An Order for Death (45 page)

‘What do you think these intruders wanted from Ralph?’ asked Timothy. ‘Was it the same thing that they wanted from you?’

Michael shrugged. ‘I cannot imagine what, although I think we are right to assume that these two burglaries were committed
by the same people.’

‘Ralph and you are not the only ones to be burgled,’ said Bartholomew thoughtfully. ‘If Morden is telling the truth, then
items have been stolen from him, too.’ He snapped his fingers suddenly. ‘And I think I may know exactly what those raiders
were looking for.’

‘Well?’ asked Michael, when his friend was lost in thought.

‘Of course,’ said Bartholomew, as one assumption led to another and another, and gradually pieces of the puzzle began to fit
together.

‘What?’ snapped Michael irritably. ‘I am in no mood for games, Matt. If you know, tell me; if it is some wild guess, then
you can keep it to yourself. I am already confused, and I do not want more untenable theories muddying the water.’

‘This is not a guess,’ said Bartholomew excitedly, as parts of the mystery became crystal clear. ‘It was your mention of Father
Paul that made me think of the solution. All this trouble has been over Faricius’s essay.’

‘How?’ asked Timothy doubtfully. ‘And why should Paul make you think of it?’

‘The essay defends nominalism,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There is our first clue.’

Michael sighed. ‘I fail to see how.’

‘Horneby and Simon Lynne went to Faricius’s hiding place in St John Zachary after Faricius’s murder; the evidence, however,
suggests that Faricius had already collected his essay and was returning to the friary with it when he was attacked.’

‘It was not on his body, and his last words were spent asking you to find it,’ agreed Michael, impatiently. ‘And?’

‘Meanwhile, Kyrkeby was struggling to write a lecture defending nominalism, to be presented at the most auspicious event of
the University year. He was unwell anyway – I treated him for an irregular heartbeat – and the pressure was beginning to mount.
Morden thought Kyrkeby’s first attempts at the lecture were poor. But the day
after
Faricius’s death, Ringstead said that Kyrkeby’s lecture had improved.’

‘You think Kyrkeby killed Faricius for his essay?’ exploded Michael in disbelief, exchanging a glance with Timothy that was
half-amusement and half-annoyance that they had wasted time listening to the physician. ‘Matt, you are out of your wits! I
have heard you suggest some peculiar motives for murder in the past, but never one as bizarre as this.’

‘Because it is bizarre does not mean it is inaccurate,’ said Bartholomew defensively. ‘Perhaps racked by remorse, Kyrkeby
may have tried to return the essay to the Carmelites by using the tunnel—’

‘Your theory fails here, Matt,’ interrupted Michael. ‘Kyrkeby did not know about the tunnel. How could he have done? Even
Prior Lincolne was unaware of it and
he
is a Carmelite who lives in that friary, not a Dominican who has probably never set foot in it.’

‘Well, there is another possibility,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But you will not like it.’

Michael sighed. ‘I do not like this one. But go ahead. We have heard one insane idea today. Another cannot harm us.’

‘Walcote was also a nominalist, who knew Faricius and admired his work. Walcote may even have known about the essay. He was
with us when we interviewed the Dominicans the day after Faricius’s murder, when Ringstead told us about the sudden improvement
in Kyrkeby’s lecture. Walcote also knew about Faricius’s stolen scrip. He may have deduced that the essay was in it, and therefore
reasoned that the missing essay and Kyrkeby’s sudden improvement were more than coincidence.’

‘Why should he have reasoned that?’ demanded Michael. ‘We did not.’

‘Because at the time we did not know that Faricius’s missing scrip probably contained his essay – we did not know the essay
even existed.’

‘Are you suggesting that Walcote killed Kyrkeby for stealing Faricius’s essay?’ asked Timothy, exchanging another uncertain
glance with Michael.

‘Walcote killed Kyrkeby for stabbing a man he knew and admired. Horneby told us that Walcote knew about the tunnel, because
he had caught him using it and had ordered it to be sealed. What a perfect hiding place for a corpse! Even if the Carmelite
students did find Kyrkeby’s body, they would never be able to report it without admitting that they knew secret ways in and
out of their friary.’

‘I do not know about this, Matt,’ warned Michael. ‘I can see a lot of holes in your arguments.’

