his full height to begin a mass that sounded impressive, even if it was probably not sincere. His flask of holy water emerged, and was splashed around with its customary vigour, splattering the students and the ground as well as Kyrkeby.
‘Fetch Cynric,’ said Michael in a low voice to Bartholomew. ‘Ask him to summon my beadles to carry Kyrkeby to the church. I will remain here with the body, and ensure they do not tamper with the evidence.’
‘Will you be all right alone?’ asked Bartholomew, reluctant to leave the monk in a graveyard where the killer might be kneeling in the praying circle around his victim.
‘Of course I will. Timothy will be with me, and anyway, even the most desperate of killers is unlikely to attack me in full view of the rest of his friary.’
‘Do you think any of them will stop him?’ asked Bartholomew nervously. ‘They might decide it is better for you to die, rather than the killer be exposed.’
‘They would find it difficult to explain my corpse and Timothy’s, as well as Kyrkeby’s, when you return with the beadles,’ said Michael, smiling wanly. ‘Go, Matt. Now that Cynric lives with his wife and not in Michaelhouse, he is not far away. You can be back within moments.’
Bartholomew glanced behind him as he left, and saw the lamplight gleaming around the edges of Lincolne’s funnel of hair, like a halo. The Prior’s prayers carried on the still air as the physician hurried out of the convent and into Milne Street, where his book-bearer occupied a pleasant room in Oswald Stanmore’s business premises.
Cynric answered the urgent knocking almost immediately, and Bartholomew was surprised to see the small Welshman cloaked and fully armed, as though he had anticipated being summoned on University business.
‘Have you been out?’ asked Bartholomew, as Cynric closed the door behind him so that their voices would not disturb his wife.
Cynric shook his head. ‘Not yet. Rachel and I have been going to the Holy Week vigils at St Mary’s Church. There is no point undressing when you have to put it all back on again in a few hours, so we sleep in our clothes. Anyway, it is warmer. But what is the problem? It would not be another murder, would it?’
‘How do you know that?’ asked Bartholomew warily.
Cynric grinned, his teeth gleaming white in the dim light from the candle he held. ‘What other business is there that brings you to me after dusk?’
‘I occasionally need you to go with me to see a patient,’ said Bartholomew.
‘But not often,’ said Cynric. ‘And anyway, you tend to use your students for that. No, boy. When I hear your soft tap on the door after the curfew bell has sounded, I know it only means one thing: the University has itself another killing.’
‘Well, that was an unpleasant day,’ said Michael, flopping into a comfortable chair in Michaelhouse’s kitchen much later that evening. He closed his eyes and willed himself to relax, aided by the large goblet of mulled ale that was pressed into his ready hand by Agatha the laundress.
It was very late, and most scholars were in bed, huddled under their blankets in an attempt to keep warm, even if they were not sleeping. It had been a long winter, and Michaelhouse had already spent the money allocated to firewood for the year. Langelee, juggling the College’s finances with a skill that surprised everyone who knew him, had managed to provide funds for fuel to warm the hall during breakfast and dinner, but the remainder of the day was spent in chilly misery. At nine o’clock that evening, the hall was abandoned, and lay dark, icy and silent.
The kitchen was a different matter. It was not possible to cook without a fire, and so it was always the warmest place in the College. Also, Agatha the laundress, who unofficially supervised the domestic side of Michaelhouse, was not the kind of woman to freeze while there was kindling in the woods and all kinds of ‘kinsfolk’ to acquire it for her. There was a cosy fire blazing, even at that late hour, with a cauldron of spiced ale bubbling over it and fresh oatcakes heating on a griddle to one side.
Agatha was a formidable figure, whose personal opinions rivalled those of Father William for bigotry and ignorance. She had been laundress at Michaelhouse for years – how many years no one could remember – although she did not look any different to Bartholomew than she had done when he had arrived to take up his appointment as master of medicine some ten years before. She was a big woman, although Bartholomew would not have called her fat, and had a large, open face with a bristly chin that was the envy of some of Bartholomew’s younger, beardless undergraduates.
‘Terrible business about Walcote,’ said Agatha, passing Michael the platter of oatcakes before settling herself in her large wicker throne near the fire. ‘I was sorry to hear about him. He seemed a nice man.’
‘He was,’ agreed Michael. ‘You have not heard any rumours about his death, have you? My beadles said you were in the King’s Head the night he died, and that is often a good place to pick up snippets of information about such matters.’
‘It was certainly discussed,’ replied Agatha. ‘Sergeant Orwelle from the Castle came into the King’s Head for a drink to steady his nerves after he found poor Walcote hanging by the neck like some felon on a gibbet.’
‘What did he say?’ asked Michael, hastily suppressing the unpleasant image she had created in his mind. ‘I spoke to Orwelle myself, but people often say more to their drinking companions than they do to the forces of law and order.’
‘Only that Walcote was hanging from the drainage pipe outside the Dominican Friary,’ said Agatha. ‘And that someone had stolen his purse.’
‘His purse?’ asked Michael, startled. ‘I did not know about that, and no one mentioned it at Barnwell Priory. How did Orwelle come to notice such a thing?’
‘People do notice things like missing purses,’ said Agatha, surprised by the question. ‘These are hard times, Brother, and no one is paid what he deserves. The dead have no use for earthly wealth, and so it is only fitting that whoever finds a corpse and raises the alarm should have what is left.’
‘What are you saying?’ asked Bartholomew, astonished by the assertion. ‘That Tulyet’s soldiers regularly engage in corpse-robbing?’
‘You cannot rob a corpse,’ stated Agatha authoritatively. ‘A corpse cannot own anything, and so it stands to reason that you cannot steal from it.’
‘Well argued,’ said Michael. ‘Although I am not sure I concur. A corpse might not own anything, but his next of kin are entitled to what he leaves. But never mind the ethics of all this. Tell me more about the purse.’
‘Sergeant Orwelle noticed the purse was gone, because he was going to put it in a safe place for Walcote’s next of kin,’ said Agatha, unashamedly changing her story to protect Orwelle’s reputation. ‘We all asked him who might have killed poor Walcote, but he did not know. We all believe it was a scholar, though.’
‘Really?’ asked Michael, raising his eyebrows laconically. ‘And why would that be, pray?’
‘The proctors keep the scholars in order,’ said Agatha. ‘We townsfolk
‘Put like that, it sounds like a lot of nonsense to me, too,’ said Michael, smiling at Agatha’s terse summary of the nominalism – realism debate. ‘Still, you show a better understanding of the issues at stake than Father William does.’
‘Dear William,’ said Agatha fondly. ‘
‘I should say,’ agreed Michael wholeheartedly. ‘No one could ever accuse William of being subtle or cunning.’
‘It is Thursday tomorrow,’ said Agatha, easing her bulk from her chair. ‘Only three days left of Lent. I had better go to bed, because I have Easter supplies to buy, baking to supervise, and doubtless you will all want your albs washed for the celebrations; Matthew’s will almost certainly need mending.’
‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew, puzzled. ‘It is not torn.’
‘Everything you give me to launder is torn,’ Agatha admonished him. ‘Just look at you now. The hem on your tabard is down, your shirt cuffs are frayed, and you have ripped the knee out of your hose.’
‘That was from grovelling in the mud trying to pull Dominicans out of other men’s graves,’ muttered Bartholomew, noticing for the first time that thick, silty dirt still clung to him.
‘Brother Michael was also pulling dead men from the ground, but he is not in such a state. You need to
