‘He should have considered that before he put pen to parchment, then,’ said Timothy, rather bitterly. ‘Faricius should have used his common sense to see that writing an essay on a subject that is currently so contentious would do nothing to improve the unity and peacefulness of the town.’
‘We should discuss this inside,’ said Bartholomew, taking Paul’s arm and leading him towards the steps to Warden Pechem’s office. ‘Father Paul is cold.’
‘Come with us, Lynne,’ instructed Michael. ‘The rest of you should be about your business. Timothy, would you mind informing the beadles what has happened, and instruct them to be on the alert for these two robbers on their patrols tonight?’
Timothy nodded dutifully, and walked briskly across the courtyard. Bartholomew saw him offer to escort Clippesby back to Michaelhouse, although it was scarcely on his way. Bartholomew was again impressed by the man: it was not safe for Clippesby to linger inside the Franciscan Friary, and now that it was growing dark, it was not safe for the Dominican to be out at all. Timothy was kind to think of him, when virtually everyone else in Cambridge wished the crazed Dominican would just disappear. Clippesby allowed himself to be led away like a tame dog.
‘Good,’ said Paul, as they reached Pechem’s office where there was a fire blazing in the hearth. He turned his sightless eyes on Bartholomew and gave a mischievous grin, speaking in a low voice so that Pechem would not hear. ‘Actually, I am not particularly cold, but this will warm me nicely before I retire to bed tonight.’
Bartholomew looked around at the men who had gathered in Pechem’s small room, making it feel cramped and stuffy. Paul huddled close to the flames, holding towards them translucent, knobbly hands that were streaked with lumpy blue veins. Lynne hovered near the door, as if he imagined he might be able to escape if Michael’s questions became too uncomfortable. Pechem had retired to his bed, piling himself high with blankets in an attempt to warm himself.
‘Right,’ said Michael, gazing coolly at Lynne. ‘I am not pleased that you ran away, thus withholding valuable information from me. But I might be prepared to overlook that if you are honest with me now, and tell me what I need to know.’
Lynne nodded miserably.
‘So,’ began Michael. ‘Let us start with Faricius’s death. He was stabbed and, as we have done, you reasoned that he had been killed after he had retrieved his essay from its hiding place – that someone killed him because they wanted to steal it.’
‘Kyrkeby,’ said Lynne unhappily. ‘He killed Faricius for the essay. He was due to give the University Lecture, and he needed something more inspiring than the dull tract he had compiled. Faricius told me that Kyrkeby had given him a ruby ring in exchange for the essay.’
‘So that is where that ring came from,’ said Michael, carefully not looking in Bartholomew’s direction so he would not have to acknowledge that the physician’s speculations about Kyrkeby had been correct. ‘We discovered it in Faricius’s spare scrip when we went through his belongings.’
Lynne nodded. ‘I was not there, but Horneby told me you had found it. Faricius took the ring from Kyrkeby, and promised to give him the essay later.’
‘Why would Faricius want a ruby ring?’ asked Pechem curiously. ‘He was a friar who had taken vows of poverty.’
‘Many friars forget that vow,’ said Paul from the fireside. ‘And Kyrkeby had a fine collection of jewels. He offered me some, too, if I would agree to write his lecture. I declined, because I do not consider it ethical for one man to pen work for another.’
Bartholomew recalled the jewellery among Kyrkeby’s personal possessions. Morden had thought some of the rings were missing, although he had been unable to specify which ones, and had assumed Kyrkeby had been wearing them when he had died, linking them with Kyrkeby’s penchant for women’s attire. He was wrong: one ring at least had been given to Faricius.
‘Why did Faricius agree to sell his work?’ asked Michael of Lynne. ‘Paul is right: it is wrong for one scholar to try to pass off the work of another as his own.’
‘Faricius wanted to go to Oxford,’ said Lynne. ‘Heytesbury had encouraged him to go to a place where a Carmelite could speak freely without fear of suppression by his Order, and Faricius planned to use Kyrkeby’s ring to pay for his education.’
‘Heytesbury!’ muttered Michael, his eyes narrowing in anger. ‘I might have known he was involved.’
