Bartholomew 07 - An Order for Death

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘Would you recognise the voice if you heard it again?’ asked Bartholomew of Paul. ‘Was it sufficiently distinctive for that?’

  ‘I am not sure,’ said Paul. He flushed, embarrassed. ‘Normally, I am observant, as you know. But I was flustered by the knife at my throat, and I did not think much about voices and their timbres.’

  ‘Of course you did not,’ said Michael, favouring Bartholomew with a scornful look. ‘And no one would expect you to, under the circumstances.’

  Bartholomew was persistent. ‘Paul would have recognised Timothy’s voice; Timothy knows that, because we have made no secret of the fact that we admire Paul’s powers of observation. So, Janius did the talking.’ He shrugged. ‘And it does not sound as though Paul enjoyed a lengthy conversation with these intruders, anyway. The dialogue seems to have comprised a few direct and aggressive questions.’

  ‘That is true,’ said Paul. ‘The whole incident lasted only a few moments. The essay was on my table, and I knew they would have it whether I told them where it was or not. There was little point in dying over it, so I told them.’

  ‘We have no strong reasons to rule Timothy and Janius out as possible suspects,’ pressed Bartholomew, seeing that Michael remained sceptical.

  ‘Another Junior Proctor,’ said Lynne bitterly. ‘It is as well I fled here, or one of them would have arrested me, and I would have died in his cells. You should be more careful who you choose as deputies, Brother.’

  ‘There is no evidence that Timothy is the culprit,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘Matt’s logic is faulty as usual.’

  ‘There is evidence,’ insisted Bartholomew. ‘You just do not want to see it, because you do not want Timothy to be guilty. First, there is the fact that as soon as we had identified Father Paul as someone who might help us, the killer came here.’

  ‘Coincidence,’ said Michael.

  ‘Not coincidence,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It was a perfect opportunity. Timothy slipped away from us as soon as he could, by pretending to go to speak to Matilde about the lepers. He doubtless went immediately to collect Janius, so that they could act before it was too late.’

  ‘Too late?’ asked Michael.

  ‘You were coming here. Timothy knew that he had to get to Lynne – and then to the essay – before you laid hands on either and secreted them away. Once you had them in Michaelhouse, where security has been tightened since the murder of Arbury, reaching either would have been impossible.’

  ‘But I do not keep valuable documents in my room at Michaelhouse,’ protested Michael, carefully making no mention of the secret chest in the cellars. ‘I would not have taken the essay or Lynne there.’

  ‘Does Timothy know that? Have you told him where you keep your secret scrolls and parchments?’

  Michael shook his head, and Bartholomew pressed on.

  ‘Timothy knows he cannot mount a second successful attack on Michaelhouse. The student on gate duty tonight will be cautious and watchful, given that the last person to do his job was murdered. Timothy knew that if he wanted the essay he would have to come to Paul before you did.’

  ‘I am not sure about this,’ said Michael uncertainly. ‘It is very circumstantial.’

  ‘Then think about the raid on Michaelhouse that I discovered in progress: two men, one with light footsteps who ran away first, and one who was strong enough to best me in a hand-to-hand contest.’

  ‘I thought you were convinced that the nuns at St Radegund’s were involved,’ said Michael disparagingly. ‘Perhaps one of the intruders was a woman. Tysilia, for example.’

  ‘The person I fought was no woman,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He was an experienced fighter. And Timothy told us only today that he was at Crécy. That is partly why you wanted him for your deputy – you knew that his fighting skills would come in useful for skirmishes with restless students.’

  ‘This is not evidence,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘This is pure conjecture.’

  ‘All right,’ said Bartholomew, trying a different tactic. ‘What about the fact that it was terribly convenient that Timothy just happened to be walking past when these two intruders fled the Franciscan Friary? Why was he there at such an opportune moment?’

  ‘On patrol, I imagine,’ said Michael, exasperated. ‘Of all the people in Cambridge, Timothy is probably the one who has more reason to be out on the streets than anyone else. It is his job; he is paid to walk around preventing trouble.’

