‘If Kyrkeby does speak, it will cause some raised eyebrows,’ muttered Agatha, walking towards them with a winding sheet clasped in one meaty hand. ‘And it will not be his clean hair and scrubbed fingernails that people will notice.’
‘Most scholars would be oblivious to the fact that they were receiving a lecture from a corpse,’ Cynric replied in an undertone. ‘I sometimes wonder whether half of them are dead anyway, but just do not know it.’
Agatha gave an inappropriate guffaw of laughter that echoed around the church and made everyone jump.
‘The Chancellor was in a quandary,’ Richard continued. ‘University lectures are important events, and he had no distinguished speaker for Easter Sunday. I recommended Heytesbury.’
‘You interfering little snake,’ hissed Michael furiously. ‘Heytesbury is England’s leading nominalist. The mere presence of such a man in the University church will incite a riot.’
‘Why?’ asked Richard smugly. ‘Is it because your scholars cannot trust their powers of reason and skills in rhetoric to win them the day?’
‘It is because Cambridge is a tinderbox at the moment,’ Michael almost shouted. ‘It is on the verge of serious unrest, and something like this could tip the balance. Do you really want to see the streets of the town where you were a child run with blood?’
Richard blanched, but remained defiant. ‘If they choose to use their fists rather than their wits, I cannot find it in my heart to mourn their fates.’
‘I am sure you cannot,’ said Michael coldly. ‘But I care little for what is in your heart. I care about the innocent people this will affect.’
‘I do not understand why you are in such a state about this,’ said Richard defensively. ‘Kyrkeby was going to speak on nominalism anyway, and the only difference is that your scholars will listen to a man whose logic is brilliant, instead of some bumbling old friar with bad teeth and no hair.’
‘Kyrkeby did not have bad teeth,’ said Bartholomew, startled. ‘And he had plenty of hair.’
‘Had?’ asked Richard. ‘What happened to it?’
Bartholomew gestured to the pale corpse, blotched and flaccid, that lay in the parish coffin. Agatha stepped past him and began to cover it with the sheet.
‘It is Kyrkeby,’ said Richard in horror, gazing down at the distorted features. ‘And he is dead!’
‘And you decided not to become a physician!’ muttered Michael. ‘With powers of observation like yours, the medical world should mourn such a dreadful loss.’
‘He is a funny colour,’ remarked Cynric, looking critically at Agatha’s handiwork. ‘What have you done to him?’
‘That is what happens when you spend two days in a wet, muddy hole after you are dead,’ said Bartholomew.
‘I can do something about the colour of him,’ said Agatha, treating Bartholomew to a conspiratorial wink. ‘I can make him look good enough to eat.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Bartholomew nervously, not certain what she intended to do, but very certain that she should not be permitted to proceed.
Agatha tapped the side of her nose and gave him a significant glance. ‘Women know about these things. Just leave it to old Agatha.’
‘Wait,’ said Bartholomew, as her ponderous bulk began to move off down the aisle like a great ship leaving a harbour – stately and virtually unstoppable. ‘Do not—’
‘No wonder Kyrkeby did not contact the Chancellor,’ said Richard, when Bartholomew’s objections faltered away to silence. Agatha had decided she was going to act on whatever notion had sprung into her mind, and was underway.
‘When did Chancellor Tynkell become concerned that Kyrkeby had not confirmed his intention to lecture?’ demanded Michael of Richard. ‘He did not mention this to me.’
‘He said he did not want to bother you with administration when you were busy with murders,’ said Richard. ‘But he was worried last night – Wednesday – when Prior Morden informed him that Kyrkeby had gone missing. I happened to be on hand to solve his dilemma.’
‘What were you doing with Chancellor Tynkell?’ demanded Michael. ‘He is too busy to waste time on youths who believe that owning big black horses and an ear-ring make them respected members of the community.’
‘Be that as it may, but I did him and your University a favour last night,’ said Richard firmly. ‘It would have been difficult to find a replacement, given that Kyrkeby’s lecture is scheduled for three days’ time.’
‘It would not,’ argued Michael. ‘We have many skilled and distinguished speakers who are prepared to lecture at a moment’s notice.’
‘Name one,’ challenged Richard.
‘Your uncle,’ replied Michael promptly. ‘He is the University’s most senior master of medicine. Will you claim he is one of these old friars with no hair and poor teeth?’
