Bartholomew 07 - An Order for Death

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘Did you make that vow to Walcote?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Because if you did, then I suggest that the time has come for openness. Walcote is dead, and Michael is certain that whatever was discussed at the meetings has a bearing on the case.’

  ‘Michael would think that,’ said Pechem. ‘But what we discussed had nothing to do with him.’

  ‘You should let Michael be the judge of that,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And now it seems his life may be in danger. You should tell him what you know before more lives are lost – especially his. He is my friend, and I do not want to see him come to harm.’

  Pechem’s eyes appeared from beneath the bed-covers, small and black in a face that was flushed from the warmth of the furs. ‘But we discussed nothing that will endanger Brother Michael.’

  ‘Then what did you talk about?’

  ‘The fact that the nominalism–realism debate seems to be gaining more importance than it warrants. Walcote, to give him his due, tried to suggest that both sides should meet and battle out the issue in the debating hall, but none of us thought that was a good idea.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well, because we realists might have lost the argument, for a start,’ said Pechem. ‘Some of those nominalists are clever men – especially the Benedictines and the Austin canons. The Dominicans would have presented us with no problem, since they have no good scholars to speak of.’

  ‘Is that the only reason you did not want an open debate?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking that it was a poor theory if its proponents declined to expound it in the lecture halls lest they lost.

  ‘It was the biggest one. The other was that we did not want a riot on our hands. The Carmelites and the Dominicans, in particular, were on the verge of a fight, and we did not want a public occasion to provide the spark to set them on fire.’

  ‘And what else was discussed?’ asked Bartholomew.

  Pechem sighed. ‘I suppose now that Kenyngham has revealed what he knows it makes no difference whether I keep my silence or not. We had plans to donate money anonymously to the town for the Great Bridge to be repaired.’

  ‘Why does that call for secrecy?’ asked Bartholomew, who already knew from Adam that repairs to the bridge were discussed.

  ‘Have you used the Great Bridge recently?’ asked Pechem, answering with a question of his own.

  There had been a bridge over the River Cam since at least the ninth century, and William the Conqueror had raised another to link his newly built castle with the rest of the town. Gradually, the Conqueror’s bridge had fallen into disrepair, and in the 1270s a tax had been imposed on the town to build another. The money had promptly been pocketed by the Sheriff, who then declined to produce a new bridge and made superficial repairs to the old one instead. Since then, stone piers had been built, but the wooden planking was soft and rotten with age. The long wet winter had not helped, and the few remaining sound timbers had been stolen by soldiers from the Castle, who wanted to charge people for being rowed across the river in their boats. Anyone using the bridge therefore did so at considerable peril.

  ‘Well?’ demanded Pechem, still waiting for his reply. ‘Have you crossed the Great Bridge of late? Most sane men have not.’

  ‘I avoid it, if I can,’ admitted Bartholomew. ‘But the townsfolk would be deeply indebted to the religious Orders for repairing it. Why should you keep such charity secret?’

  ‘Because we do not want the town thinking we have so much money that we can afford to scatter it in all directions,’ snapped Pechem. ‘If we did mend the thing, it would have to be funded discreetly.’

  ‘Is that all you talked about at these meetings? Repairing the Great Bridge and how to avoid a proper debate with the nominalists?’

  Pechem sighed and gnawed at his bottom lip. ‘We discussed a theft from one of the University chests,’ he said reluctantly.

  ‘What theft?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘What was stolen?’

  ‘Deeds, books, all sorts of things,’ said Pechem. ‘The main University Chest is a large box stored in the tower of St Mary’s Church. Since an attempt was made to steal it some years ago, a duplicate chest has been stored at the Carmelite Friary.’

  ‘I know all this,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But when did this recent theft happen? I always understood that St Mary’s tower was virtually impregnable these days, and that it was impossible to gain access to it without the right keys.’

  ‘So it is,’ said Pechem. ‘It was the chest at the Carmelite Friary that was ransacked, not the one in St Mary’s Church.’

  ‘When was it attacked?’ asked Bartholomew a second time.

  ‘Christmas.’

  ‘That was months ago. Why was it kept secret?’

