An Order for Death

‘Speaking of Oxford, did Heytesbury leave on Sunday afternoon?’ asked Matilde, drawing a stool near the fire and perching on it as she cupped her goblet between both hands. Clippesby’s prediction of a spell of sunshine had proved uncannily accurate, but clear skies meant cold nights, and it was chilly once the sun had set, even in Matilde’s cosy home.

Michael nodded. ‘He is now the proud owner of the Black Bishop of Bedminster, and he set off on it at noon, shortly after his unexpectedly brief lecture.’

‘Heytesbury bought that thing?’ asked Bartholomew in astonishment. ‘I thought he was as wary of it as everyone else.’

Michael chuckled happily. ‘Stanmore – ever the salesman – caught him in a tavern late one night when he was not at his most alert, and persuaded him to buy it. It was, after all, his to sell, not Richard’s. Meanwhile, all our suspicions that Richard was involved in something sinister were essentially unfounded. His father bought him the horse and the saddle, while his fine new clothes and fancy ear-ring came either from his own savings or from the money Heytesbury paid him.’

‘Why did Heytesbury pay him?’ asked Matilde curiously.

‘Because he did not trust any Cambridge-based lawyers to read the deeds relating to his arrangements with me,’ replied Michael. ‘And because he was strapped for choice, Richard could name any price he liked.’

‘I imagine a good deal of haggling took place over the fee, though,’ added Bartholomew. ‘They certainly spent a lot of time in taverns, trying to take advantage of each other by indulging in drinking games. But Richard has been a changed man this week. He even visited some of my patients with me, and claims he may yet become a physician.’

‘He helped me take food to the lepers, too,’ said Matilde. ‘And I hear that the Franciscans are making a good deal of money by selling the cure that lifted the curse from him.’

Bartholomew laughed. ‘Richard is a young man who is rarely ill, and the combination of too much ale with Heytesbury and the burning feathers that Cynric left for him made him sick. He was frightened, and there is the essence of the Franciscans’ cure.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Matilde incredulously. ‘Are you telling us that it did not actually work?’

‘Of course not,’ said Bartholomew. ‘How can burning feathers change a person’s character? They made him ill, and convinced him to turn over a new leaf – that and the knowledge that he killed a monk and does not want to be damned for it.’

‘So, he may revert to his former charming self?’ asked Matilde, disappointed.

Bartholomew nodded. ‘But he was a nice enough lad before he left home. Perhaps living with Edith will keep him pleasant.’

‘The Franciscans are making a lot of money by selling gum mastic, too,’ said Michael. ‘When the news spread that Lincolne’s impressive topknot was held in place so perfectly by a glue made from a new import from the Mediterranean–’

‘It only stayed in place when he was not killing people,’ corrected Bartholomew. ‘It tended to come off in the hands of his victims – Walcote, Faricius and almost me.’

‘– a good many people asked the Franciscans if they had any,’ finished Michael. ‘It is fine stuff – virtually invisible and fat-based so it does not rinse off in water.’

‘It leaves yellow stains, however,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Lincolne’s scalp was deeply impregnated with it, and so were Heytesbury’s fingers. He uses gum mastic resin as a breath-freshener to disguise the fact that he likes wine. It is quite a useful plant.’

‘So, it was Lincolne who killed Faricius and Walcote,’ mused Matilde. ‘He was a cool customer, ordering you to investigate his student’s stabbing among the Dominicans and then watching you excavate Kyrkeby from the secret tunnel.’

Bartholomew agreed. ‘So was Timothy, although he at least had the grace to go white when we found Kyrkeby, and he did not like being in the conventual church at Barnwell, where the body of another of his victims lay. I recall feeling sorry for him, because I assumed that it was simply the sight of corpses he did not like.’

‘He probably just did not like to see the corpses of the men he had murdered,’ said Michael. ‘But Lincolne was good. It never occurred to me that he knew about the tunnel and Kyrkeby’s body in it.’

