‘You are not suggesting the two deaths are related, are you?’ asked Bartholomew, as he wrote down the few facts they had about Walcote’s death, chiefly where it had taken place and that it had probably happened after sunset. ‘I can see no reason to link them together.’
Michael rubbed the dark bristles on his chin. ‘Faricius, a Carmelite, was murdered when the
‘It may be a connection, but I am not sure it is a meaningful one. There is nothing nearby, other than that drainage pipe on the friary walls, that could be used for a spontaneous hanging. Perhaps that is all your connection means.’
Michael rubbed his chin harder. ‘But what about all the questions we have regarding Faricius’s murder? What about the fact that his Prior insisted he could not have left the friary? And what about the fact that we know the Carmelites are lying – or at least hiding the truth – about his death?’
‘What about them?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘They neither prove nor disprove the connection you are trying to make. I think the best way forward is to treat the two deaths as unrelated events. Then, if we discover evidence to the contrary, we can look at them from a new angle, and try to see whether there are other links. Is that reasonable?’
Michael sat down so hard on a stool that Bartholomew was sure he saw the legs buckle. The monk rested his elbows on his knees and gave his eyes a vigorous massage. ‘I suppose so. I find this very difficult, Matt. I have never investigated the death of anyone I liked before.’
‘I thought you were dissatisfied with Walcote’s abilities as a proctor.’
‘I was, although they seem insignificant now that he is dead. Doubtless I will come to remember him as the best deputy I have ever had. But I liked him well enough. He could be a little secretive at times, but he was a pleasant fellow to work with.’
‘We will find his killer,’ said Bartholomew encouragingly, although he was not sure how they would even begin what seemed such an impossible task.
Michael gave a wan smile and climbed to his feet. ‘I was right to ask you to help me; you have already made me feel more optimistic about our chances of success. Now, where shall we start? Will you look at Walcote’s body? I doubt there is any more you can tell me that I do not already know, but it is as good a place as anywhere to begin.’
Bartholomew nodded reluctantly. He did not enjoy looking at corpses and, although he had inspected a great many of them, the frequency of the occurrence did not make the task any more attractive. He was a physician, and he considered his work to be with the living rather than the dead.
‘And then I suppose we had better ask questions about Walcote himself,’ he said.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Michael suspiciously. ‘I do not want to pry into the poor man’s private affairs now that he is not here to defend himself.’
‘We need to establish whether his death was a case of an opportunistic slaying, or whether it was a carefully planned attack. We will not know that unless we investigate his personal life, to see whether he had angered someone sufficiently to make them want to kill him.’
‘Well, of course he had enemies,’ said Michael impatiently, beginning to pace again. ‘He was a proctor. There are plenty of students who resented spending nights in our cells, and who objected to paying the fine that secured their release.’
‘Most students accept the fact that they have been caught, and turn their minds to devising ways to avoid it next time,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And most students do not kill a man over the loss of a groat or two.’
‘A groat is a lot of money to people with nothing,’ said Michael. ‘I have had my life threatened on a number of occasions for far less than a groat.’
‘You have?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily. ‘Then perhaps you should not go out alone until this is resolved. I do not want to see you hanging from a pipe on the walls of the Dominican Friary – although it would take a lot more than a length of lead piping to hold up the likes of you.’
‘There is no need for rudeness, Matt,’ said Michael stiffly. ‘And doubtless I shall lose a lot of weight now that I have all the anxiety associated with solving two murders; that should please you.’
‘It did not stop you from making the most of breakfast this morning,’ said Bartholomew critically, not even wanting to remember what the monk had packed away inside his substantial girth after mass that day.
‘My meals are my affair,’ said Michael irritably. ‘But we should not be discussing them; we should be trying to find out who killed Walcote and Faricius.’
He gave a weary sigh as he stared at the piece of parchment on the table with its scanty record of facts. Bartholomew understood his apprehension. The few scraps of information written there seemed a very fragile basis on which to conduct a murder investigation.
‘You will be needing my assistance,’ came a booming voice from the door as Bartholomew and Michael sat staring at the parchment. ‘I heard about the death of Walcote and have come to take his place.’
Bartholomew and Michael jumped. They had not heard Father William climb the wooden stairs that led to Michael’s room, and his sudden appearance startled them. Bartholomew immediately noticed that William had dropped a sizeable blob of his breakfast oatmeal down the front of his habit, making him appear even more dirty and disreputable than usual, a feat the physician had not thought possible.
‘It is not my decision who to appoint as Junior Proctor,’ said Michael, quickly and not entirely truthfully. Bartholomew knew perfectly well that his opinions counted for a great deal when it was time for nominations to be considered. ‘I think the Chancellor has someone else in mind.’
It was not the first time the belligerent Franciscan had offered himself for the post, and it was not the first time Michael had declined. William was an honest enough man, but he seldom admitted he was wrong, and he was always accusing innocent people of heresy. He had spent some time with the inquisition in France, before his superiors had dispatched him to the University in Cambridge because of his over-zealousness. To give William’s bigotry full rein by appointing him Junior Proctor would be in no one’s interests.
‘But that is not fair,’ protested William, crestfallen. ‘I have been waiting years to be appointed, and you must appreciate that I would be good at ferreting out criminals, killers and heretics. I am the right man for the task, and you know it!’
‘You would make a memorable proctor,’ said Michael ambiguously. ‘I will tell Chancellor Tynkell of your interest. However, it is my understanding that he has promised the position to someone else.’
‘Who?’ demanded William. ‘I warrant it will not be someone with my dedication and experience.’
‘You are probably right,’ said Michael soothingly.
William rubbed his chin thoughtfully, then apparently decided to make the best of the situation. ‘But until this person has officially accepted the position, you will need someone to help you,’ he said. ‘It will be good practice for when the new Junior Proctor resigns and I take his place.’
‘That will not be necessary,’ said Michael hastily. ‘Matt is assisting me, and I need no one else. And anyway, I anticipate that Walcote’s replacement will take up his duties very soon.’
‘You need me,’ stated William uncompromisingly. ‘You see, this is not merely a matter of hunting down some criminal who has killed a man – which is all you have done in the past. This is far more complex: it is a case of unmasking a heretic.’
‘I see,’ said Michael, as William folded his arms and pursed his lips in the way he always did when he thought he had made an astute revelation. ‘And how have you arrived at this conclusion, pray?’
‘It is obvious,’ said William, inserting his solid form through the door and perching on the windowsill when he saw Michael was prepared to listen to him. ‘Walcote was an Austin canon; Austin canons follow the theory of nominalism; nominalism is an heretical notion; heretical notions are upheld by agents of the Devil.
‘There is a flaw in your logic, Father,’ said Michael. ‘If Walcote were one of these so-called heretics, why would another heretic kill him? Surely, the killer would be more likely to strike at a realist than a nominalist?’
William’s convictions began to waver. ‘Not necessarily,’ he blustered. ‘Heretics do not think in the same way as you or I. They do not always act logically.’
‘And neither do Franciscan fanatics,’ muttered Michael, eyeing the friar in distaste.
‘You are a realist, are you?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised that William was prepared to take a stand on an