  ‘That is easy to answer,’ said Pechem. ‘When it was discovered that the chest had been breached, Prior Lincolne – who, as head of the Carmelite Order in Cambridge, is responsible for guarding it – immediately sent for the Junior Proctor to investigate.’

  ‘Why Walcote? Why not Michael? Presumably, this theft was taken very seriously?’

  ‘Very seriously,’ agreed Pechem. ‘But we could not have Brother Michael investigating the theft, could we?’

  ‘Why not?’ pressed Bartholomew. ‘He is the Senior Proctor. It is his job.’

  ‘Perhaps it is,’ said Pechem. ‘But not when there was plenty of evidence to suggest that it was Michael who committed the theft in the first place.’

  Bartholomew returned to Michaelhouse, and was admitted by a student because the College was short of night porters. Martin Arbury had been reading by candlelight, and asked the physician for a summary of Heytesbury’s position on accelerating motion. Bartholomew obliged, and the youngster listened intently before returning to his studies.

  Bartholomew wanted to talk to Michael, but he discovered that the monk and Langelee had done some serious harm to Langelee’s barrel of wine, and were still ensconced in comradely bonhomie next to the fire, toasting each other’s health. Their carousing could be heard all over the courtyard, and was probably keeping more than one weary student from his sleep. The physician wondered how Langelee felt able to justify the heavy fines he imposed on the scholars he caught doing the same thing.

  He declined to join them, and instead went to Kenyngham’s room. He knocked softly on the door and slipped inside. Kenyngham was asleep, as were the three students who shared his room. They lay on straw mattresses that were stored under Kenyngham’s bed during the day and were brought out to cover the whole floor at night. Their steady breathing indicated that Bartholomew’s entry had not woken them, and he wondered whether they had been at the wine themselves, for the sounds of Langelee and Michael enjoying themselves in the room virtually above their heads were deafening. He sat on the edge of Kenyngham’s bed and shook the elderly Gilbertine awake.

  ‘I know what you discussed at these meetings,’ he whispered when the friar sat up rubbing his eyes. ‘The theft from the chest in the Carmelite Friary.’

  He heard Kenyngham sigh softly. ‘Come outside, Matthew. My students mark all seven offices at church during Holy Week, and it will not do if they fall asleep during them because you want to talk to me in the middle of the night.’

  If Kenyngham’s students were attending all the religious offices, as well as their morning lectures, no wonder they all slept so deeply, thought Bartholomew. He waited for Kenyngham to draw on a pair of shoes, then followed him into the courtyard.

  ‘What is that?’ asked Kenyngham, as his sleep-befuddled wits sharpened and he became aware of the row emanating from Langelee’s room. ‘I am surprised the Master permits such a racket at this time of night.’

  ‘I visited Prior Pechem tonight,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He told me about the Carmelites’ theft.’

  ‘He should not have done that,’ said Kenyngham, gazing up at the dark sky above. ‘But now you know, I suppose there is no point in further secrecy. I wish you had not meddled: you are Michael’s friend.’

  ‘Michael is not a thief,�
� said Bartholomew. ‘He skates on thin ice from time to time, but he would never steal.’

  ‘The evidence suggests otherwise,’ said Kenyngham. ‘He was the only person with access to a key, other than Chancellor Tynkell.’

  ‘That means nothing,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Someone could have used a knife to prise the chest open.’

  ‘The master locksmith inspected it the morning after the theft. He told Walcote that it had been breached because someone had a key, not because it had been forced open.’

  ‘But Tynkell – or even Michael himself – could have mislaid the key or left it unguarded, enabling someone else to make a copy,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘This so-called “evidence” of yours does not prove that Michael is a criminal.’

  ‘I have not finished yet,’ said Kenyngham. ‘Michael was actually seen entering the friary by at least two people the evening the theft was committed. Walcote interviewed every Carmelite, and it was ascertained beyond the shadow of a doubt that he had visited no one there that night.’

  ‘But a good deal of Michael’s business is secret,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘Remember what happened when Langelee revealed his pending arrangements with Heytesbury last year? There was a perfectly honest explanation, but he could not tell anyone because of the delicacy of the negotiations.’