The young lawyer tossed the end of his capuchin over his shoulder in a deliberately casual gesture and gave a careless smile. ‘I am sure he gives a fascinating account of lancing boils and examining urine. And he has fine hair and good teeth. But Heytesbury will talk about nominalism, not give some diatribe on pustules and amputation.’
Michael’s smile was suddenly wicked. ‘Perhaps you are right,’ he said, so abruptly acquiescent that Richard’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. ‘Has Heytesbury actually agreed to speak?’
‘Yes,’ said Richard. ‘It is all settled, so it is too late for you to interfere.’
‘I would not dream of it,’ said Michael, his grin widening. ‘I shall look forward very much to Master Heytesbury’s lecture on Sunday.’
‘Good,’ said Richard, giving a courtly bow before turning and strutting out of the church. The long points of his fashionable shoes flapped on the flagstones and his russet-red cloak billowed about his elegantly clad legs as he walked. One of the shoes caught in a crack and made him stumble, although his near fall did nothing to moderate his confident swagger.
‘What did Oxford do to him?’ asked Cynric. ‘No one in the town likes him any more. I wonder whether a witch put a spell on him. Perhaps I will make enquiries at the Franciscan Friary.’
‘Why there?’ asked Bartholomew curiously. ‘The friars will not know any witches.’
‘But they know cures for curses,’ said Cynric. ‘They are very good with their remedies. Their rat poison is famous from here to Peterborough.’
‘Perhaps so,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But killing rats and removing curses that make people unpleasant are scarcely the same thing.’
‘You are wrong,’ said Michael drolly. ‘Both rid the world of something we would rather be without.’
Bartholomew glanced at him. ‘Why were you suddenly so pleased to hear that Heytesbury’s lecture is now an immovable feature?’
‘The day that Faricius was stabbed – Saturday – Chancellor Tynkell told me he was worried that the subject of Kyrkeby’s lecture might cause further problems,’ began Michael.
‘Is that why Kyrkeby was killed, do you think?’ asked Bartholomew, glancing down at the grey body in the coffin. ‘Because he was going to talk about nominalism? Lord help us, Brother! We had better keep our opinions to ourselves in future, if holding controversial theories might result in our being stuffed in someone else’s tomb.’
‘Your interpretation of nominalism involves accelerating units and stable velocities,’ said Michael disparagingly. ‘No one is likely to become too excited about that. Kyrkeby, however, was more interested in how nominalism relates to the nature of God – that the Father, Son and Holy Spirit are in fact three names – nomen – for the same being. That would make Him a universal, and universals do not exist in the real sense.’
‘That would be contentious,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘But not nearly as exciting as Heytesbury’s ideas on uniformly accelerated motion.’
‘Each to his own, Matt. But Chancellor Tynkell told me on Saturday that he was reconsidering whether to ask Kyrkeby to change the title of his lecture. Then, yesterday morning, Tynkell mentioned that he had ma
de the decision to tell Kyrkeby that nominalism was banned. Tynkell, of course, did not know that Kyrkeby was missing, and so sent a note to the friary.’
‘Then Kyrkeby never received that letter,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He has been dead for two days – probably since Monday night, when he was first missed from his friary.’
‘So, he died still thinking that he was going to speak on nominalism,’ said Michael. ‘But I know that Tynkell was nervous about demanding a change in topics at such short notice, and his letter told Kyrkeby to confirm that he was happy with the new arrangements – hence Tynkell’s concern last night when he still had not heard, I imagine.’
‘A lecture takes a long time to prepare,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It was unfair of Tynkell to expect Kyrkeby to talk about something completely different just like that.’
‘And that was exactly why he asked Kyrkeby to visit him, so that they could discuss it,’ said Michael. ‘But Tynkell thought he was doing Kyrkeby a favour, actually: everyone is so obsessed with the realism–nominalism debate at the moment, that Kyrkeby’s lecture would have had to be very good – and he was an adequate scholar at best.’
‘Why was he invited, then?’ asked Cynric bluntly. ‘I thought you had lots of brilliant scholars to choose from. At least, that is what you told Gold Ear.’
‘We do,’ said Michael. ‘But we were obliged to invite a Dominican to speak, because it is their turn. The Dominicans are short of brilliant scholars at the moment, and Kyrkeby was the best they could offer.’