‘He told us about it,’ said Bartholomew, recalling the evening they had spent at Edith’s house, when Heytesbury had claimed his ‘other business’ in Cambridge was poaching students. ‘He said the man he had seen was unsuitable – doubtless because by the time we asked him, Faricius was dead. He was also at Faricius’s funeral, claiming that he had admired him.’
Lynne took a deep breath and continued. ‘Faricius took the ring, and promised to give the essay to Kyrkeby. But then Lincolne nailed his proclamation to the church door, and the Dominicans marched on the Carmelites.’
‘And Faricius, being a prudent man, decided he could not risk leaving his essay in its hiding place at St John Zachary, and so he left the Carmelite Friary – via the tunnel – to retrieve it,’ concluded Michael.
Lynne nodded. ‘He had taken Kyrkeby’s payment, you see, and he felt that the essay was no longer his to stuff behind stones in graveyards. We tried to stop him, but he was adamant that he should make certain the essay was safe. When we saw his body, we realised that someone had cut the strap that attached his scrip to his belt, and that the essay had gone. I went with Horneby to check the churchyard at St John Zachary two days later – on Monday night – but it was not there.’
‘And the stone had been replaced and the bushes arranged in a way that implied Faricius had collected the thing, and had covered up his secret hole as he liked,’ said Michael.
Lynne nodded again.
‘So Kyrkeby stabbed Faricius and made off with the essay,’ said Michael. ‘But who murdered Kyrkeby? It was not the Carmelites, anxious to avenge the wholly unnecessary death of their most brilliant thinker, was it?’
‘It was not,’ said Lynne tearfully. ‘Walcote did that.’
‘Walcote?’ echoed Michael, again not looking at Bartholomew. ‘I do not believe you!’
‘Horneby and I had just climbed through the tunnel after searching St John Zachary’s churchyard for Faricius’s essay on Monday night when we heard an altercation taking place in the lane outside. Horneby said it was none of our affair and left, but I lingered. I wish to God I had not.’
‘Why?’ demanded Michael. ‘And who was involved in this “altercation”?’
‘I heard Walcote and his beadles ordering Kyrkeby to give them the stolen essay. Kyrkeby refused, because he said he had paid a good price for it. Then I heard Kyrkeby make a vile, strangled sound, as if he were trying to be sick, and Walcote urging him to stand up. At that point, I could stand no more, and I ran away.’
‘A strangled sound?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Then it was Kyrkeby’s weak heart that killed him.’
‘How do you know that?’ asked Michael sceptically.
‘Because he would not have been making strangled sounds if Walcote had hit him on the head – there would probably have been a thump and then nothing at all. And there would have been no strangled sounds if Walcote had broken Kyrkeby’s neck. All that damage must have been caused when the body was pushed inside the tunnel.’
‘So, Walcote did not kill Kyrkeby?’ asked Michael. ‘It was an accident?’
‘Yes and no,’ said Bartholomew. ‘If Walcote frightened or agitated Kirkby to the point where his heart gave out, it may well be deemed that the death was not natural. But the real evidence is that Lynne says Walcote talked to Kyrkeby after he made this strangled sound, urging him to stand. It sounds to me as though Walcote was alarmed by the sudden seizure, and that he had not intended to harry the man so.’
‘Harrying was not Walcote’s style,’ agreed Michael. He turned to Lynne. ‘You say you were inside the Carmelite Friary wh
en all this was taking place. The walls are high, so I know you could not have seen over them. How do you know it was Walcote demanding this essay from Kyrkeby?’
‘I recognised his voice,’ said Lynne. ‘He caught me using the tunnel the week before, so I was familiar with it.’
‘You said Walcote’s beadles were there, too,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Are you sure it was Walcote who was badgering Kyrkeby, and not them?’
‘I do not recall who said what exactly,’ admitted Lynne. ‘But Walcote did a lot of the talking, because he was the Junior Proctor. That is what his beadles kept saying.’
‘What are you talking about?’ demanded Michael. ‘You say the beadles kept telling Walcote he was Junior Proctor? I can assure you that he knew.’