  ‘And he did give chase to the intruders,’ added Lynne. ‘He followed them until he lost them among the reeds that lie between here and the Barnwell Causeway.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ demanded Bartholomew.

  ‘He told us,’ said Lynne. ‘He returned breathless and sweating to say that they had escaped.’

  ‘He told you,’ said Bartholomew. ‘That means nothing. He probably did run to the wasteland, with his accomplice Janius. But as soon as he reached the cover of the reeds, he left the cloak he had used as a disguise, along with the essay, and returned to tell you that the two intruders had eluded him. And that is another thing. The cloak.’

  ‘What cloak?’ asked Michael wearily.

  ‘The men who stabbed Nigel at Barnwell Priory wore dark cloaks,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Timothy did not wear a dark cloak today; he wore a pale one that he claims was ruined in the laundry. Cloaks are expensive, and I do not accept that Timothy would be so stoical if Yolande really had turned his fine Benedictine garment into one that looked like a Franciscan’s.’

  ‘Mine is missing,’ said Pechem, rubbing his temples, as if the accusations and counter-accusations had given him a headache. ‘He must have taken it when he came to check that all was well with us earlier today. I wondered what had happened to it.’

  ‘Why did he feel the need to check on you?’ demanded Bartholomew.

  ‘I do not know,’ admitted Pechem. ‘He told me he wanted to make sure my hand was healing.’

  Bartholomew shot Michael a triumphant look. ‘Timothy paid an unexpected visit to the Franciscans with the specific intention of stealing a cloak, because he was afraid he might be recognised by Nigel if he wore a dark one. But Nigel did recognise him. It was not you Nigel was howling at, Brother: it was Timothy, grey cloak or no. He entered the infirmary just behind you.’

  ‘He yelled at me because I was a stranger in a dark cloak,’ said Michael tiredly. ‘And anyway, Nigel did not see enough of the intruders to identify Timothy or anyone else.’

  ‘Nevertheless, Timothy was not prepared to take that chance. He donned the grey gown, and would have claimed that he no longer possessed a black one if challenged about the stabbing at Barnwell the previous night.’

  ‘Then it is his word against yours,’ said Michael. ‘And there is no compelling evidence why we should believe you.’

  ‘At the precise moment when the men who attacked Paul were fleeing, you and I were on the causeway near the Barnwell Gate with Richard,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The Causeway stands proud of the land around it, and you can see for a long away. I saw no chase across the wasteland, did you?’

  ‘I was not looking for one,’ said Michael. ‘But I did not see Timothy double back on himself to come here when he said he was going to St Radegund’s Convent, either.’

  ‘I am sure he made certain you did not,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is easy to stay hidden among all that scrub, if you do not want to be seen. But we should go back to the convent now, to ask whether he returned there as he says.’

  ‘No,’ said Michael. ‘It will be a waste of time. Timothy is innocent of these charges.’

  Bartholomew did not think so, although he also knew for certain that Timothy had not returned to the convent: he would not have had time to walk all the way to St Radgund’s and then be back in Cambridge in time to chase the ‘intruders’ across the marshes. Timothy had done exactly as Bartholomew had surmised: he had grabbed Janius, invaded the Franciscan Friary and then escaped into the marshes while pretending to ‘give chase’ to the culprits
.

  Michael glared at Pechem, Paul and Lynne. ‘You three will say nothing about this to anyone. Matt has no evidence to support his accusations, and I do not want to lose a good Junior Proctor on the basis of a few wild guesses on his part.’

  ‘Then there is only one way to resolve this,’ said Bartholomew, undeterred. ‘We must pay Timothy and Janius a visit, and see whether they have an essay, two dark cloaks and a bloodied knife in their possession.’

  ‘No, Matt,’ said Michael yet again, stretching bare feet towards the flames that blazed in the kitchen hearth later that evening. The College cat jumped into his lap, and began to purr loudly as he scratched it under the chin. He sneezed, almost tipping it on to the floor, but it declined to abandon the comfortable haven it had located. ‘I will not allow you to invade the privacy of my Junior Proctor on the basis of the flimsy evidence you have presented.’

  ‘It will not be flimsy evidence when we find what we are looking for,’ persisted Bartholomew. ‘Within a few moments, your investigation will be over.’

