combination of fearful and defensive. Michael watched the proceedings with his arms folded and an expression of distaste on his face. Timothy abandoned his attempts to help Bartholomew extract Kyrkeby, and stood, brushing the dirt from his hands.
‘Have any of you heard of the Ten Commandments?’ he asked, his quiet question cutting across the babble that was centred around Horneby.
Lincolne regarded him uncertainly. ‘What have they to do with any of this?’
‘Just the fact that one of them forbids killing,’ said Timothy. ‘You are men of God, and yet here you are discussing how to raise armies to attack your rival Orders. You should be ashamed of yourselves. You are supposed to be setting a good example to the townsfolk, not demonstrating how to form armies and instigate street fights.’
‘The Dominicans started it,’ began Horneby hotly.
‘You do not know that for certain,’ said Michael. ‘And we will have no more of this talk of fighting. Is that clear?’
He glowered at each and every one of them until he was satisfied that they had acquiesced to his demand. Then he took a deep breath and resumed his questioning.
‘Now, we were discussing Kyrkeby’s death. I had just asked when the tunnel was last used. Horneby informed me with great conviction that no one has used the tunnel since Saturday. However, before that he admitted to using it with Lynne – on Monday – to see whether he could find Faricius’s essay. So, I will have the truth, if you please. When did anyone last use the tunnel?’
Horneby flushed a deep red, and had the grace to appear sheepish. ‘Lynne and I did use it on Monday night,’ he said in a low whisper. ‘But no one has used it since. I am sure of it.’
‘Very well,’ said Michael. ‘The next question that springs to mind is why are you so sure?’
‘Two very good reasons,’ said Horneby. ‘First, none of us wanted to be caught by the proctors, who we knew were keeping an eye on it. And second, none of us have had any desire to be out on streets teeming with hostile Dominicans.’
‘How do you know that applies to everyone here?’ pressed Michael. ‘Can you account for the movements of thirty students every single moment of the last few days?’
No one could answer him, although Lincolne blustered that his students should be given the benefit of the doubt, conveniently forgetting that they had lied to him as well as to Michael.
‘Damn!’ muttered Bartholomew, as the habit he was tugging on ripped in his hands. ‘This is impossible. We need a spade.’
‘A spade?’ asked Lincolne, horrified. ‘Are you suggesting that we excavate poor Humphrey de Lecton’s grave?’
‘Do you have any other suggestions?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Kyrkeby’s body is wedged very firmly inside it. I cannot work out whether someone rammed him down there with such force that he is stuck, or whether the tunnel has suffered some sort of collapse.’
‘I do not see why it should have collapsed if it has been here since 1290,’ said Michael. ‘I think it would be a peculiar coincidence if it stood whole and safe for so long, and only fell the moment a Dominican set foot in it.’
‘It is Humphrey de Lecton protecting us,’ said Horneby suddenly, his voice low and awed. ‘He saw that we were about to be invaded by a Dominican, and he caused the tunnel roof to collapse in order to save us!’
The Carmelites crossed themselves as Horneby made his pronouncement, and one or two of them dropped to their knees in a gesture of reverence. It was almost dark, and the curfew bells were beginning to toll, lending the graveyard an eerie atmosphere. Among the student-friars, a growing murmur that featured the word ‘miracle’ could be heard.
‘Oh, Lord, Matt!’ breathed Michael wearily. ‘This situation is going from bad to worse. As soon as I prevent them from following one wild belief, they simply come up with another. I always knew friars were not of the same intellectual calibre as monks, but this is ridiculous!’
‘We need to nip this one in the bud fairly quickly,’ said Timothy urgently. ‘The Dominicans will not sit by quietly while the Carmelites claim one of them was killed by divine intervention.’
‘Let us not jump to rash conclusions,’ said Michael loudly, silencing the reverent whispers that filled the dark graveyard. ‘As my colleague said, the body is stuck. There is nothing mysterious about a body stuck in a hole.’
‘Humphrey de Lecton saw this wicked man about to invade our sacred grounds and he struck him dead,’ proclaimed Horneby, the light of religious fervour already burning in his eyes.
‘No,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘That is not what happened. You can see for yourself that Kyrkeby’s feet are pointing this way. That means that he was
‘He may have come feet first,’ said Horneby stubbornly.
‘The tunnel curves upwards,’ said Bartholomew. ‘No one goes up a tunnel feet first. It would be virtually impossible, not to mention uncomfortable. Where is that spade?’
One of the students handed him one of the heaviest and bluntest tools Bartholomew had ever seen. It possessed a wooden handle so worn that it was as smooth as new metal, and the rivets that held the iron blade were loose and wobbled disconcertingly when he leaned on it. He scratched away some of the muddy earth, then took hold of the cold, white foot to pull again.
‘Have there been collapses of the tunnel before?’ asked Michael of Horneby, watching Bartholomew strain and pant with the effort.
Horneby shook his head. ‘Not that I know of. It is made of clay, and clay never collapses.’
‘Do not speak nonsense,’ snapped Michael irritably. ‘Clay subsides just as readily as any other soil.’ He saw Bartholomew lose his grip on the foot again, and the body slid back into its premature tomb. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake! Let me do it.’
He elbowed Bartholomew aside, and began hauling and tugging on the foot for all he was worth. His sizeable girth gave the impression that he was flabby and weak, but Michael was actually a very strong man. Everyone winced when a loud crack indicated a broken bone, and Bartholomew stopped him before his impatience resulted in the removal of Kyrkeby’s foot. He did not want claims of mutilation to accompany the accusations of murder that were sure to follow. He lay on his stomach and applied the spade with a little more vigour, digging while Timothy held the damaged leg. And then Bartholomew felt something give.
‘He is coming out,’ he gasped, digging harder. ‘Pull!’
In a shower of pebbles and liquid mud, the Dominican Precentor shot from the earth, landing on Timothy, who was not quick enough to move out of the way. Revolted, the Junior Proctor scrambled away, leaving Kyrkeby lying in a dishevelled heap on the ground. Bartholomew knelt next to the corpse, wiping sweat from his eyes with the sleeve of his tabard, while Timothy hastily retreated behind Humphrey de Lecton’s tomb, where Bartholomew was certain he was being sick.
The body was filthy, and the physician could barely make out the features of the face, even when one of the students obligingly held a lamp closer. Kyrkeby’s head was loose, and rolled at an unnatural angle, while a brownish-red mess on the back of his skull indicated he had received a crushing blow there at some point.
‘Well?’ asked Michael, standing with his hands on his hips. ‘You said we would know more when you had a whole body to inspect. You have a whole body, so what can you tell me?’
‘Not here, Brother,’ said Bartholomew quietly. ‘I recommend we take Kyrkeby to St Michael’s Church, where I can examine him properly. Then we can have him cleaned before returning him to the Dominicans.’
‘Why?’ demanded Horneby aggressively. ‘Let them clean their own dead. They did not treat Faricius so kindly.’
‘Because if you hand Kyrkeby back to his colleagues looking like this, you will have angry Dominicans massing outside your gates demanding vengeance,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We will break the news to them when we can show them a corpse that does not look as though it has been treated with disrespect.’
‘Very sensible,’ said Lincolne approvingly. ‘I do not want a horde of nominalists yelling at me all night when I am trying to sleep.’
‘Perhaps a prayer for this poor man’s soul might not go amiss,’ said Michael coldly. ‘Whatever you might think of Dominicans, you might at least do that.’
‘Very well,’ said Lincolne with a sigh. He gestured to his students to kneel in a circle, and drew himself up to
