An Order for Death (49 page)

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 Bartholomew 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.

Heytesbury blew out his cheeks in another scented sigh. ‘Something must have happened to make him act so. Perhaps those two
farms and the church have suddenly become profitable, and he no longer wishes to part with them.’

‘Possibly,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Or perhaps he learned that you lied to him about Faricius.’

Heytesbury regarded him uneasily. ‘What do you mean?’

‘When we first met you claimed the “other business” you had in Cambridge
was seeing one of our scholars with a view to enticing him to Oxford. That scholar was Faricius.’

Heytesbury raised his eyebrows. ‘True. But I never lied
about it. I said he was “unsuitable”, if I recall correctly. He
was
unsuitable: he was dead.’

‘But he was obviously not dead when you first met him.’

‘No,’ said Heytesbury. He rummaged in his scrip and tore a piece of gum mastic from his ever-ready packet; even in the darkness
Bartholomew saw the pale stain it left on his fingers. ‘I had heard of his excellent mind, and I sought him out because it
would have been an honour to teach him.’

‘Then why did you not tell us this straight away?’

‘Why should I?’ asked Heytesbury. ‘What would you have thought if I had revealed that the one person I had spoken to in Cambridge
had been murdered within a couple of days? It might have put my arrangements with Michael at risk.’

‘You may have done that simply by keeping quiet about it,’ said Bartholomew maliciously, gratified to see the Oxford man blanch.
Heytesbury seemed about to protest his innocence again, but Bartholomew turned his attention to Yolande. ‘Did you wash Brother
Timothy’s cloak recently?’

Yolande nodded. ‘It was filthy with muck from walking along the High Street. Why do you ask?’

‘Did the dye come out?’ asked Bartholomew.

Yolande’s world-weary face became ugly with anger. ‘It certainly did not, and you can keep that sort of tale to yourself!
I will not have the likes of you accusing me of damaging the clothes I wash.’

‘I was only asking,’ protested Bartholomew. ‘It may have been made of inferior cloth or coloured with cheap dye that did not
stay.’

‘Well, it was not,’ said Yolande firmly. ‘That cloak was returned to Brother Timothy just as black as when he gave it to me,
and a whole lot cleaner. Agatha taught me not to use hot water on black garments for exactly that reason.’

She grabbed the agitated Heytesbury and flounced off with him down the High Street, leaving Bartholomew frowning after her
thoughtfully. So, Timothy
had
lied about
the cloak. He wondered whether he should tell Michael immediately, so that they could act on the information that night.
But Bartholomew suspected that the monk would be unwilling to listen to any more accusations regarding Timothy. Reluctantly,
because he wanted the whole business done with as soon as possible, he conceded that it would still be best to follow Cynric’s
advice, and launch a raid on Timothy’s room during the Easter vigil the following night.

‘I have that document,’ said Heytesbury, pulling away from Yolande and calling back up the High Street to Bartholomew. ‘My
lawyer has read it with care, and I am ready to sign it now.’

Bartholomew waved a hand in acknowledgement, and looked around for Cynric, who was still hidden in the dense shadows at the
side of the road.

‘I will sign it tomorrow,’ Heytesbury shouted again, as he was hauled away by a huffy Yolande. ‘Tell Brother Michael I will
sign whatever he likes first thing in the morning.’

Cynric, who emerged from the shadows as soon as Heytesbury and Yolande had gone, chuckled to himself. ‘This will please the
good Brother. Michael tried all manner of tricks to make Heytesbury sign, but the one that worked was when he acted as though
he no longer cared whether the business was concluded or not.’

Bartholomew tapped gently on Matilde’s door, then backed away hastily when he heard voices murmuring within. Appalled that
he had been so thoughtless as to assume she would be alone and that he might be about to intrude on something he preferred
not to think about, he began to move away. The door was opened, and Matilde peered out.

‘Matthew?’ she called, peering around her into the darkness. ‘Is that you? I have been waiting for you all evening. You said
you would come.’

Reluctantly, Bartholomew stepped out of the shadows and Cynric followed him into the neat, pleasant room where Matilde entertained
her guests. It was a lovely chamber, and
always smelled of clean woollen rugs and the herbs that she added to the logs that burned on the fire. A golden light filled
every corner, softened by the subdued colours of the wall hangings. Down-filled cushions were scattered artistically on the
benches and chairs, while a large bowl of nuts and fruit stood in the centre of a polished oak table.

