An Order for Death

‘Tysilia is not like other women,’ insisted Lincolne. ‘She is…’ He gestured expansively, almost knocking the coffin from the shoulders of the pall-bearers as he sought to find the appropriate words to describe the Bishop’s niece.

‘Wanton?’ suggested Michael. ‘That is the term her uncle favours.’

‘It is more than that,’ said Lincolne. ‘Would you believe she even tried her charms on Master Kenyngham of Michaelhouse? She claimed to be in pain and insisted that he place his hand on her chest so that the warmth would heal her. Kenyngham, who hates to see people suffer, obliged, then when he was leaning over her she made a grab for him so that they both tumbled to the ground.’

Michael started to laugh. ‘Are you serious?’

‘I am quite serious,’ said Lincolne sternly. ‘And it is no laughing matter. But I should not be standing here in the middle of the street looking as though I am telling jokes when I should be leading Faricius to his requiem. We will speak later.’

Bartholomew thought that he and Michael should attend Faricius’s requiem, to see whether they could gather any clues regarding the student-friar’s death, but Michael demurred. He took Bartholomew’s arm and the physician found himself being steered in the direction of the Brazen George, the large and comfortable tavern on the High Street, where Michael was sufficiently well known to be able to commandeer a private chamber at the rear of the premises whenever he liked.

‘Just some warmed ale,’ Michael told the surprised taverner, who had come expecting to serve a sizeable meal. ‘Nothing else. We will not be here long.’

‘Are you sure?’ asked the landlord, wiping his hands on the white apron that was tied around his waist. ‘My wife baked some Lombard slices today, and I know they are a favourite of yours.’

Michael smiled. ‘You are kind, but I will just take the ale today, thank you.’

‘Well, I would like some,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I am starving.’ He reached across the table and felt the monk’s forehead with the back of his hand. ‘You are not ill, are you?’

Michael pushed him away as the landlord left to fetch their order. ‘I do not spend all my time eating, you know. And I am growing tired of constant allusions to my girth. Even people I barely know have started to do it – like that Bulmer.’

‘You do not usually care what people think,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Are you sure you are well?’

Michael sighed, his large face sombre. ‘No murder is pleasant to investigate, but Walcote’s is more personal than most. I sense it will take all my wits to best the cunning mind responsible for it and it is a heavy responsibility.’

‘You were confident enough yesterday,’ said Bartholomew. ‘What has changed your mind?’

‘Lincolne,’ said Michael gloomily. ‘And the missing Kyrkeby. And Lynne and Horneby and Bulmer and anyone else who either tells us lies or declines to tell us the complete truth. How can we hope to come to grips with this when no one is honest with us?’

Bartholomew tapped Michael lightly on the arm. ‘We will get to the bottom of it.’

‘It is all very odd,’ said Michael, taking a sip of the ale that the landlord had brought. ‘I knew the deaths of Walcote and Faricius were connected; I just knew it. First, there was that yellow stain you found on both their hands, and then we saw Faricius’s friend Lynne lurking around Barnwell Priory – where Walcote lived. You were wrong when you said they were unrelated.’

‘In my experience, killers keep to one method once they have met with success. Faricius was stabbed, but Walcote was hanged – two very different modes of execution.’

‘Perhaps one was spontaneous and the other planned,’ said Michael. ‘You cannot decide to hang someone on the spur of a moment unless you can lay your hands on a piece of rope.’

‘Several pieces of rope,’ said Bartholomew, selecting one of the Lombard slices – a mixture of figs and raisins wrapped in pastry and fried in lard. He took a bite and put the rest back on the platter. They were rich, not for wolfing down quickly, and now that he was not in competition with Michael for them, he could afford to eat at a more leisurely pace. ‘Rope was needed for his hands and feet, too. Also, although Walcote was not particularly big, he was fit. I do not think it would have been easy for one person to overpower him and string him up.’

‘It probably would not have been easy for two,’ said Michael, staring thoughtfully at the Lombard slices before reaching out and taking one. He stuffed the whole thing in his mouth.

‘Perhaps someone who lives near the Dominican Friary heard Walcote shouting for help,’ suggested Bartholomew.

‘Beadle Meadowman has already investigated that possibility,’ said Michael, taking another pastry and treating it to the same fate as the first. ‘He reported to me late last night, when you were in bed. No one heard anything or saw anything.’

‘I suppose people’s window shutters would be fastened,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It was cold, wet and windy that night. Shutters not only stop you from seeing out, but they muffle sounds.’

‘That tale Lincolne just told us about Kenyngham and Tysilia was revealing,’ said Michael. ‘Kenyngham is no longer a young man, and he seldom ventures further than Michaelhouse or his own Priory of Gilbertines on Trumpington Way. So, how did he come to meet her? The answer is that he went to St Radegund’s, just as Eve Wasteneys and Matilde told us.’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘And for Lincolne to have witnessed this exchange means that he must have been at St Radegund’s, too. Again, just as Eve and Matilde told us.’

‘I wonder how Walcote induced all those men to go to a place like St Radegund’s in the dead of night. It makes no sense. And why did he not tell me what he was doing?’

‘You really have no idea?’

‘None at all,’ said Michael bitterly. ‘I trusted Walcote, and often told him my secret plans. I am hurt that he did not see fit to reciprocate.’

‘Did you tell him everything?’ asked Bartholomew.

Michael regarded him as though he were insane. ‘Of course not. I do not even tell you everything. But I did confide a great deal to Walcote. I am astonished that he had business with important men like Lincolne, Pechem and Kenyngham, and yet said nothing to me.’

‘Perhaps he was planning to surprise you with something,’ suggested Bartholomew.

‘Such as what? I do not like surprises – especially ones that involve secret meetings in a place like St Radegund’s. It sounds more like a plot than a surprise.’ He punched Bartholomew on the shoulder, his previous low spirits revived by the ale and his determination to discover what his Junior Proctor had been doing without his knowledge. ‘But we will find out whatever is afoot and we will solve these two murders.’

Bartholomew reached for the rest of his pastry to find it had gone. ‘I thought you had lost your appetite,’ he said as the monk swung his cloak around his shoulders. ‘I was the one who was hungry.’

‘How can you be thinking about food when we have a murderer to catch?’ demanded Michael accusingly. ‘Come on. Faricius’s requiem will be over now. We should talk to Prior Lincolne.’

Bartholomew refused to return to the Carmelite Friary until they had fulfilled their promise to visit Matilde at the Convent of St Radegund’s. The monk complained bitterly about the brisk walk along the Barnwell Causeway, but it was too cold to travel at the ambling pace he usually favoured. When they arrived at the convent, and had made their way through the dripping vegetation to the front gate, Michael was puffing and panting like a pair of bellows, although it had still not been fast enough to drive the chill from Bartholomew’s bones. Shivering, and with a sense of foreboding, he knocked on the door.

The grille snapped open, and the bright black eyes of Tysilia peered out at them. Before he could announce their business, the door had been opened, and Michael pushed his way across the threshold, still grumbling about the speed of the walk.

‘Do come in, Brother,’ said Tysilia to Michael’s back, as the monk headed towards the solar. Bartholomew glanced at her sharply, but could not tell whether she was being facetious, or merely reciting the words of welcome she had been trained to say.

‘We would like to speak to Dame Martyn,’ he said, feeling obliged to make at least some effort to explain their presence. ‘Is she in her quarters?’

‘Everyone is in the refectory,’ replied Tysilia, as she closed the door behind him. ‘We are having