‘They kept reminding him,’ insisted Lynne. ‘Everyone knows he was weak. They told him that he was the Junior Proctor, and that it was up to him to locate the essay.’
‘How curious,’ said Michael, puzzled. ‘Still, I suppose someone like Meadowman might have reminded him of his responsibilities, perhaps sensing that Kyrkeby knew more than Walcote’s gentle questions would reveal. But then who killed Walcote?’
‘I imagine the pair who have been busy searching half of Cambridge for this damned essay was responsible for that,’ said Bartholomew.
‘Yes,’ agreed Lynne nervously. ‘That is why I ran away. When I heard that Walcote had been murdered, I decided that the power of men able to kill a proctor was more than I wanted to challenge. I fled to Father Paul, because I knew he would tell me what to do.’
‘But how did you come by the essay?’ asked Michael of Paul. ‘We know that it was stolen from Faricius by Kyrkeby. But how did it get from Kyrkeby’s possession to yours?’
‘Walcote brought it to me the night he died,’ replied Paul. ‘I thought at the time he was acting strangely; he was nervous and vague.’
‘Did he look as though he had been in a fatal struggle with someone?’ asked Michael.
Paul raised his eyebrows and pointed to his sightless eyes. ‘How can I answer that, Brother? He approached me as I was walking back to the friary after the evening vigil. I was alone, and I doubt anyone else saw him. He pressed the essay into my hands, made me swear to tell no one about it, and then left.’
‘Why you?’ asked Michael.
‘I suppose he knew I am sympathetic to the views of the nominalists, and he decided it would be safer with me than with anyone else. Who would think to look for a written essay with a blind friar?’
‘Those two intruders,’ said Michael promptly. ‘They knew where to look, because they made straight for you once they had insinuated themselves on to Franciscan property. They did not hunt around or ask questions of anyone else: they came directly to you.’
‘They certainly came to the point when they questioned me,’ said Paul ruefully. ‘They said they knew I had the essay and that no harm would come to me if I handed it over.’
‘Did they say anything else?’
Paul closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. Suddenly he seemed like the old man he was, and for all his confidence and poise, Bartholomew suspected that being attacked in his own cell and having a knife pressed to his throat had been a great shock. He would never admit to such weakness but Bartholomew knew he was not as unperturbed as he wanted everyone to believe.
‘They asked whether I had read the essay,’ said Paul. ‘I told them that I was blind, and that I had read nothing for many years. They seemed to accept my statement and left – with the essay.’
‘And have you read it?’ asked Michael.
Paul smiled wanly. ‘Of course not. But I know what was in it. However, I suspect the killers allowed me to live because they believe I do not know the contents of the essay. Do not tell anyone that is not so, or I may go the same way as others who have dealt with it in various ways – Faricius, Kyrkeby and Walcote.’
‘I disagree,’ said Michael. ‘I think they allowed you to live because you could not see them. Young Arbury of Michaelhouse was murdered so that he would not reveal their identities, and I suspect the gatekeeper at Barnwell Priory was stabbed for the same reason. I wonder why they did not finish him off?’
‘Perhaps because they saw no light of recognition in his face when they attacked him,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘Arbury must have been different, and may even have addressed them by name.’
‘That implies that he knew the killers,’ said Michael doubtfully.
‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew, his mind whirling as he considered the possibilities.
‘Perhaps you are right,’ said Paul. ‘But in my case, I think they were more interested in whether I knew the contents of the essay than whether I knew who they were.’
‘Why do you think the contents of this essay are so important?’ asked Michael. ‘I thought it was just an essay on nominalism. It is hardly a list of scholars who regularly visit St Radegund’s Convent, or a document outlining my negotiations with Oxford. I do not see why the intruders want to ensure that no one knows its contents.’
‘You are underestimating the power of this work,’ said Paul. ‘You dismiss it as the ramblings of some vague-minded undergraduate. It is not. It will be an important document for many years to come, and I imagine it will be discussed in universities all over the world, not just in Cambridge.’
Michael shrugged. ‘That still does not explain why the intruders did not want you to have read any of it.’