‘Such as what?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Such as the fact that Walcote was not the kind of man to kill, for a start,’ said Michael. ‘I complained to you many times
about his gentleness and his annoying habit of looking for the good in people. Such men do not murder others.’

‘That is not true,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We have seen gentler men than Walcote commit all manner of crimes.’

Michael disagreed. ‘Your reasoning has a Dominican Precentor killing a Carmelite student-friar, and my Austin Junior Proctor
murdering the Dominican. Such men do not go around slaughtering each other, Matt. And anyway, Faricius, Kyrkeby and Walcote
himself were dead long before Arbury was murdered and Nigel was stabbed. How many killers do you imagine there are stalking
the streets of Cambridge?’

Bartholomew regarded him sombrely. ‘I have no idea, Brother. But I suggest we should find out before anyone else dies.’

Michael wanted to go straight to the Franciscan Friary, to ask Father Paul whether he had Simon Lynne secreted away, and then
question the lad about the mysterious death of Kyrkeby. They were approaching the Barnwell Gate when they became aware of
a commotion taking place just outside it. A small crowd had gathered, and was standing around a prostrate body on the ground.
Thinking it was probably someone in need of a physician, Bartholomew hurried forward to see if he could help. Sighing irritably
at the delay, Michael followed.

Bartholomew pushed through the ring of spectators, then stopped in horror when he saw that the person lying flat on his back
in the town’s filth was his nephew.

‘I want a word with him,’ muttered Michael, eyeing Richard dispassionately. ‘I want to know why he conspired against me at
St Radegund’s Convent with the leaders of the religious Orders.’

‘Not now, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, unlooping the medicine bag from around his shoulder and kneeling in the mud next to
his stricken relative.

‘I can do nothing here,’ said Timothy to Michael. ‘You and Matthew can visit Paul when you have carried Richard home to his
mother. Meanwhile, I am worried about the plight of the lepers Matthew told us about. With your leave, I would like to tell
Matilde about them, so that she can arrange for supplies to be sent today.’

Michael knew that his Junior Proctor regularly distributed alms to the poor and sick, and that he had a good deal of compassion
for the unfortunates who lived in the leper hospital. ‘Go ahead. I do not like to think of them starving either, and Matilde
can be relied upon to help,’ he told him.

‘I will not be long,’ said Timothy, beginning to stride away. ‘As soon as I have spoken to Matilde, I shall return to help
you at the Franciscan Friary.’

Bartholomew was pleased Timothy would urge Matilde to leave the convent; he knew she would not linger if there were people
who had need of her charity. She would return home immediately, and then she would be safe. He turned his attention to Richard,
whose white face and bruised temple suggested that he had swooned and toppled from his monstrous black horse.

‘I was here first,’ came a petulant voice. Bartholomew glanced up to see Robin of Grantchester. The town’s surgeon held a
fearsome array of rusty, bloodstained knives, and was busily deciding which one he would use to slice through the veins in
Richard’s arms.

‘Leave him, Robin,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘This is my nephew and I do not want you shoving your filthy instruments into him.’

‘He needs to be bled,’ protested Robin. ‘I will do it now, and he can pay me sixpence when he revives. He will not mind paying
above the odds for an operation performed in the street.’

Bartholomew ignored him. ‘What happened?’ he asked, addressing the watching crowd.

‘I found him first,’ repeated Robin angrily. ‘With those expensive clothes and that fine black horse, he can afford to pay
me what I ask. I will not stand by why you take the bread from my mouth. Go away.’

‘What happened?’ Bartholomew asked again, while the crowd, anticipating a fight between the surgeon and the physician, looked
on expectantly.

‘Robin did find him first,’ offered Bosel the beggar, who had been relieved of a hand for persistent stealing and who now
worked on the High Street, demanding money on the fraudulent claim that he had lost an arm fighting in France. He was not
a man Bartholomew liked.

‘But Doctor Bartholomew has a right to him,’ replied Isnard the bargeman, who sang bass in Michael’s choir, and who was in
debt to Bartholomew for once setting his broken leg, free of charge. ‘He is kin.’

‘Did anyone see what happened to Richard?’ pressed Bartholomew loudly, before the argument could escalate and everyone started
to take sides.

‘He fell off his horse,’ said Bosel, gloating. ‘One moment he was riding along, trampling us under his hoofs and pretending
to be a great man, and the next he was on the ground in the muck.’

