Bartholomew 07 - An Order for Death
Page 44
‘Here we are, lad,’ said Cynric, gazing up at the dark mass in front of him that was Ely Hall. ‘What now? Shall I pick the lock on the door, or were you planning on entering through a window?’
Bartholomew had not been planning anything. He had thought little beyond the fact that he needed to enter Timothy’s room at a time when the Junior Proctor was out. He gazed helplessly at Cynric, and the Welshman sighed.
‘Come with me around the back. The last time I was here, I noticed that the kitchen is a lean-to shack in the yard. You may be able to climb on top of it and force a window upstairs.’
Bartholomew was having serious misgivings about the wisdom of what he planned to do. Suddenly, it seemed madness to break into the private chamber of the Junior Proctor, especially given that the Senior Proctor had told him that he had no right to do so. But Bartholomew could see no other way forward; the thought of a murderer patrolling the streets and dispensing his own justice to scholars who flouted the University’s rules was not an attractive proposition.
Forcing his uneasiness to the back of his mind, Bartholomew followed Cynric down a stinking alley that led to the rear of Ely Hall. The stench was eye-watering, since the Benedictines had apparently been using it as a latrine instead of going to the public ones in the Market Square. Lazy cooks, who could not be bothered to take their waste to the river, had left their mark on the yard, too, and rotting cabbage stalks, unusable parts from joints of meat and old trenchers sodden with grease all festered together in a slimy mass that was as slick as ice under Bartholomew’s shoes.
‘Timothy’s room is that one,’ said Bartholomew, pointing to the tiny window, little more than a slit, that was above and to one side of the shack that acted as a kitchen. He frowned as he tried to recall details of Ely Hall from his visits to tend Brother Adam. ‘That larger window to the right is a small landing. I think I should be able to squeeze through it.’
He felt Cynric gazing at him witheringly in the darkness. ‘Why do you think I suggested we enter this way? I know where Timothy’s room is, and I know the landing window is large enough for you to enter. How many more times must I tell you that if you intend to break into someone else’s property, you should have a feel for the layout first?’
‘Right,’ said Bartholomew, hoping it was not something he would have to do again.
‘Here,’ said Cynric, moving an abandoned crate carefully, so as not to make a noise. ‘Climb on this, and see whether you can prise open the window. It will be dark inside, do not forget. How do you plan to see what you are doing?’
‘There was a candle on the table when I was last here,’ Bartholomew whispered back. ‘I think it is better to risk a light and search quickly, than to fumble around in the dark for longer.’
‘Did you bring a tinder to light the candle?’ asked Cynric.
It was Bartholomew’s turn to treat Cynric to a withering look. ‘I am not that incompetent. And before you feel the need to suggest it, I know I should lay a blanket across the bottom of the door to hide the light from any restless Benedictines who happen to be passing, too.’
‘Good thinking,’ said Cynric, impressed. ‘I can see I taught you well after all.’
Bartholomew scrambled inelegantly on to the crate, wincing when his hands touched something soft that stank, and then heaved himself on to the kitchen roof. Using his knife, he then prised open the hall window. Cynric indicated that he should enter, and made a sign that he would keep watch by the entrance of the alleyway. Bartholomew was horrified.
‘Are you not coming with me?’
‘It is you who wants to raid a Benedictine’s chamber, lad,’ whispered Cynric hoarsely. ‘Not me. I will hoot like an owl if I hear anything. Good luck and do not be long.’
He had slipped soundlessly down the runnel before Bartholomew could suggest that Cynric did the burgling while Bartholomew kept watch. The Welshman was far better at such things, and the physician felt sure he would have the document in a trice and then they could both go back to Michaelhouse to tell Michael what they had done. Bartholomew gazed at the open window with trepidation, took a deep breath to steady his pounding heart, and started to climb through it. Feeling as though the Benedictines who were asleep in the adjoining chambers would have to be deaf not to hear the racket he was making, he clambered on to the landing, then stood still for a few moments, straining his ears for any sound that might indicate he had been heard. Opposite, Janius’s room was still and silent.
