An Order for Death (37 page)

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.

He stood abruptly, and paced in front of the tree-trunk. Should he tell Michael what was being said about him, so that they
could work together to clear the monk of the
charges? Or would Michael be so outraged by the accusations that he would decline to respond to them at all, and forbid Bartholomew
to give them credence by investigating on his behalf? He knew that the monk could be stubborn about such things. He also knew
that Michael’s position as Senior Proctor did not make him popular with everyone, and that many scholars would love to see
him fall from grace, especially those who had fallen foul of his quick mind and sharp tongue. It would not be easy to exonerate
him in some circles, no matter how much evidence Bartholomew might provide to the contrary.

The physician rubbed a hand through his hair, trying to decide upon the best course of action. Michael would know immediately
if Bartholomew was concealing something important from him, and the physician thought that there had been more than enough
lies already: he owed Michael his honesty. Then, if Michael reacted as Bartholomew feared, and treated the accusations with
dismissive contempt, the physician would have to conduct his own investigation to clear his friend’s name secretly, perhaps
with Meadowman’s help.

He was too tired to discuss the affair with the monk that night, and decided to wait until morning. Michael was also drunk,
and drunkenness often led to belligerence. Bartholomew did not want to start some argument for the whole College to hear,
or run the risk of the monk damaging his chances of proving his innocence by storming off into the night to inform the heads
of the religious Orders that they were wrong.

He left the orchard and made his way back to his room. The bells started to chime as he walked past Agatha’s neat rows of
herbs, and he realised that it was time for the midnight vigil that many people kept in Easter Week. He was grateful that
Michaelhouse did not insist that its scholars undertook such duties, as well as the other offices they were obliged to attend.

The kitchens were cold and empty as he walked through
them, and even the cat that usually slept there had gone to find a warmer spot to pass the night. The yard was also deserted,
except for Walter the porter’s cockerel, now minus several of its tail feathers. Michael and Langelee had moved on from noisy
bonhomie, and were at the stage where they were sharing muttered confidences. Bartholomew knew Michael would learn a lot more
about Langelee than Langelee would ever know about him, and as he passed under Langelee’s window, he thought he heard the
distinctive sound of Michael’s chuckle.

He stood still for a moment, gazing up at the dark silhouettes of the buildings opposite. A soft groan invaded his thoughts.
At first, he did not know where it had come from, but then he heard snoring coming from the chamber Suttone shared with three
lively students from Lincolnshire: the sound had either been Suttone himself, or perhaps one of his students, caught in some
restless dream. Then there was a blood-chilling howl followed by a babbling voice, which made him leap in alarm and silenced
the soft sounds of merriment issuing from Langelee’s chamber. Bartholomew heard Cynric sharply informing Clippesby that people
were sleeping, and that he had best save his screeches for the daytime.

Bartholomew heaved a sigh of relief, and heard the muted conversation resume in Langelee’s quarters. Nocturnal disturbances
were commonplace when Clippesby was going through one of his episodes, and there was nothing anyone could do but try to calm
him. Cynric seemed to have it under control, so, taking a final breath of sweet night air that was scented with a faint tang
of salt from the marshes to the north, Bartholomew turned and entered his room.

It was dark inside his chamber without a candle, and Bartholomew groped around blindly, swearing under his breath when he
stubbed his toe on the end of the bed. He ran his hands up the damp wall until his fingers encountered the wooden pegs that
had been driven into it, and
then hung up his cloak and tabard. He tugged off his boots, setting them near the window in the futile hope that the icy
blasts that whistled under the shutters might serve to dry them out a little, and then washed in the jug of water left for
him each night. The surface of the water cracked when he touched it, and tiny slivers of ice scratched him as he splashed
handfuls of it over his face and neck. Finally, hopping on tiptoe on the freezing flagstones, with his hands aching and burning
from the coldness of the water, he leapt into the bed.

The first few moments in bed during the winter were never pleasant, and on very cold nights, the unpleasantness sometimes
lasted until dawn. The bed-covers were damp, and Bartholomew did not know which was worse: the chill wetness that forced him
to curl into a tight ball until the warmth of his body began to drive the cold away, or the moistness that made him feel sticky
and clammy once it had warmed up. He lay shivering in his night-shirt and hose, his hands tucked under his arms, rubbing his
feet together in a futile attempt to warm them.

Gradually, the cold began to recede and he was able to uncoil himself bit by bit, until his feet were at the end of the bed.
Once the misery of the icy blankets had been breached, his mind automatically returned to Michael and the accusations regarding
the Carmelites’ chest. He tried not to think about it, and to consider more pleasant matters, such as the treatment of the
lepers at Stourbridge or the arguments he might use on Langelee regarding cleaning of the College latrines. But even these
fascinating issues failed to distract him, and he found himself once again pondering how best to prove Michael’s innocence.