‘So what did Tynkell suggest Kyrkeby should speak about instead of nominalism?’ asked Bartholomew curiously.
Michael’s grin widened. ‘The possibility of life on other planets. And that is the lecture Heytesbury will be obliged to give. Can you imagine a great man like Heytesbury discussing such a ridiculous topic? And it was Richard who arranged it – he told us so himself! Gold Ear will not be popular when Heytesbury learns that he is obliged to talk about civilisation on Mars!’
While Bartholomew, Michael and Cynric waited impatiently, Agatha gave her undivided attention to Kyrkeby’s body, dipping frequently into a basket filled to the brim with mysterious phials and packages. When she finished, she covered the body with a sheet to protect it from the driving rain, but declined to allow them to inspect her handiwork, claiming that tampering with the sheet might spoil her efforts. Beadle Meadowman, who always seemed to be conveniently close when Michael needed him, took one corner of the coffin, while Cynric, Sergeant Orwelle from the Castle and Bartholomew took the other. Then Michael led the procession at a suitably sombre pace out of the church and towards the Dominican Friary on Hadstock Way.
‘This is rough wood,’ complained Orwelle, jiggling the coffin as he tried to find a better grip. ‘Can St Michael’s not afford a decent parish coffin? Lord knows, with you scholars murdering each other all the time, it would certainly get some use. I have a splinter already.’
‘A splinter?’ echoed Cynric in disbelief. ‘I thought you were at the battle of Crécy, lad. What is a splinter compared to arrows, lances and broadswords?’
‘I did not have to endure arrows, lances and broadswords,’ replied Orwelle tartly. ‘I was an archer. I shot at other people; they did not shoot at me. This splinter hurts!’
‘Brother Timothy was at Crécy,’ said Cynric admiringly.
‘He was a captain under the Black Prince, and apparently fought very bravely. That is why it is good that the University made him Junior Proctor: a post like that needs a soldier, not just a cleric.’
‘Not necessarily,’ said Michael coolly, fixing Cynric with a look intended to remind him that some clerics made very good proctors.
‘Damn this useless chunk of wood!’ swore Cynric suddenly. ‘Now I have a splinter!’
‘Be quiet,’ ordered Michael. ‘The whole point of delaying the return of Kyrkeby’s body to the Dominicans was so that our respectful treatment of it will mollify them and prevent them from marching on the Carmelites. Do not spoil it by chattering like magpies as we walk.’
‘We were speaking softly,’ said Orwelle, stung. ‘And Kyrkeby would not have minded, anyway; he was a charming fellow. Not like that Richard Stanmore, who is too important to pass the time of day with the fathers of his old friends.’
‘Richard has only been home a few days, yet half the town seems to dislike him already,’ said Bartholomew, wishing his kinsman had made a more agreeable re-entry into Cambridge.
‘We do not like his horse, either,’ Orwelle went on. ‘It kicked over a meat stall in the Market Square yesterday, and this morning it bit the Franciscan Warden.’
‘Warden Pechem is back in Cambridge, is he?’ mused Michael. ‘Good. Now we can ask him why he attended Walcote’s meetings.’
‘Black Bishop bit Warden Pechem?’ asked Bartholomew, appalled. ‘What did Richard do?’
‘He told Pechem that if he wanted medical attention, he should summon you,’ replied Orwelle. ‘He said you would treat him free of charge, whereas Robin of Grantchester and Father Lynton of Peterhouse would make him pay.’
‘There is Master Kenyngham, free from his Easter vigil,’ said Michael suddenly, stopping the procession and pointing.
‘Speak to him about his role in these meetings now,’ advised Bartholomew, watching the familiar figure of the former Master of Michaelhouse walk dreamily along the High Street. Such was Kenyngham’s other-worldliness that Bartholomew noticed the hem of his pale habit was black with the mud through which he had unwittingly ploughed. ‘He may start another vigil, and you could find you have to wait until Easter Day for your information.’
‘Who is this?’ asked Kenyngham, looking at the coffin as he walked towards them. His halo of white fluffy hair blew gently in the wind, like a dandelion clock.
‘Kyrkeby of the Dominicans,’ said Michael. ‘Did you know him?’
