of strong yellow teeth. Black Bishop’s eyes glistened evilly in its head, and its ears twitched back and forth as it listened for anyone rash enough to approach it while it gorged itself.
‘I do not know what possessed Richard to buy that thing,’ said Heytesbury, as Bartholomew and Michael strolled over to join him. Bartholomew detected the unmistakable odour of wine on his breath, and knew that Michael was wrong to think that Heytesbury was no carouser. ‘He is quite unable to control it, and it is only a matter of time before it does someone a serious injury.’
‘How much longer do you plan to stay in Cambridge?’ asked Michael conversationally. ‘Because if you intend to leave soon, I have the documents that will formalise our arrangements already drafted in my room at Michaelhouse. You can sign them any time you are ready.’
‘I will bear that in mind,’ said Heytesbury. He nodded to where Black Bishop still grazed the furious farmer’s fruit. ‘Is that the Fellow of Michaelhouse whom everyone claims is mad?’
Bartholomew started forward in alarm when he saw Clippesby – who had evidently managed to slip away from the Michaelhouse mass – stride up to the horse and take a firm hold of the reins. Black Bishop started to rear, angry eyes rolling white in its dark head. But Clippesby was talking in a low, intense voice, and the horse apparently had second thoughts. Its front hoofs thumped down on the ground, and its ears flicked, as if it were listening. When Clippesby’s voice dropped to a whisper, Black Bishop’s head craned forward, as if straining to catch everything that was said.
‘I see what people mean about him,’ said Heytesbury, regarding the scene in amusement. ‘A Fellow who talks to animals is peculiar indeed.’
‘You have seen nothing yet,’ muttered Michael. ‘In a few moments Clippesby will probably tell everyone in the Market Square what the Black Bishop of Bedminster said to him.’
Heytesbury laughed. ‘How can I sign your document and leave Cambridge, Brother? There is simply too much here to entertain me.’
‘Damn!’ said Michael, as Heytesbury moved away from them and edged closer to Clippesby and the horse, aiming to gain a better view. ‘I wish he would just make his mark on our agreement and go home. The future of our University lies in securing wealthy benefactors, and the longer he dallies, the less time I will have to coax Oxford’s patrons over to Cambridge. I might have secured a couple this summer, but now I will not have sufficient time.’
‘Why do we need to steal Oxford’s patrons?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Why can we not find some of our own?’
Michael gave
him an incredulous glance. ‘It is not so much that we need the patrons ourselves; it is more a case that we do not want Oxford to have them. They are already bigger than us, and I do not want to be in a position where they are capable of crushing us.’
‘That will not happen. It was possible after the plague, when there was a shortage of scholars, but things seemed to have settled down since then. Oxford poses no danger to us now.’
‘Do not be so sure. It is not impossible that the plague will return, and then there will be even fewer men willing to study. I do not want to see this University cease to exist for the want of a little forethought. Look what happened to the fledgling universities at Stamford and Northampton.’
‘Scholars from Oxford and Cambridge joined forces and petitioned for them to be suppressed,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But it is a very different matter for two large universities to suppress a smaller third, than for one to suppress another.’
‘You are wrong to be complacent, Matt.’ Michael’s mouth narrowed in a determined line. ‘But if and when Oxford makes a move against us, I shall be ready.’
Chapter 7
IT WAS NO EASY TASK TO WASH KYRKEBY’S BODY CLEAN OF mud so that a glance at it would not send the Dominicans racing to the Carmelite Friary to demand vengeance. While his colleagues’ voices echoed around the chancel of St Michael’s as they completed the first mass of the day, Bartholomew went to the south aisle where Kyrkeby’s body lay, and began his investigation as the early light filtered through the east window.
Kyrkeby looked even worse in daylight. His face was a mottled grey-white, partly from the filth that plastered it, and partly because his temporary tomb had been water-logged, and he had probably spent a good part of the previous two days buried in mud. Bartholomew had hoped to detect a slight blueness around the mouth and nose, which might indicate that the cause of death had been Kyrkeby’s weak heart, but it was impossible to tell. Kyrkeby’s eyes were slightly open in a head that lolled at a sickening angle, and there was also the wound to the back of the head. When the physician felt it, he could hear and see the broken skull bones grating under his fingers.
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