cannot tell you what Walcote did is because we really do not know. As I mentioned earlier, times are hard, and we are obliged to raise funds in any way we can. One method is to rent this room for meetings that people would rather did not take place in the town.’
‘Do not tell him!’ cried Dame Martyn in horror. ‘The reason people come here is because they know they can rely on our discretion. Without that, we have nothing.’
‘Are you telling me that your convent is used as a venue for criminals?’ asked Michael quickly, as he saw Eve hesitate. ‘Men gather here to plan crimes and other evil deeds?’
‘We do not know what they plan,’ said Eve with blunt honesty. ‘All we do is make this parlour available to anyone who pays us four groats – no questions asked.’
‘And Walcote hired this room from you?’ asked Michael.
Eve nodded, while the Prioress looked disgusted at what her Sacristan had revealed.
‘How often? Once a week? More? Less?’
Eve Wasteneys regarded Michael for a moment, and then shrugged, looking at her Prioress as she did so. ‘Walcote is dead, Reverend Mother. He will not be paying us for any more meetings, and so we have nothing to lose by being honest with Brother Michael.’
‘But one of the others might pay us instead,’ said Dame Martyn plaintively. ‘There is no reason these gatherings should stop, just because one of their number is dead.’
‘They were Walcote’s meetings,’ said Eve. ‘He paid us and he organised them. That source of income is finished, and it is in our interests to co-operate with the proctors now. We do not want his beadles stationed at our gates, and we cannot afford to lose Tysilia – assuming the Bishop pays us eventually, that is. We have no choice but to tell Brother Michael what he wants to know.’
‘How often were these meetings?’ repeated Michael, breaking into their conversation.
‘Irregularly,’ replied Eve, while Dame Martyn shook her head angrily and turned her attention to the dregs at the bottom of her cup.
‘But how frequently?’ pressed Michael. ‘What were the intervals between meetings – days or weeks? And how many times did they occur?’
‘He hired the room perhaps eight or nine times,’ replied Eve, frowning as she tried to remember. ‘The first two or three meetings were last November or December – around the time the Master of Michaelhouse was murdered, if I recall correctly.’
‘You do not recall correctly,’ said Michael immediately. ‘When I was conducting that particular investigation, Walcote was in Ely. I remember quite distinctly, because there was a spate of crimes at that time, and I could have done with his help. He only arrived back in Cambridge the day Runham was buried and his cousin’s effigy was smashed in the Market Square.’
That particular incident was vividly etched in Bartholomew’s mind. ‘He was one of the throng who managed to grab a handful of the coins that were hidden inside Wilson’s effigy, and that spilled out when the thing broke.’
‘She said
‘I know I am right,’ said Eve. ‘I was also one of the fortunate people who managed to seize a couple of gold coins. We used them to repair the leaking roof in this room. Walcote commented on it when he next came, which was after Christmas.’
‘So, the roof leaked the first time Walcote was here, but it was repaired by the time he next visited,’ said Michael. ‘So, his first meeting may have been
‘Not necessarily,’ said Eve. ‘We did not acquire the money and have the roof mended the next day. It took some time to reach an acceptable arrangement with a thatcher, and so Walcote’s first set of meetings could have occurred just before or after the effigy incident.’
‘But suffice to say he had two or three meetings in November or December and one after Christmas,’ said Dame Martyn, raising one hand to her lips to disguise a wine-perfumed belch. ‘I remember the Christmas meeting, because we spent the four groats he gave us on wine to celebrate Yuletide.’
‘I bet you did,’ muttered Michael, regarding the nun and her cup with rank disapproval.
‘And you do not keep records?’ asked Bartholomew hopefully. ‘You do not write that kind of income in your accounts?’
Eve regarded him with weary amusement. ‘Brother Michael is probably right: the people who hire our room do not do so for legal purposes. Since we do not want to be accused of complicity in any crimes they commit, of course we do not keep records of when these meetings took place.’
‘Three meetings in November or December and one at Christmas is four,’ said Michael. ‘You said there were eight or nine. When were the others?’
‘Recently,’ said Eve. ‘They were not on any particular day, and they were all late at night.’
‘And who did Walcote meet?’ pressed Michael. ‘Were they local men or strangers? Did you recognise any of them?’
‘No,’ said Dame Martyn immediately. Michael raised his eyebrows.
‘Once I thought I glimpsed William de Lincolne, the Carmelite Prior,’ said Eve, who, unlike the Prioress, saw that it was unwise to play games with Michael.
‘Lincolne,’ said Michael casting a significant glance at Bartholomew. ‘I knew there was something odd about him. Who else?’
‘Possibly William Pechem, the warden of the Franciscans,’ said Eve, ignoring Dame Martyn’s angry signals to say nothing more.
‘A Carmelite and a Franciscan?’ asked Michael, surprised. ‘They always give the impression that they dislike each other, and that they would never meet on friendly terms.’
‘I do not know whether their meetings were friendly or not,’ said Eve. ‘And I cannot tell you whether they were both present at the same meetings.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Michael.
Eve sighed impatiently. ‘Exactly what I say, Brother. I think I saw Pechem, and I think I saw Lincolne, but I do not remember whether I saw them both on the same night. I cannot tell you whether Walcote’s meetings were always with the same people.’
‘That is interesting,’ said Michael.
Eve went on. ‘If you ask me to swear that it was definitely these men I saw I cannot do it – not because I mean to be unhelpful, but because I am simply not sure. As I said, it was dark.’
‘I saw no one,’ slurred Dame Martyn. She slipped suddenly to one side, so that she sat at an odd angle in her chair.
‘That I can believe,’ said Michael regarding her in disdain. He turned to Eve. ‘Who else?’
‘One other,’ said Eve nervously. ‘Although I do not know whether I should mention it.’
‘You should,’ declared Michael. ‘Who was it?’
‘Master Kenyngham of Michaelhouse.’ She watched Michael’s jaw drop in patent disbelief. ‘See? I knew I should not tell you.’
Chapter 5
‘I KNEW THERE WAS SOMETHING MORE TO FARICIUS’S murder than a simple stabbing,’ said Michael, as he and Bartholomew walked the short distance from St Radegund’s Convent back to the town.
The day had grown even darker since they had been in the convent, and black clouds slouched above, moving quickly in the rising wind. Rain fell in a persistent, heavy drizzle that quickly soaked through Bartholomew’s cloak and boots. He was shivering by the time they reached the King’s Ditch, and longed to return to the comparative comfort of Michaelhouse, even if it were only to a room that was so damp that the walls were stained green with mould.
‘I said those Carmelites were hiding something,’ Michael went on, warm and snug inside his own oiled cloak