Kenyngham nodded sadly. ‘I suppose his weak heart must have failed him. But he now rests with God, in a better place than us.’
‘He is in a cheap coffin covered with one of Agatha’s old sheets,’ said Orwelle, genuinely puzzled. ‘How is that better than us?’
‘I was referring to his soul,’ said Kenyngham mildly. ‘It is with God and His saints, which is where we will all be soon.’
‘Not too soon, I hope,’ muttered Cynric, indicating to the others that they should begin walking again and that Michael could catch them up when he had finished with Kenyngham.
But Kenyngham stood in front of them, inadvertently blocking their way so they were forced to stop, and then began a prayer that looked set to expand to a full requiem mass. Cynric and Meadowman shifted hands uncomfortably as the dead weight began to pull on their arms, and Bartholomew prodded Michael with his foot. Michael shrugged helplessly, not sure what to do in the face of such sincerity.
‘I am going to drop this,’ Orwelle said in a loud whisper. ‘Tell him to hurry.’
‘Prayers for the dead are our sacred duty,’ said Kenyngham gently, admonishing the impatient soldier. ‘We must never rush our time with God. But perhaps I should walk with you, and we can pray as we go.’
‘Good idea,’ said Michael quickly, taking his arm and pulling him forward. ‘Having you with us will certainly add favourably to the kind of impression I intend to make on the Dominicans. But first I would like to ask you some questions. You can pray in a moment.’
‘What sort of questions?’ asked Kenyngham nervously. ‘It is not about securing my vote for scouring the latrines twice a year instead of once, is it? That is for Matthew and Langelee to sort out between them.’
Michael raised an imperious finger to prevent Bartholomew from pursuing a matter that was very close to his heart – Michaelhouse’s drains were cleaner than most in Cambridge, but they still did not reach the physician’s exacting standards. ‘Why did you meet my Junior Proctor and others at St Radegund’s Convent?’ he demanded of Kenyngham.
Kenyngham stared at him. ‘How do you know about that?’
�
�How I know is not important. What were you discussing that warranted you walking all the way out there in the dark? And why to such a place?’
Kenyngham shuddered. ‘It was like a foretaste of hell! I went perhaps five times, and on my last visit, that wicked woman tried to manhandle me.’
‘I heard about that,’ said Michael, and Bartholomew sensed he was struggling to maintain his sombre composure while his fertile imagination produced an image of Kenyngham wrestling with Tysilia. ‘But why were you there in the first place?’
‘I cannot tell you,’ said Kenyngham.
‘Why not?’ demanded Michael, peeved that Kenyngham should refuse to reveal what he was sure had a bearing on the case he was struggling to solve.
‘Because I promised I would not,’ said Kenyngham simply. ‘And now I must pray for—’
‘Walcote was murdered, Master Kenyngham,’ said Michael harshly. ‘Someone hanged him from a drainpipe. And in order to find out who did such a monstrous thing, and to prevent it from happening again, I need to know why you and various others met him at St Radegund’s.’
‘I took an oath,’ said Kenyngham. ‘I cannot reveal what I know, however much I may wish to.’
‘But there is a killer at large,’ protested Michael in frustration. ‘What is more important – your promise or a life?’
‘A promise before God is a sacred thing and cannot be broken,’ replied Kenyngham with finality. ‘And now, if you will forgive me, there is a soul that needs my attention.’ He clasped his hands, bowed his head and gave himself entirely to praying for Kyrkeby.
‘He is so annoying when he does that,’ muttered Michael to Bartholomew irritably, casting a venomous glower at the saintly Gilbertine. ‘How can he expect me to stand by and see my colleagues slaughtered by some maniac, just because he has sworn an oath?’
‘We are here,’ said Bartholomew, looking up at the great gates of the Dominican Friary. ‘Perhaps now we shall have some answers. We can ask Morden about these meetings, since Kenyngham will not tell us.’
Michael rapped hard on the gate, until it was answered by a lay-brother, who immediately agreed to fetch his Prior when he saw what they had brought. They saw him intercept Morden on his way to the chapel, then watched the tiny Prior rush across the muddy yard towards them with Ringstead and Bulmer at his heels. Morden’s face turned white when he saw the coffin; meanwhile Kenyngham prayed on, oblivious to the consternation and alarm that was ballooning around him.
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