‘Perhaps the Dominicans put it there,’ suggested Horneby. ‘They want you to question Faricius’s good character, so that you will not blame them for his murder.’
‘And how do you imagine they got in?’ demanded Timothy, who clearly thought Horneby’s suggestion ludicrous. ‘Surely, in a busy place like this dormitory, it would be extremely difficult for a stranger to enter and start tampering with people’s private possessions?’
Lincolne intervened. ‘Horneby’s suggestion was meant to be helpful, but we can all see it is implausible. But perhaps the ring had some sentimental value for Faricius, and he decided to keep it, rather than forfeiting it when he was ordained.’
‘He would never have broken the rules of our Order in that way,’ said Horneby hotly. ‘He was a good and saintly man.’
‘Keeping a ring from a loved relative does not make him wicked,’ said Lincolne gently, to calm him. He turned to Michael. ‘But it does not give a Dominican the right to murder him, either.’
‘No,’ said Michael. ‘It does not.’
Bartholomew, Michael and Timothy left the friary none the wiser regarding Faricius’s death, Lynne’s mysterious behaviour or what Horneby was so clearly hiding, and began to walk back along Milne Street. Bartholomew told them what he had reasoned about the purse, and the two Benedictines seemed dispirited that there were more questions than answers. Dusk came early, because of the rain, and Michael announced that he was tired and that it was time to go home. Timothy returned to Ely Hall, while Bartholomew walked with the monk along Milne Street towards Michaelhouse.
‘There is Matilde,’ said Michael, pointing out a slender, elegant woman who was picking her way carefully among the piles of refuse that lined the sides of the road. ‘I wonder if she knows that the nuns of St Radegund’s are plying their trade in her line of business. Matilde! Hey!’
His stentorian roar drew several startled glances from onlookers, and more than one of them smiled at the sight of the fat monk hailing a prostitute so brazenly on one of the town’s main thoroughfares. Matilde was also surprised to be addressed at such a volume, but her face lit with pleasure when she saw that Bartholomew was with Michael.
‘Matthew,’ she said warmly, as she waited for them to catch up. She looked at his wet cloak and the clay that clung to the bottom of his boots. ‘Where have you been? Visiting the lepers?’
‘Not today,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘I examined them about a month ago, and found them as hale and hearty as can be expected. Unfortunately, there is little else I can do for them.’
‘You ease their discomfort,’ said Matilde. ‘That is more than they expect. But the sisters tell me that you have more murders to investigate – including poor Will Walcote’s.’
‘The sisters,’ mused Michael, using the term Matilde always employed when discussing the town’s prostitutes. ‘It is odd you should mention sisters, Matilde. Matt and I went to St Radegund’s Convent this afternoon.’
Matilde’s pretty face hardened. ‘Why were you there? It is no place for decent-minded men.’
Coming from a courtesan, this was damning indeed. Bartholomew stared at her. In his eyes, she was the most attractive woman in Cambridge, and possessed a sharp mind that he greatly admired. So far, their relationship had remained frustratingly chaste, and was confined to occasional evenings spent in her house with some of her ‘sisters’ for company, or the odd stroll in the water meadows near the river. The more Bartholomew came to know her, the more he liked her, and he was under the impression that she no longer practised her trade. No one ever claimed to secure her favours, and he suspected that her position as unofficial spokeswoman for the town’s whores left her little time for physical liaisons with customers.
‘You know about the activities of the nuns at St Radegund’s?’ asked Michael.
‘I imagine those will be known from here to Ely,’ replied Matilde dryly. ‘But the sisters are not concerned. Most men are uncomfortable with employing nuns for those sorts of services, and find it disconcerting to beckon the woman of their choice from her prayers in the church.’
‘I did not see much praying when we were there today,’ said Michael. ‘They claimed the church was too cold.’
‘Cold or not, that is where you will find them of an evening. The church is always open for “parishioners”, so the men can walk in and signal to whoever it is they want.’
‘How sordid,’ said Bartholomew in distaste.
Michael nodded agreement. ‘That sort of thing is much more pleasantly conducted in the conducive surroundings of a tavern. Churches are too stark for it.’
‘Thank you for that, Brother,’ said Matilde. ‘It is always good to know the views of monks on these matters. But not everyone at St Radegund’s is a nun, you know. Some are the daughters of noblemen, who have been left in the Prioress’s care until they can be married off.’
‘Most of them will be an unsaleable commodity if they remain there too long,’ said Michael with a chuckle. ‘It is scarcely a safe repository for virtuous young ladies.’
‘The worst of them all is that Tysilia,’ said Matilde disapprovingly. ‘I suppose men find her attractive because she is stupid. Presumably, her appalling lack of wits makes them feel superior.’
‘I take it you do not like her?’ asked Bartholomew mildly.
‘No,’ said Matilde shortly. ‘And if you meet her, you will see why. But I do not want to spoil a nice day by discussing her. What induced you to go to St Radegund’s in the first place? It is too early to secure the nuns’ personal services, although I am sure Tysilia would make an exception.’
‘I was following a clue regarding the murder of Will Walcote,’ replied Michael.
Matilde nodded slowly. ‘Yolande de Blaston – you remember her; she is married to the carpenter who worked at Michaelhouse last year – saw his body being cut down on her way home from the Mayor’s house. Poor Walcote. He was a good man.’
‘He was,’ agreed Michael. ‘Yolande did not see anything else, did she? Did she spot anyone who should not have been out at that time?’
‘No one should have been out at that time – including her,’ said Matilde. ‘It was well past the curfew. She did not mention anyone else, but I will ask. But this does not explain why you went to look for answers at St Radegund’s Convent.’
‘We learned that Walcote had a series of secret meetings with various scholars,’ said Michael vaguely. ‘They were held at the convent.’
‘Oh, those,’ said Matilde. ‘Yolande has a long-standing arrangement with Prior Lincolne of the Carmelites, but he cancelled her twice to attend these meetings.’
‘But
‘I have known about the meetings for months,’ said Matilde carelessly. ‘The first one must have been around the time that Master Runham of Michaelhouse was buried, because I recall Yolande telling me that Lincolne later gave her one of the coins he had retrieved from Wilson’s effigy, to compensate her for the inconvenience of being postponed.’
‘How much later?’ asked Michael. ‘I want to know exactly when the first meeting took place.’
Matilde gave an apologetic shrug. ‘I am sorry, Brother, but I doubt whether Yolande will remember that. It was November or December.’
‘I do not suppose Lincolne told Yolande what was discussed at these meetings, did he?’ asked Michael hopefully.
Matilde frowned as she tried to remember. ‘Not precisely, but I know the leader of the Franciscans was there. And dear old Master Kenyngham from Michaelhouse. If Kenyngham were present, then you can be assured that nothing untoward was afoot.’
‘Nothing untoward involving Kenyngham,’ corrected Michael. ‘But Kenyngham is not one of the world’s most astute men, and he has a dangerous habit of assuming that everyone has good intentions. They have not. Kenyngham may not have understood what he was getting into.’
‘There is no suggestion that these meetings involved anything sinister,’ said Bartholomew. ‘They could have
