Susanna Gregory
AN ORDER FOR DEATH
2001
Prologue
YULETIDE WAS ALWAYS A MAGICAL TIME OF YEAR FOR Beadle Meadowman. He liked the crisp chill of winter evenings and the sharp scent of burning logs and of rich stews bubbling over fires in a hundred hearths. He loved the atmosphere of anticipation and excitement as the townsfolk streamed from their houses to attend the high mass in St Mary’s Church at midnight, and he adored the candlelit naves and the heady smell of incense as it drifted from the chancel in a white, smoky pall.
He was in a happy mood as he strolled along Milne Street, holding his night lamp high so that he would not stumble in a pothole or trip over the mounds of rubbish that had been dumped by the people whose houses lined the road. A distant part of his mind registered that the gutters were blocked again, and that an evil yellow-brown gout of muck formed a fetid barrier that stretched from one side of the street to the other. He jumped across it, his mind fixed on the festivities that would begin when the bells chimed to announce that it was midnight.
He barely noticed the stench of rotting vegetable parings that were slippery with mould, or the odorous tang of animal dung and rotting straw that clogged the air. Instead, he heard the voices of excited children and saw lights gleaming from under the doors of homes that would usually be in darkness, and longed for his evening patrol to finish, so that he could join his family for the Christmas night celebrations. His sister had made a huge plum cake, which would be eaten with slices of the creamy yellow cheese he had bought earlier that day, and there would be spiced wine to wash it down. And then there would be games – perhaps even a little dicing if the parish priest turned a blind eye – and the singing of ancient songs around the fire.
He reached the high walls of the Carmelite Friary and gave the handle on the gate a good rattle to ensure it was locked. Satisfied that all was in order, he walked to where Milne Street ended at Small Bridges Street and watched the glassy black waters of the King’s Ditch for a moment. Only a few weeks before, a student-friar called Brother Andrew had thrown himself into the King’s Ditch in a fit of depression, and Meadowman seldom passed the spot where the body had been found without thinking about him.
In the bushes at one side of the road, a man in a dark cloak waited until Meadowman had gone, and then emerged to walk purposefully towards the friary. He tapped softly on the gate, and was admitted at once by someone who owed him a favour. The same person had also been persuaded to leave inner doors unlocked and had arranged for the porter to be enjoying an illicit cup of Christmas ale in the kitchen. Without wasting time on pleasantries, the man in the dark cloak pushed past his unwilling accomplice and headed across the courtyard towards the chapel. Inside, a flight of steps led to a comfortable chamber on the upper floor, and at the far end of this was a tiny room with a heavily barred door and no windows. With a set of keys taken from the Chancellor’s office in St Mary’s Church earlier that day, the intruder opened the door and slipped inside.
Not many people knew that the University kept copies of its most valuable documents and deeds, and fewer still knew that these were stored in the large iron-bound box that stood in the locked room at the Carmelite Friary. Three years before, someone had broken into St Mary’s Church and ransacked the University’s main chest, which held its original deeds; since then the Chancellor and his clerks had been even more careful to ensure that the Carmelites received duplicates of everything. Aware that the bulging chest in St Mary’s was an obvious target for thieves, the Chancellor had even taken to storing the odd silver plate and handful of gold at the friary, too. His proctors approved wholeheartedly of his precautions.
The man in the dark cloak knelt next to the chest in the Carmelite strong-room and lit a candle. The locks were the best that money could buy and would have been difficult to force, but he had the Chancellor’s keys, and the well-oiled metal clasps snapped open instantly. Inside were neatly stacked rolls of parchment, bundles of letters tied with twine, and several priceless books. He sorted through them quickly, taking what he wanted and discarding the rest. Underneath the deeds and scrolls was a small box, the inside of which lit with the bright gleam of gold and silver when it was opened. The intruder glanced briefly at it, then flipped the lid closed and began packing his acquisitions into a small sack; he had not come for the University’s treasure, but for something with a far greater value than mere coins.
He left the way he had entered, watchful for beadles or the Sheriff’s soldiers, who would be suspicious of someone carrying a heavy bag around the town at the witching hour. But it was almost Christmas Day, and, for that night at least, most of the patrols were more interested in finishing their duties than in scouring the town for law-breakers.
Meanwhile, Beadle Meadowman had continued his rounds, and had passed through the Trumpington Gate in order to check the Hall of Valence Marie. Opposite was the dark mass of Peterhouse, while further up the road were the Priory of St Gilbert of Sempringham and the gleaming lights of the King’s Head tavern. Meadowman had been called to the King’s Head earlier that night, when a fellow beadle named Rob Smyth, full of the spirit of approaching Christmas, had drunk more than was wise. Smyth had picked a fight with a surly blacksmith, and Meadowman had been obliged to calm his colleague down and resettle him in a corner with another jug of ale.
Meadowman cocked his head and listened, but although drunken voices could be heard on the still night air, the patrons of the King’s Head sounded more celebratory than antagonistic, and he saw no need to ensure that Smyth was behaving himself. He turned to cross the street. Ditches ran along each side of the Trumpington road, intended to prevent it from flooding, although in reality, the Gilbertine friars and the scholars of Valence Marie and Peterhouse tended to block them by filling them with rubbish, and they were really just a series of fetid, stagnant puddles. Storms sometimes washed them clean, but it had been a long time since there had been a serious downpour, and they were more choked than usual.
A dark shadow on the ground outside Peterhouse caught Meadowman’s eye. He went to inspect it, and was vaguely amused to see a man lying full length on his front, arms flung out above his head, as though he had caught his foot in a pothole and had fallen flat on his face. As he knelt, Meadowman was not at all surprised to detect the powerful, warm scent of ale. One of the patrons of the King’s Head had apparently had too much to drink, stumbled on the uneven road surface, and then gone to sleep where he had dropped. Meadowman recognised the greasy brown hood of Rob Smyth and, shaking his head in tolerant resignation, he turned his colleague over.
Water dripped from Smyth’s face, drenching the fringe of fair hair that poked from under his hood and trickling down the sides of his face. Meadowman gazed at the blue features and dead staring eyes in sudden shock. Then he slowly reached out a hand to the puddle in which Smyth had been lying. It was shallow, no deeper than the length of his little finger. Meadowman realised that Smyth had drowned because he had been too drunk to lift his face away from the suffocating water when he had stumbled.
At Smyth’s side was a pouch containing a letter. Meadowman frowned in puzzlement, wondering why his colleague should be carrying a document when he, like Meadowman, could not read. It was written on new