Bartholomew groped his way along the darkened corridor. He located the door to Timothy’s chamber with his outstretched hands, and listened for a few moments before carefully lifting the latch and stepping inside.
He recalled that a candle had been set on the table near the window, and reached out cautiously until he encountered wood. He located the candle and withdrew the tinder he carried tucked in his shirt, blinking as a dim light filled the room. Before he forgot, he took a blanket from the bed and dropped it against the door. And then he looked around.
For a moment, when he saw the neat room with its plain wooden cross nailed to the wall, he thought he had been gravely mistaken and that his invasion of Timothy’s privacy had been unwarranted, but then he saw that the blanket he had used to block the door was no blanket at all; it was a heavy black cloak. He poked at it, noting that it had been freshly laundered. Yolande had been telling the truth, and the grey cloak that Timothy had worn had nothing to do with her washing of it. Bartholomew glanced at the row of hooks on one of the walls. A grey cloak hung there. He inspected the inside of the collar, where the tailor had sewn a small mark that indicated it had been made for the Franciscan Order. It was Pechem’s.
He took a deep breath. Finding the cloak was good, but it was not conclusive evidence of Timothy’s guilt. What he needed to find was the essay that seemed to have been the cause of so many deaths. He began to search, resisting the temptation to ransack blindly, and forcing himself to be methodical. Timothy had gone to considerable trouble to gain possession of the text, and would hardly leave it lying around somewhere obvious.
Wax dripped as he began to inspect the floorboards, knowing such places were popular as hiding places. Sure enough, there was a loose plank, and Bartholomew prised it up quickly. In the small cavity below was a dirty scrip, stained with blood. Bartholomew was in no doubt that it had belonged to Faricius. He dug deeper, and emerged with a second purse, this one in immaculate condition and decorated with flowers and butterflies, consistent with the one of Kyrkeby’s that Ringstead had described.
A noise from the hall made him freeze in alarm. Brother Adam began to cough, loudly and desperately, and it sounded as though he could not catch his breath. Thumping footsteps on the stairs and on the landing outside suggested that the brothers were panicking, not knowing how to help the old man, despite the fact that they had watched Bartholomew prepare soothing balsams for him at least twice and he had even written the instructions down for them.
The coughing grew worse, and Bartholomew was in an agony of indecision. The physician in him longed to throw open the door and go to the old monk’s aid, knowing that he could ease the problem within moments. But then he would have revealed himself, and he would never have another opportunity to search the room of the man he was certain was a killer.
‘Brother Timothy has it, I believe,’ came the voice of one of the monks, edged with fear. ‘Shall I see if I can find it?’
Bartholomew’s heart leapt into his mouth as the latch on Timothy’s door began to rise. Quickly, he pinched out the candle, and was only just under the table when Brother Janius burst in holding a lamp. Bartholomew held his breath when the skirts of Janius’s habit swung so close to his face that he could make out the individual fibres in the cloth. The monk then rummaged among documents on the very table under which Bartholomew crouched.
‘Here we are,’ Janius said suddenly, and Bartholomew heard the rustle of parchment. ‘I knew it was Timothy who had taken Bartholomew’s instructions.’
Bartholomew began to relax, too, and was considering resuming his search when he realised that Janius must have noticed the cloak that lay across the bottom of the door. Would he assume it had fallen there? But it was fairly obvious that the garment had been placed in position by someone inside the room, and that it had not coincidentally fallen in such a way as to block light. With a surge of panic, Bartholomew scrambled out from under the table, half expecting Janius to burst into the chamber and catch him red-handed.