  ‘I like Timothy,’ said Michael. ‘He has proved himself an excellent Junior Proctor over the last few days – better than Walcote could ever have been. I do not want him to resign just because you think he is a murderer.’

  ‘But he is a murderer,’ said Bartholomew, becoming exasperated. ‘He killed your last Junior Proctor so that he could step into his shoes and steal Faricius’s essay.’

  ‘Make up your mind, Matt. Timothy cannot have turned murderer for both reasons.’

  ‘Does it matter?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘He and his henchman Janius have committed terrible crimes. Are they really the kind of men you want representing law and order in the University you love?’

  ‘You are on the wrong track entirely,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘Walcote was murdered because of these nocturnal meetings he arranged. He was trying to discredit me, so that he would be appointed Senior Proctor and assume the power that I have accrued over the past five years. And it would have been disastrous for the University: he scraped by as Junior Proctor, because I was there to help him. He could never have managed what I do alone.’

  ‘But you were thinking of moving on anyway,’ said Bartholomew, seeing all kinds of problems with Michael’s assumptions. ‘You were prepared to become Master of Michaelhouse last year, and it is only a matter of time before a suitably prestigious position comes and you take it. Then Walcote would have been appointed Senior Proctor automatically. Why should he feel the need to organise secret meetings to oust you when his promotion was inevitable?’

  ‘Perhaps he wanted the appointment now, not at some unspecified point in the future,’ said Michael. ‘He accused me of stealing from the Carmelites—’

  ‘But you did steal from the Carmelites,’ Bartholomew pointed out.

  Michael ignored him. ‘—so I suppose it is possible that he was murdered by someone loyal to me. Everyone knows that I keep the University stable and prosperous, and it is not inconceivable that someone decided to rid me – and the University – of a potential problem.’

  ‘Then why did this well-wisher not simply tell you about these meetings of Walcote’s?’ pressed Bartholomew. ‘You are a man who knows how to look after himself, and you would not need to murder your Junior Proctor to stop him from spreading lies about you.’

  Michael sighed. ‘You are tired, Matt. You did not sleep much last night, because of that business with Arbury. Things will look different in the morning, when you have rested.’

  He settled himself more comfortably in Agatha’s chair, and within a few moments, both he and the cat were snoring comfortably. It was a cosy scene, and Bartholomew might have been amused had he not been so frustrated. He poked viciously at the fire, and then made for the door.

  ‘Wait, lad,’ came a voice from the shadows.

  Bartholomew nearly leapt out of his skin at the close proximity of Cynric’s voice. ‘What are you doing here at this time of night?’ he asked, a little irritably. ‘You should be at home with Rachel.’

  ‘She has a chill from attending all the midnight vigils this week,’ said Cynric. ‘She has gone to bed with possets and blankets, and is snoring almost as loudly as Brother Michael. I came here for some peace; instead I find you two arguing.’

  ‘How long have you been here?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Did you hear what we were saying?’

  ‘I heard,’ said Cynric. ‘And I agree with Brother Michael. You only have nasty accusations, not evidence. If you accuse a man of murder, you may see him hang. Is that what you want, based on the information you have?’

  ‘That is why I want to search Timothy’s room,’ whispered Bartholomew, glancing back across at the sleeping Michael. ‘I am sure the essay will be there.’

  ‘So will Timothy, most likely,’ said Cynric. ‘It would be a risky thing to do.’

  ‘He will not be in his room all evening,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I will wait until he leaves.’

  ‘Then do it tomorrow,’ suggested Cynric. ‘It will be Saturday, and many people – especially monks – will be keeping the Easter Eve vigil. He will almost certainly be out then.’

  Reluctantly, Bartholomew conceded that Cynric was right. He was restless and his head ached from tension and lack of sleep, but he felt he had to do something. He certainly did not feel like going to bed.

  ‘I am going to see Matilde,’ he said, reaching for his cloak. ‘I want to make sure she arrived home safe from St Radegund’s.’

  ‘She did,’ said Cynric. ‘I saw her at sunset. But if you feel like visiting her anyway, old Cynric will escort you to make sure you do not disregard his advice and make a detour to places you have no right to be.’

