‘Yes,’ said Horneby. ‘But he talked to other scholars in the University known to support nominalism, too, so that he could learn from them.’
‘Such as whom?’ demanded Michael.
‘I cannot remember precisely,’ said Horneby, a little testily. ‘Half the town believes in nominalism, so he was not exactly strapped for choice.’
‘Henry de Kyrkeby, the Dominican precentor, is due to give the University Lecture on nominalism,’ suggested another student, more helpfully. ‘I think Faricius waylaid him and discussed his ideas once. Then there is Father Paul of the Franciscans, who is a tolerant and kindly man. And I saw Faricius in deep discussion with your Junior Proctor on several occasions.’
‘Brother Timothy?’ asked Michael, regarding doubtfully the Benedictine who stood behind him. ‘You have not mentioned this before.’
‘My discussions with him were of a more general nature,’ said Timothy, surprised by the student’s assertion. ‘We did not talk about nominalism.’
‘Not Timothy, the other one. Will Walcote,’ said the student.
‘Unfortunately, Will Walcote is dead,’ said Michael. ‘I
‘I cannot remember,’ said Horneby again. ‘It was not something he discussed with us. He knew we did not agree with his ideas, and so he tended not to tell us about them.’
‘Where is this essay now?’ demanded Lincolne, still angry. ‘And what do you think it had to do with his death?’
‘Quite,’ said Michael. ‘I am no nominalist myself, and I appreciate why many people find its tenets heretical. But I cannot see why writing about it should result in anyone’s demise.’
‘I disagree,’ said Lincolne. ‘Nominalism poses one of the greatest threats to our Church and our society since the pestilence. It causes people to question basic truths like the manner of the creation and the nature of God. It is dangerous, and I will have none of it in my friary.’
‘Because we all know you feel that way, Faricius could not keep his essay here,’ explained Horneby to his Prior. ‘He always left it in a crevice in the wall that surrounds the Church of St John Zachary. When he heard that the Dominicans were coming, he went to fetch it.’
‘Did you see this essay when you found him?’ asked Michael of Bartholomew.
The physician shook his head, but thought about Faricius’s desperation when he had learned that his scrip was missing. Bartholomew had been wrong. Faricius had not been delirious or confused about which of his scrips he had carried, and it had not been the ruby ring that he had been thinking about: his scrip must have contained his precious essay.
‘I suppose this means he was killed on his way to fetch the thing,’ surmised Michael.
Bartholomew shook his head. ‘Given his frantic desperation when he learned his scrip was missing, I think it more likely that he had collected the essay and was on his way home with it.’
‘You had better show me this hiding place in the churchyard of St John Zachary, Horneby,’ said Michael tiredly. ‘It is possible that the essay – or a copy – is still there.’
‘Lynne and I have already looked,’ said Horneby, exchanging a glance with his friends. ‘We went on Monday night – we did use the tunnel, before you ask – but it had gone. The stone had been replaced in the wall, and the branches of the nearby bush arranged to hide evidence of chipped mortar. Faricius always did that. I suppose he intended to use it again once the riot was over.’
Michael sighed. ‘What a mess! I wish you had told me all this before. It might have saved a good deal of time.’
The students hung their heads, and none would meet the eyes of their Prior, who glowered at them in silent fury. Bartholomew could not decide whether Lincolne’s anger was directed at them for keeping secrets and delaying Michael’s investigation, or whether he was merely indignant that they had helped to harbour a heretic in their midst.
So, had Faricius’s controversial essay brought about his death? Recalling his horror when he learned that his scrip had been stolen, Bartholomew was certain it had played some role. Faricius had been so concerned about its loss that he had even failed to reveal the identity of the person or people who had stabbed him. Bartholomew supposed it was possible that the killers were men Faricius had not known, although if the essay were at the heart of the matter, that seemed unlikely.
As far as the physician could see, there were two possible explanations for why Faricius had died. First, he might have been murdered by a realist, who was afraid that a clever thinker like Faricius would promote the cause of nominalism to the detriment of realism. If this were true, then it was likely that Faricius’s killer was a Carmelite. Had one of his colleagues killed him, to protect the theory that the Carmelite Order had chosen to champion? Bartholomew gazed at Horneby and his friends, and wondered whether one of them still knew more than he had told. But Horneby suggested that Faricius had talked to lots of people, including the missing Dominican Precentor, about his affinity with nominalism. Was Kyrkeby’s absence related to Faricius’s murder? Had Kyrkeby committed the crime, then fled the town? But Kyrkeby was Bartholomew’s patient, and the physician knew Kyrkeby’s weak heart would not have permitted him to engage in a violent struggle with a young and healthy man. Yet how fit did one need to be to slide a sharp knife into someone’s stomach?
The second possibility was that the killer knew an essay was in the making, but had made the assumption that it was in support of realism: because Faricius was a Carmelite, it was not unreasonable to assume that he had followed his Order’s teaching. Therefore, the suspects were the nominalists, who would not want a brilliant essay in defence of realism circulating the town. Faricius’s killer could therefore be a Dominican or someone who was a professed nominalist – like Walcote, for example.
‘You should block this tunnel as soon as possible,’ Michael advised Lincolne, as he moved away from the graveyard and began to head towards the front gate. His voice brought Bartholomew out of his reverie, who realised he was cold, wet, tired and ready for his dinner. ‘It is too dangerous to leave as it is, given that you have this silly feud with the Dominicans.’
One of the students had lit a lamp, and Lincolne took it from him to inspect the dark entrance to the tunnel, shaking his head in disapproval and casting angry glances at his charges. He leaned forward and put his hand inside it, poking at the damp earth and announcing that the structure was unstable and that his students were lucky it had not collapsed on them. Suddenly, Horneby released a piercing cry of horror that made everyone jump. Bartholomew spun around to look back at him.
‘What is wrong with the boy?’ Michael whispered testily, his hand on his heart. ‘Has he seen a dead worm? Or worse, has he found Faricius’s “heretical” essay?’
‘Brother! Come quickly!’ cried Lincolne in a wavering, unsteady voice, as his students clustered around him to see what had so distressed Horneby.
Michael elbowed them out of the way and craned forward to where the lamp illuminated the inside of the tunnel. Meanwhile, Horneby held a black leather shoe in his hand. Bartholomew peered over Michael’s shoulder, and saw that the shoe had been pulled from a foot that lay white and bare just beyond the entrance of the tunnel. He reached in and touched it, trying to determine whether it belonged to someone he could help, but it was unnaturally cold and still.
‘Well?’ asked Michael in a low voice. ‘Is he alive?’
‘I think you have another death to investigate, Brother,’ said Bartholomew softly, so that only Michael could hear. ‘I suspect Horneby has just located the missing Henry de Kyrkeby.’
‘What in God’s name is it?’ wailed Prior Lincolne, as Bartholomew reached down inside the tunnel and tried to secure a grip on the white-soled foot. ‘It looks like a corpse!’
‘It
‘A Dominican?’ squeaked Lincolne in alarm. ‘Who? One of the louts who murdered Faricius, and who then decided he had a taste for Carmelite blood and was on his way to claim more of it?’
‘I sincerely doubt it,’ said Michael. ‘The body is wet, and looks to me to have been here for some time. Given that we have only one missing Dominican, I imagine this is Henry de Kyrkeby.’
‘Kyrkeby?’ shrieked Lincolne in agitation. ‘But what is he doing in our tunnel? Was he trying to leave? Or was