He glanced at the ambry in the far corner, not knowing whether to risk a few more moments to complete his search, or whether to count his blessings and leave while he still could. Instincts of self-preservation urged him to go, but he knew he would never have such a chance again – Timothy would know someone had been in his room because there was candle wax all over the floor, and Bartholomew intended to take the two purses he had recovered to Michael. If Bartholomew did not find the essay first, Timothy would move it elsewhere, and it would never be found. Reluctantly, he made his decision and turned towards the ambry, fumbling with the latch. It was entirely the wrong thing to have done. The door burst open and a sudden light flooded the room.
‘Is this what you were hoping to find, Matthew?’ asked Janius pleasantly, holding aloft a sheaf of parchment. ‘Here is Faricius’s essay. I assume that is what you were looking for?’
Timothy closed the door behind them, a hefty broadsword in one hand. ‘Do not even think of howling for help, Doctor. If you so much as try, I will kill you.’
For several moments, Bartholomew was too shocked to speak. He looked from the pile of parchments that Janius held, to Timothy’s amiable face with its ready smile. Behind Timothy, Janius’s blue eyes, which usually gleamed with the light of religious fervour, now seemed cold and sinister.
‘How did you know I was here?’ asked Bartholomew, trying to keep his voice steady and not to look at the monstrous sword that Timothy brandished with practised ease.
Janius continued to grin. ‘We expected you yesterday, but we knew you would come sooner or later. We have been waiting.’
‘But how did you know?’ asked Bartholomew again.
‘We met Simon Lynne strolling along the High Street last night,’ said Janius. ‘He was under the impression that he was safe, but he told us all about your suspicions before we killed him and hid him in the tunnel so conveniently vacated by Kyrkeby. It was a squeeze, given that the thing has collapsed, but it will do for now.’
Bartholomew gazed at him. The intense blue gaze was just as sincere when he talked about murder, as it had been when he had talked about his God. The physician tried to suppress a shudder.
‘I see you found my well-laundered black cloak,’ said Timothy, nodding at the garment that lay on the floor.
‘I found the grey one you stole from Pechem, too,’ said Bartholomew.
‘And the scrips that belonged to Kyrkeby and Faricius,’ said Janius, looking at the two purses that lay on the table. ‘Timothy took them, so that Michael would believe that some passing outlaw was at work, murdering men for the contents of their purses. It would have worked, if you had not insisted on looking for other motives.’
‘You took Walcote’s scrip and left it near Barnwell Priory for Sergeant Orwelle to find,’ said Bartholomew, looking hard at Janius. ‘You had it in the basket you claimed was filled with food for the lepers. But the lepers received no food from you that day – or any other day this Lent.’
‘We have been feeding the riverfolk,’ said Janius, offended that his good works were being questioned. ‘We cannot provide for the whole town, and it has been a hard winter, even for us.’
‘You took Faricius’s essay from Paul yesterday,’ said Bartholomew, more bravely than he felt. ‘But only after you raided the Dominicans, Michaelhouse and the Barnwell Priory to look for it. You stole a glove when you burgled the Dominican Friary, and left it at Michaelhouse, so that we would accuse Morden of the crime.’
‘I was surprised you fell for that,’ said Janius, exchanging an amused glance with Timothy. ‘You must have seen that neither of us was small enough to be Morden when you tussled with us. Why did you allow Michael to believe it?’
‘He believed it because of the way the other glove dropped from the rafter when Michael slammed open Morden’s door,’ said Timothy gloatingly. ‘I flung it up there in the hope that Michael would see it “hidden”, but when it fell to the ground so conveniently – as if God Himself wanted you to see it – it made Morden appear more guilty than ever.’
‘Janius spoke to Father Paul,’ said Bartholomew, more interested in the raid on the Franciscan Friary than in how Timothy had laid false evidence against Morden. He watched Timothy test the blade of his sword with his thumb. It came away smeared with blood, indicating that it was very sharp. ‘Timothy kept silent, because he knew Paul would recognise his voice, while Janius demanded the essay.’
Janius inclined his head to indicate that Bartholomew had guessed correctly. ‘Obviously Paul could not see us, but we know his powers of observation are greater than those of many sighted men. We acted accordingly. As long as I never have cause to speak to him, he will never know our paths have crossed.’