‘He just fell?’ asked Bartholomew, pushing Robin’s hands away as the surgeon made a grab for Richard’s arm. ‘No one threw
anything at him or pushed him off?’

There was a chorus of denials, although several of the crowd muttered that they wished they had.

‘The horse was prancing and waving its front feet around,’ explained Isnard. ‘But it always does that. It is the most badly
behaved animal in the town.’

‘Let me bleed him,’ pleaded Robin, trying again to lay hold of one of Richard’s wrists. ‘If you wait until he regains his
senses, he will refuse my services and I will have lost sixpence.’

‘I will give you sixpence if you leave him alone,’ said Bartholomew, covering his nephew with his tabard. He tapped the young
man’s cheeks until Richard opened his eyes, squinting against the white brightness of the sky.

A grubby hand was thrust under Bartholomew’s nose. ‘All right, then,’ said Robin ungraciously. ‘Give.’

Seeing that the hand was likely to remain where it was until he paid, Bartholomew rummaged in his scrip for six pennies. He
could find only three, even with the one Matilde had given him, and Michael was obliged to provide the rest.

‘What is wrong with him?’ asked the monk, crouching next to Bartholomew and peering at Richard’s pale face. ‘Has he swooned?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘And then the horse threw him. That thing is far too powerful for a man of his meagre riding abilities.’

With Michael’s help, Bartholomew raised the dazed Richard from the ground, put a supporting arm around the young man, and
walked him towards Milne Street, where he could be deposited at his father’s business premises. Michael paid Isnard a penny
to find the escaped Black Bishop of Bedminster and bring it back before it ate someone, and then followed them.

Oswald Stanmore stared expressionlessly when he saw Richard helped across the courtyard, but did not offer to assist when
the physician lowered the invalid gently on to a bench.

‘Has he been drinking with that Heytesbury again?’ Stanmore asked folding his arms and regarding his son with disapproval.
‘The man is leading him to a life of debauchery and lust.’

‘Heytesbury is leading Richard astray?’ asked Michael. He watched Bartholomew help Richard sip some water. ‘Why do you think
that?’

‘Because Heytesbury is in an inn at every opportunity,’ said Stanmore crossly. ‘And when there is no tavern available, he
insists on being provided with wine.’

‘Really,’ said Michael, interested. ‘Would you say that this affinity with wine is more marked than in most men?’

‘I certainly would,’ said Stanmore firmly. ‘He has already drunk the best of my cellars, and is inveigling invitations to
friaries and Colleges all over Cambridge, so that he can have a go at theirs. He is one of those cunning imbibers – not the
kind who becomes roaring drunk so that the whole town knows what he has been doing, but the kind who indulges himself steadily
and heavily and shakes like a leaf when there is too long an interval between tipples.’

‘Like Dame Martyn,’ said Bartholomew. Stanmore nodded.

‘Well, now,’ said Michael, his eyes gleaming. ‘Perhaps Heytesbury will sign my deed sooner than he anticipates.’

‘Yes, blackmail him,’ said Stanmore harshly. ‘Then he will remove himself from my house and return to that den of iniquity
he calls Oxford. I do not want to order him to leave, because he is Richard’s friend, but he cannot depart soon enough for
me or Edith.’

Michael draped an arm over Stanmore’s shoulders with a grin of immense satisfaction. ‘Just leave it to me.’

‘I do not know why you needed Oswald to tell you this,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It has been apparent from the start that Heytesbury
likes his wine. I have seen him in the Swan
and
the Cardinal’s Cap, and he carries gum mastic – a breath freshener – with him at all times to disguise the scent of wine
on his breath.’

‘Then why did you not point this out to me sooner?’ asked Michael coolly. ‘Had I known, it would have made a big difference
to the way I dealt with him.’

‘It was so obvious I did not think it necessary to mention it. You do not need to be a physician to detect the symptoms of
a committed drinker. However, Richard has not been drinking – not today, at least.’

‘What is wrong with him, then?’ said Stanmore, finally becoming worried. ‘It is not the Great Pestilence again, is it? Oxford
is exactly the kind of place it would come from a second time.’

‘It is not the plague,’ said Bartholomew, taking Richard’s wrist and measuring the pace of his life-beat. It was within the
normal range for a man of his age and size, and Bartholomew did not think there was anything seriously wrong with his nephew.
Richard’s eyes flickered and he began to show signs of awareness.