Bartholomew stopped dead in his tracks when he saw that Matilde’s visitors, who sat side by side on a bench with goblets of
wine in their hands, were none other than Tysilia and Eve Wasteneys of St Radegund’s Convent. Bartholomew’s stomach lurched.
Had they learned that the portly Mistress Horner and the slender prostitute were one and the same? Had they come to do Matilde
harm for attempting to spy on them?

‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded, quite rudely.

‘I might ask you the same question,’ retorted Eve, surprised by his hostility. ‘We are women visiting a woman for sensible
advice. You are a man visiting a woman at a time that is not seemly.’

‘It is hardly seemly for a pair of nuns to be out so late, either,’ retorted Bartholomew. ‘But I am a physician, and I am
often called out at night.’

‘Has Mistress Matilde summoned you, then?’ asked Eve archly. ‘She does not look in dire need of a physician to me.’

‘Why visit Matilde at night, when you could come in the day?’ countered Bartholomew.

‘Dame Martyn said we had to come in the dark because we could not be seen visiting a whore in broad daylight,’ supplied Tysilia
helpfully. ‘She also said—’

‘Our business with Mistress Matilde is nothing to do with you,’ interrupted Eve, giving Tysilia a none too subtle dig in the
ribs with her elbow to silence her. She stood up and made a gracious curtsy to Matilde, casting a sour glance at Bartholomew
as she did so. ‘We should go. I would not wish our presence to deprive you of company this evening.’

She headed towards the door, although Tysilia clearly had
no intention of leaving. She remained seated, so that Eve was obliged to walk back again and grab her by the hand.

‘No!’ Tysilia cried, trying to free herself. ‘I like it here.’

‘I am sure you do,’ muttered Eve, tugging harder. ‘But we must return to the convent.’

‘Matilde is the leader of the town’s whores,’ Tysilia announced to Bartholomew, resisting the older woman and attempting to
sit again. ‘She knows everything about them. Mistress Horner, that fat woman who was staying with us, told Eve all about Matilde,
and said we should come to see her with our problem.’

‘What problem?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘I am sure Mistress Horner did not mean you to come to see me in the dark, though,’ said Matilde reasonably. ‘It is not safe
for women to be unaccompanied at night.’

‘Whores wander the streets alone,’ said Tysilia brightly. ‘In the dark, too.’

‘No,’ said Matilde quietly. ‘They do not. They used to, but it was dangerous. These days, most of them gather their clients
from taverns or more public places.’

‘Really?’ asked Tysilia, fascinated. She turned to Eve with pleading eyes. ‘Can we go to a tavern? Tonight?’

Even Eve’s composure began to slip at this brazen request, while Matilde was startled into a laugh. Bartholomew studied Tysilia
carefully. Her eyes were bright and shiny, but he still could not read the emptiness behind them. Most of her conversation
was vacuous, but she had asked directly about the progress of the murder enquiry on two separate occasions, and had pointed
out that Walcote was likely to have been killed by more than one person. He realised he was as unable to fathom her now as
he had been on their first meeting.

‘No, we cannot tarry at an inn,’ said Eve sharply, reclaiming Tysilia’s wrist and dragging her towards the door. ‘It is time
for us to go home.’

‘Perhaps Cynric would accompany you,’ suggested Matilde. ‘As I said, it is not wise for women to be out alone
so late, especially once you leave the town. The Barnwell Causeway is a lonely and desolate place.’

Eve looked grateful, and Bartholomew had the impression that the nocturnal mission had not been her idea, and that something
had happened that had called for desperate measures. Once they had left, and Tysilia’s demands to be taken to an inn immediately
had faded into the night, Matilde closed the door with a grin.

‘Tysilia is pregnant again,’ she said. ‘Eve wanted me to tell her the name of a midwife who would end it, but I told her that
was not the sort of thing the sisters know.’

Bartholomew was horrified and unconvinced. ‘That is just an excuse! Do you not think it odd that they just happen to visit
you the moment you leave the convent? They know what you have been doing.’

Matilde shook her head. ‘I do not see how. However, I can assure you that it was not Mistress Horner who told them I was “the
leader of the town’s whores”, as Tysilia put it. Mistress Horner never once mentioned Matilde.’

Bartholomew rubbed a hand through his hair, wishing that Matilde had never agreed to try to obtain information for Michael.
‘Then how did they know?’

Matilde shrugged. ‘It is no secret that I run an unofficial guild for the sisters, and that I help them to organise themselves
in a way that minimises the danger inherent in their profession. Perhaps Eve Wasteneys claimed Mistress Horner as a source
of information to Tysilia, because she did not care to explain how else she knew. Mistress Horner has gone, and will never
know what she is supposed to have said.’