‘Because they plan to publish it and steal the glory for themselves,’ said Bartholomew in sudden understanding. ‘The fact that they have gone to so much trouble to get it speaks for itself. They searched the Dominican Friary and Barnwell Priory, because the Dominicans and the Austin canons are professed nominalists. They looked in Michaelhouse because they thought the Senior Proctor might have seized it as evidence. And then they came here.’
‘I suppose so,’ said Michael, unconvinced.
‘These intruders were desperate to get at Lynne, because they thought he would be able to tell them the whereabouts of the essay,’ said Paul, putting into words what Bartholomew had already reasoned. ‘Their way to Lynne was through me, so they came to me first.’
‘They did not actually expect you to know where the essay was,’ said Bartholomew slowly. ‘They demanded that you divulge its location simply to terrify you.’
‘I do not understand,’ said Michael, confused. ‘Why bother asking him, if they thought he did not know the answer?’
‘Because they intended to ask him a whole series of questions that they knew he could not answer,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Every time he did not know, he would become more frightened. Eventually, he would be so relieved to be asked a question he could answer, that he would tell them immediately. It is a standard interrogation technique. Father William told me it is used by the Inquisition.’
‘I thought the robbers seemed surprised when I handed them the essay,’ said Paul. ‘Now I know why. And because they have the essay, you are now irrelevant, Simon. You can go back to your own friary without fear.’
Bartholomew was thoughtful. ‘If whoever stole the essay intends to publish it under his own name, then the Carmelites, Franciscans and Gilbertines are not to blame. They despise nominalism.’
‘Excellent,’ said Michael gloomily. ‘That only leaves all the Dominicans, all the Austin canons and most of the Benedictines.’
‘Right,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But when we deduced that a good place to hunt for Lynne was with Father Paul, there was only one Benedictine present other than you: Timothy.’
‘You think Brother Timothy is the killer?’ asked Michael, aghast at the notion. ‘But he is my Junior Proctor! Junior Proctors uphold the law, not break it.’
‘So?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Being a Junior Proctor does not seem to mean much. Walcote frightened Kyrkeby to death, and Timothy probably stabbed Arbury and the Barnwell gatekeeper.’
‘No,’ said Michael firmly. ‘This is nonsense.’
‘Why?’ asked Bar
tholomew. ‘Because he is a Benedictine? Because you like him, and because he seems like a nice, respectable sort of fellow? We have met that kind of person before, Brother, and it means nothing.’
‘Timothy would not commit murder, Matthew,’ said Father Paul with quiet reason. ‘He is a good man who gives alms to the poor. Also, I would have recognised his voice if he had been the intruder who demanded the essay: I did not.’
‘But everyone agrees that two men joined the end of the procession and strolled on to Franciscan property,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Did you hear both of them speak?’
‘No,’ admitted Paul. ‘But I am sure I would have known if one of them had been Timothy.’
‘How?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Does he have a distinctive smell, or a particular way of moving his feet when he walks that you might have noticed?’
‘No,’ said Paul again. ‘He does not. But I would have recognised his voice.’
Bartholomew sighed. He understood that Paul was unwilling to admit that his blindness might have been a disadvantage, when he liked everyone to believe it was a boon, but the old man’s obstinacy might lead them astray. ‘Think carefully, Father. Did both these intruders speak or did just one of them do the talking?’
‘One,’ said Paul, rather reluctantly. ‘But it was not Timothy. He has a distinctive voice, pleasant and rich. The person who spoke had a thin voice, which had a disagreeable smugness to it.’
‘Have you ever heard Brother Janius of the Benedictines speak?’
‘Now wait a moment—’ began Michael angrily. Bartholomew raised a hand to silence him.
‘I do not know Janius,’ admitted Paul. ‘So I do not know whether I have heard him speak or not. Does he have a thin, reedy voice that sounds as if he could do with a good meal?’
‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew immediately.
‘A good meal? I thought you said he was a Benedictine,’ muttered Pechem.
‘Janius does have a high voice,’ said Michael begrudgingly. ‘But that does not identify him as one of these killers.’
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