  Bartholomew smiled, touched by his book-bearer’s concern, and headed towards the front gate. He told the student on guard duty that he was going to visit a patient, grateful that it was dark and that the boy would not see from the sudden flush in his cheeks that he was lying, then he and Cynric strode briskly along the High Street to the area called the Jewry where Matilde lived. It was a silent night, although rain pattered on the cobbled streets and on to roofs that were so sodden that they looked as though they would not take much more miserable weather.

  ‘Have you noticed any change in Richard yet?’ asked Cynric conversationally, as they walked. ‘Because he gets drunk with Heytesbury most nights, neither of them is in any condition to return to Trumpington, so they sleep at Oswald Stanmore’s business premises. As you know, Rachel and I have a chamber there, so it allows me to apply the Franciscans’ charm.’

  ‘I thought the dish of burning feathers he mentioned was something to do with you,’ said Bartholomew, smiling.

  Cynric nodded. ‘Clippesby has a way with animals, and I persuaded him to grab me a handful of tail from the College cockerel. We were supposed to use a pheasant, but you do not see many of those around.’

  ‘Richard fell off his horse today,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I hope this charm is not harming him.’

  ‘It would be worth it,’ said Cynric, unrelenting. ‘His foul manners are upsetting his mother, and I will not see that good lady distressed if I can prevent it. A few bad mornings might do him good.’

  ‘It cannot make him any worse,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He is an arrogant—’

  Cynric grabbed Bartholomew’s arm suddenly, and tried to pull him into the shadows of a doorway to hide. But Bartholomew did not move quickly enough, and he heard Cynric’s tut of annoyance. It was too late, anyway. He had already been seen by the two people who reeled towards them, much the worse for drink. They were William Heytesbury and Yolande de Blaston. Bartholomew saw the philosopher’s jaw drop when his wine-befuddled mind registered that it was Brother Michael’s friend who was looming out of the darkness to catch him intoxicated and in the company of one of the town’s prostitutes.

  ‘Damn!’ Bartholomew heard him mutter. Rather too late, he covered his face with the hood of his cloak.

  ‘Good evening, Master Heytesbury,’ said Bartholome
w wickedly. ‘What are you doing here at this time of the night?’

  ‘I was lost,’ said Heytesbury, feebly floundering for a plausible excuse. ‘This kind lady offered to escort me to Stanmore’s house.’

  ‘Are you going to visit Matilde, Doctor?’ asked Yolande, evidently understanding that Bartholomew had just won some kind of victory over Heytesbury and deciding to even the score by making it clear that Heytesbury was not the only scholar visiting women after the curfew.

  Bartholomew smiled at her cleverness. ‘I hear you take in laundry these days,’ he said, seeing an opportunity to discover whether she really had been responsible for damaging Brother Timothy’s cloak.

  Yolande nodded, her hand on the bulge beneath her dress where her tenth child was forming. ‘Agatha is teaching me. She said I should learn a different profession, because every time I work on the streets I produce another baby. Of course, I have been making exceptions for my regulars, like Mayor Horwoode and Prior Lincolne, and for high-paying customers like Master Heytesbury, here.’

  Heytesbury sighed heavily at this blunt revelation of his intentions, wafting in Bartholomew’s face a powerful scent of something nutty that only thinly disguised the wine underneath. The physician supposed it was the gum mastic he used for removing incriminating smells, although even the new import from the Mediterranean was not up to the task of hiding the fact that Heytesbury had imbibed a good deal more than was good for him that evening.

  ‘Please do not tell Brother Michael that I was foolish enough to lose my way tonight,’ said Heytesbury in a reasonable tone of voice. ‘He was rather cool towards me earlier, and I am concerned that he is having second thoughts about our agreement.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Bartholomew, suspecting that Michael no longer felt obliged to charm Heytesbury now that he possessed knowledge that rendered Heytesbury’s signing a virtual certainty. As far as Michael was concerned, the deal had been concluded, and his clever mind had doubtless already forgotten the Oxford man and had moved on to more stimulating problems.