  ‘There is yet more evidence against Michael,’ Kenyngham went on. ‘The same night, he was seen by his own beadles carrying a bulging bag from Milne Street – where the Carmelite Friary is located – to Michaelhouse. Michael told them it contained fresh bread as a gift to his Michaelhouse colleagues. But we had no fresh bread that morning.’

  ‘How can you be sure of that?’ demanded Bartholomew, becoming distressed as Kenyngham’s accusations mounted. ‘I doubt you remember what you had for breakfast this morning, let alone what you ate months ago, and Michael does occasionally buy bread for us.’

  ‘But I do remember, Matthew,’ Kenyngham insisted. ‘It was Christmas Day. Traditionally, we give the parish children their breakfast then, but that morning we only had stale bread to offer.’

  Bartholomew knew that was true, because he vividly recalled the expressions of abject disappointment in the faces of the children who had been waiting since dawn for their yearly treat. He also remembered that it had been Michael who had quietly suggested that they return that afternoon, when the children were given bread, apples, milk and cheese paid for from his own pocket. The fat monk had a soft spot for children.

  ‘Walcote then visited the baker,’ Kenyngham continued. ‘The baker was unequivocal: there was some problem with the oven, which meant that no one had fresh bread that night – including Michael. Whatever he had been carrying was certainly not food.’

  ‘And you think this proves Michael is guilty of theft?’ asked Bartholomew.

  ‘Well, yes,’ said Kenyngham. ‘And so would you, if Michael were someone other than your dearest friend.’

  ‘There will be a rational explanation for all of it,’ Bartholomew declared.

  ‘I wish that were true,’ said Kenyngham. ‘But I do not see how there can be. Do you understand now why I declined to tell you what we discussed at St Radegund’s Convent?’

  Bartholomew nodded reluctantly. ‘What else did you talk about? Was there any mention of a plot to kill Michael?’

  ‘I have already told you there was not,’ said Kenyngham. ‘Who said there was?’

  ‘Prior Morden.’

  Kenyngham shook his head. ‘Morden was at no meeting I ever attended.’

  ‘Then what about the dead beadle and the letter?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Surely that is good evidence that something was afoot?’

  Kenyngham sighed tiredly. ‘I know nothing of this. What beadle and what letter?’

  ‘A beadle called Rob Smyth drowned in a puddle last winter. Walcote found a letter in his possession that gave details of a plot against Michael’s life.’

  ‘Was Michael with you when Morden spun this tale?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We are investigating Walcote’s murder and were trying to understand the nature of these secret meetings, so that we could work out who might have killed him.’

  Kenyngham scrubbed at his halo of fluffy white hair. ‘There is one explanation for why Morden chose to fabricate such lies, although I doubt you will appreciate the logic behind it.’

  ‘What?’ asked Bartholomew warily.

  ‘Walcote was looking into the theft from the Carmelite Friary. He had collected enough evidence to incriminate Michael, and was waiting for an opportunity to confront him with it. Then he was murdered. Obviously, Morden was not going to say all this with Michael towering over him, and so he invented some silly story to distract Michael’s attention from the real issue.’

  Bartholomew gazed at Kenyngham in utter disbelief. ‘Surely you are not suggesting that Michael is investigating a murder he committed himself? How could you even begin to think such a thing?’

  ‘Whoever hanged Walcote was strong, and probably had a couple of henchmen to help,’ said Kenyngham heavily. ‘Michael’s beadles are loyal to him, especially Tom Meadowman. The killer was also able to stalk the streets at night; Michael regularly patrols the town, and few know it as well as he does.’

  ‘This is insane,’ said Bartholomew, beginning to back away from Kenyngham as though he was infected by a virulent contagion. ‘It is all gross supposition. The rawest undergraduate could destroy your arguments like a house of straw.’

  ‘Poor Walcote was horrified by his discoveries,’ Kenyngham went on relentlessly. ‘He told us he did not know what to do next, and said it was not pleasant for him to learn that a man he admired, and who is the embodiment of law and order in the University, is corrupt.’