‘If you spared Paul, why did you kill Arbury?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering whether he could shout and still evade the wicked blade Timothy wielded. He realised it would be hopeless. Timothy had been a soldier, and it had probably not been an empty boast when he promised to run Bartholomew through if he called for help. ‘There was no need to murder the lad.’
‘He recognised me,’ explained Timothy. ‘He addressed me by name, and politely offered to extract Michael from Langelee’s chamber, even though I had my hood pulled well over my eyes. We had a choice: we could abandon the notion of searching Michael’s room and fabricate some excuse as to why we were there, or we could continue with what we had planned.’
‘So, you chose the second option,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And you left Arbury to die.’
‘It was a pity,’ said Timothy. ‘But there is more at stake here than the life of a student.’
‘Such as what?’ demanded Bartholomew, realising that even if he did manage to shout for help before he died, the other monks would merely applaud Timothy for protecting them against someone who had just forced a window to gain entry to their hostel. ‘What is more important than human lives?’
‘The University,’ said Timothy immediately. ‘It transcends all of us. We will be dead within a few years – sooner in your case – but the University will still be here for centuries to come.’
‘Not if it has people like you in it,’ said Bartholomew, startled by the monk’s claim. ‘The King will not want a University that is in the control of murderers and thieves.’
‘You are wrong,’ said Janius smoothly. ‘He needs the University to produce educated men to be his lawyers, secretaries and spies. He will not care what we do as long as we continue to provide him with what he wants. But we had a Senior Proctor who gave away University property to promote his personal ambition, and a Junior Proctor who was weak and ineffectual.’
‘Had?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily. ‘Michael has not gone anywhere.’
‘Not yet,’ said Timothy. ‘But his days as Senior Proctor are numbered. I will take that position soon, and I shall appoint Janius as my deputy.’
‘Is that why you murdered Walcote?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Because you want to be proctors?’
‘Why do you think we killed Walcote?’ asked Janius, giving the impression that he was merely amusing himself at Bartholomew’s expense. Bartholomew wondered how he
ever could have imagined that the monk was a good man, when the glint in his eyes was so patently cruel and cold.
Bartholomew spoke quickly, seeing that the longer he could engage their interest, the longer he would live, although a nagging fear at the back of his mind told him that he was merely delaying the inevitable. ‘Lynne said he heard Walcote shouting at Kyrkeby until he had a fatal seizure and died. Lynne also heard “beadles” reminding Walcote of his appointment as Junior Proctor, and urging him to force the truth about the stolen essay from Kyrkeby. No beadles would have done such a thing. The “beadles” were you.’
‘Quite right,’ said Janius patronisingly. ‘Walcote was going to let that murdering Kyrkeby go, and was quite willing to believe the lying scoundrel when he said he did not have the essay.’
‘And did he have it?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘Of course he did,’ replied Janius scornfully. ‘When we pressed him, he admitted that he had been loitering around the Carmelite Friary, hoping to find one of Faricius’s friends, so that he could return it. He claimed he should not have stolen it, and wanted to give it back. Foolish man!’
‘This happened on Monday night,’ said Bartholomew. ‘By then, Chancellor Tynkell had decided to change the topic of Kyrkeby’s lecture, so Kyrkeby would not have needed Faricius’s essay anyway. He did not know it, but he killed Faricius for nothing.’
‘Walcote’s interrogation was pathetic,’ said Timothy in disgust. ‘Kyrkeby expected us to believe that he found Faricius already stabbed, and all he did was take his scrip.’
‘So, Kyrkeby handed Walcote the essay, but then his weak heart killed him,’ said Bartholomew. ‘What happened next?’
‘Walcote offered to distract patrolling beadles, so that Timothy and I could hide Kyrkeby’s corpse without being seen,’ said Janius resentfully. ‘We should never have trusted him. We were furious when we realised that he had taken the essay.’