‘He had been a student at the Carmelite Friary,’ Bartholomew explained to Matilde. ‘Therefore, he was aware of the tunnel, although it is a Carmelite tradition to keep the secret from the masters. I suppose people simply forgot that Lincolne had been a student here as time passed.’

‘He saw Faricius slip out through it while the Dominicans were storming the Carmelite Friary,’ continued Michael. ‘He followed him, watched him collect the essay, then confronted him in Milne Street. Feeling betrayed by his best student, Lincolne stabbed Faricius in a fit of rabid fury.’

‘Lincolne was lucky the Dominicans did not catch him in Milne Street,’ said Matilde. ‘It was his proclamation that started the riot in the first place.’

‘That was why he abandoned Faricius’s body before he had the chance to grab the essay,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He heard the Dominicans coming and was forced to flee.’

‘Meanwhile, Kyrkeby had also been dogging Faricius,’ Michael went on. ‘Time was passing, and he needed the essay on which to base his lecture. He must have been desperate, to dash over to the dying Faricius and cut the strings to his scrip while his own students were closing in.’

‘He was desperate,’ confirmed Bartholomew. ‘The lecture was in a week, and his own work was mediocre. He needed the essay urgently, if he were not to disgrace himself and his Order at the most auspicious event in the University’s calendar.’

‘And by the Monday – two days later – Ringstead observed a marked improvement in the lecture’s quality,’ said Michael. ‘But meanwhile, Lincolne became obsessed with hunting down the essay and destroying it.’

‘He knew he was not in a position to look for it himself,’ said Bartholomew, ‘so he turned to Timothy and Janius, who were already working with him in the plot to overthrow Michael and Walcote and thus save the University from what they considered to be evil influences. The Benedictines eagerly obliged Lincolne, but did so because they intended to publish it themselves, not because they wanted to destroy it.’

‘It would have brought them fame and fortune,’ said Matilde. ‘But why would the fanatical Lincolne join forces with monks like Timothy and Janius? They seem odd bedfellows.’

‘They were not so different,’ said Michael. ‘They all used religion as a means to force their own views on people who begged to differ. And they were all afraid that my arrangement with Heytesbury would harm Cambridge. It just shows that they were poor judges of character, and that they did not know me at all.’

‘And poor Walcote, who we all chastised for being so meek and mild, showed considerable strength in the end,’ said Matilde. ‘He died because he refused to tell that wicked trio where he had hidden Faricius’s essay.’

Michael nodded. ‘He knew if he told them they would probably kill Paul, and he did not want that on his conscience. He died to protect Paul and to keep Faricius’s essay from men like Timothy and Janius, who would seek to profit from it, and from Lincolne, who would have burned it.’

‘Where is it now?’ asked Matilde.

‘Where Faricius wanted it to be,’ said Michael. ‘In the care of Father Paul.’

‘They must have killed Walcote very quickly,’ said Bartholomew, his mind still dwelling on the grisly details of the Junior Proctor’s death. ‘Lynne heard the commotion with Kyrkeby shortly after sunset, and both Kyrkeby and Walcote were dead before compline, because that is when Sergeant Orwelle found Walcote’s body and it was already cold.’

‘Why did Walcote not tell you about the tunnel?’ asked Matilde of Michael. ‘It seems the sort of detail proctors should share.’

‘I quite agree,’ said Michael. ‘But Walcote was a man of his word, and he had promised the Carmelite student-friars he would say nothing if they blocked the tunnel within a week. Also, you must remember that he was not present when the question about Faricius’s escape from the friary came up: he was making sure the Dominicans had all gone home at that point. He never knew that we were pondering the question of how Faricius could have left the friary without using the main gate, or I imagine he would have told us.’

‘You and he did not seem to work well together,’ remarked Bartholomew. ‘You may have liked each other, but you did not trust him – or he you.’

‘No,’ admitted Michael. ‘I thought him too weak, and he did not understand me at all. We did not talk as