  ‘I do not believe I am hearing this,’ said Bartholomew. He took another step away from Kenyngham, then turned his back on the Gilbertine and began to walk across the yard. ‘I refuse to listen to any more of it.’

  ‘God be with you, Matthew,’ came Kenyngham’s voice, drifting across the yard as he walked. ‘And do not let friendship blind you to the truth.’

  From the shadows near his staircase, Bartholomew watched Kenyngham return to his bed, then paced back and forth in Michaelhouse’s dark yard, uncertain whether to join Michael and Langelee in the Master’s quarters and tell them what he had learned from Kenyngham, or whether to go to his room and give himself time to identify more flaws in Kenyngham’s story. The voices of Michael and Langelee, slurred from the wine, echoed around the stone buildings as they continued to carouse.

  Bartholomew was unable to concentrate over their racket, and so he walked through the kitchens and opened a small back door, which led to a large garden that sloped towards the river. The grounds boasted vegetable plots that provided stringy cabbages and tough turnips, and a small orchard of apple and pear trees. Near the gate was Agatha’s herb garden, a neat rectangle of thyme, mint, rosemary and parsley. Even on a cold winter night, their comfortingly familiar scents pervaded the air.

  Next to one of the walls a tree had fallen many years before, and the trunk provided a comfortable seat for scholars who wanted to be alone with their thoughts. In the summer it was an attractive place shaded by leaves and carpeted with long green grass; at night in late winter, it was less appealing, with leafless branches clawing at the dark sky and a sprinkling of frost underfoot, but at least it was quiet. Bartholomew sat on the trunk and leaned back against the wall, marshalling his thoughts.

  The physician knew perfectly well that Michael was not above breaking all kinds of rules in order to achieve his objectives. He was also sure that the monk treated his religious vows with a certain degree of laxness, that he owned property he should not have had, and that the Seven Deadly Sins – especially Gluttony and Lust – were what provided him with his greatest enjoyment in life. The monk was a conspirator, he was not averse to lying, and he regularly cheated the people with whom he dealt – as Heytesbury would discover if he ever signed Michael’s contract.
He played power games with the wealthy and influential, and was vindictive to people who tried to treat him in the same shabby way as he treated them. And despite the mutual backslapping that was taking place, even as Bartholomew agonised over his quandary, Langelee had been responsible for Michael not being elected as Master, and Bartholomew knew Michael had not forgiven him. At some point in the future, Michael would have his revenge.

  But to claim that Michael was a thief – and worse – was another matter entirely. Bartholomew’s instinctive reaction was to dismiss what Kenyngham had told him, and to believe that Walcote had been mistaken. And yet the evidence for Michael’s guilt was compelling – especially the fact that he had been present in the Carmelite Friary without an excuse at the time of the theft, and that he had been seen carrying a bulky sack from the friary towards Michaelhouse. And then he had lied about the sack’s contents.

  There was something else, too. Bartholomew leaned forward and buried his head in his hands, reluctant to confront the mounting tide of evidence against Michael. When Bartholomew had first agreed to help the monk, they had sat together in Michael’s room and Bartholomew had made notes on a scrap of used parchment. Walcote had written on it, and then someone – possibly Walcote but probably Michael – had scraped it and covered it in a thin layer of chalk so that it could be used again. But the scraper had done a poor job: Bartholomew had been able to read what had been written previously, and he recalled that one side had contained a list of items stolen from the chest at the Carmelite Friary.

  So, what did that tell him? That Michael knew about Walcote’s investigation, and he had even managed to purloin a list of the very items he himself had stolen? Or was the parchment just some scrap Michael had grabbed without looking at it, and its presence in his room purely coincidence? Bartholomew decided it had to be the latter. Michael was no burglar.

  He sighed and leaned back against the orchard wall, gazing up at the dark sky above. He realised that he would have to prove Michael’s innocence – that if he could show Michael had not committed the theft, then no one would have grounds on which to accuse him of murdering his Junior Proctor. But where was he to begin? How could he investigate a crime that had taken place months before? Any evidence that might have been left at the scene of the burglary would be long since gone.