improve yourself,’ instructed Agatha. ‘I am a laundress, not a muck-collector, and I do not want to be up to my elbows in filth every time you give me a bundle of clothes to clean.’
Having said her piece and expecting no argument, Agatha banked the fire and made her way to her quarters above the service rooms behind the kitchens. As the only female member of the College, she had more space and a better room than Master Langelee. She was proud of the sway she held in the College, and expected to be treated with deference.
When she had gone, Bartholomew took her place, settling himself down among the cushions that still held her warmth and that smelled of wood-smoke and cooked food. In pride of place was one that was blue with a gold fringe. It had been used to smother Langelee’s predecessor while the man had counted his money. Although Agatha swore it had been carefully cleaned, Bartholomew remained convinced that he could still detect a dark patch where the victim’s saliva had stained it. Picking it up between thumb and forefinger, he flung it to the other side of the room, where it was gratefully received by the College cat.
‘Pity about Kyrkeby,’ said Michael, taking another oatcake for himself and throwing one to Bartholomew, so hard that the physician found himself with a lap full of crumbs. ‘I confess I had not expected to find him dead when he was reported missing.’
‘And I had not anticipated finding his body stuffed inside an old tomb,’ said Bartholomew. ‘As you saw, he was not easy to extricate.’
‘He was not,’ agreed Michael. ‘How did he come to be thrust in it so tightly? I know it was growing dark, and that the Carmelites were fussing and flapping around us like bees at a honey pot, but what could you determine?’
‘Not much,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The body was in such a mess that it was difficult to tell what had happened to it.’
‘We will have a hard job cleaning it up,’ said Michael. ‘Will you do it? I will not.’
‘I did not imagine you would,’ said Bartholomew, sipping more of his ale, and relishing the warmth as it reached his stomach. ‘But perhaps Agatha will help. She had a lot of experience laying out bodies during the plague.’
‘You were right to suggest that we clean Kyrkeby before handing him to the Dominicans,’ said Michael thoughtfully. ‘I do not think I have ever seen a body in such a state. I know you said it was too dark to conduct a proper investigation until morning, but what are your first impressions?’
Bartholomew shrugged. ‘There was enough light for me to see that there was a serious wound to the head that would have killed him had he been alive when it was inflicted. It was also light enough for me to tell that his neck had been broken.’
‘So?’ asked Michael. ‘Are you saying that someone hit him on the head so hard that it broke his neck?’
‘Lord, no!’ said Bartholomew with a shudder. ‘At least, I sincerely hope not. That kind of strength would mean that we have some kind of monster on the loose.’
‘What then?’ asked Michael impatiently. ‘That someone broke his neck and he damaged his head when he fell to the ground?’
‘I cannot tell. And then, of course, there was his weak heart. I have been physicking him over several months for that complaint – and he was quite ill with it on Monday afternoon.’
‘But you must be able to tell how he died,’ pressed Michael, determined to have an answer. ‘And what about the tunnel? Did it collapse naturally? Or did someone tamper with it?’
‘I have no idea, although I cannot see that a body would be so firmly stuck just from someone pushing it inside.’
‘The body was swollen,’ suggested Michael. ‘Maybe it just got bigger, as corpses are wont to do after death – gasses, you once told me.’
‘It is possible, I suppose,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He has been missing for two days – since Monday evening – although the weather is cold, which tends to slow that sort of thing down. But if someone did use the tunnel as a hiding place, he did not do a very good job by leaving a foot sticking out. And if the tunnel were used fairly frequently, which was the impression I gained from Horneby and his friends, then it was not a very permanent hiding place, either.’
‘Perhaps it was not intended to be permanent. Perhaps it was intended to hide the body long enough until somewhere better could be found.’ Michael groaned suddenly. ‘What a mess, Matt! We do not know whether Kyrkeby was hit over the head, his neck broken, rammed down a hole that collapsed on him, or died naturally. And we do not even know
Bartholomew nodded. ‘But remember the position of the body? Kyrkeby appeared to be
‘Then perhaps he was meeting someone there. But he was taking a risk if he were. It would have been safer to arrange a meeting outside both friaries, on neutral ground – for him
‘But that assumes that the person Kyrkeby was meeting knew Kyrkeby wanted to see him,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps he did not.’
Michael sighed and scrubbed hard at his temples with two forefingers that were flecked with oatcake crumbs. ‘I do not understand any of this, Matt.’
‘Nor me,’ admitted Bartholomew. ‘But I have the feeling that all the evidence we have gained so far has been very superficial and incidental, and that there is a lot more that we do not know.’
Michael agreed. ‘But tomorrow we will find out. We will tell the Dominicans what has become of their Precentor first thing in the morning, and then I will ask whether any of them knows anything about a missing essay on nominalism.’
The following morning, just as the first glimmerings of dawn lightened the sky, Bartholomew dragged himself from a deep sleep, and washed and shaved in the dim light, muttering under his breath when he could not find a clean shirt. Michael tapped on the door and they walked into the courtyard together, ready to process to the church for the morning mass. The other scholars had barely started to assemble when Brother Timothy arrived, breathless and white-faced. Michael regarded his Junior Proctor uneasily, anticipating more bad news, but it was not Michael that Timothy wanted: he had been sent to fetch Bartholomew, because old Brother Adam was having trouble catching his breath. The physician grabbed his bag and set off at a run with Michael following at a rather more sedate pace.
It was raining steadily, and the High Street was little more than a river of thin, splashy mud. Those who were early risers looked cold and miserable as they trudged along, and seemed to be wearing clothes that had dulled to a shade of drab brown in the wet semi-darkness. Even the animals that were being herded to the Market Square were dirty and bedraggled. Roofs released thin trickles of filthy water into the streets below, and the plaster-fronted houses were grey with damp.
They reached Ely Hall, and Timothy shoved open the front door to precede them along the narrow corridor and up the stairs to the upper floor. What had once been a single large chamber had been divided into six small rooms to afford the Benedictines some privacy. Timothy had a chamber that overlooked a vile little yard at the back, while Janius and Adam had been allocated ones at the front with windows that boasted a view of the Market Square.
‘Thank God you are here,’ said Janius, crossing himself vigorously when he saw Bartholomew. ‘We were beginning to fear that you would be too late. We have been praying hard, but God has not performed a miracle yet.’
Bartholomew pushed past him to where Brother Adam lay wheezing and gasping on his bed. The old man’s face was grey, and his eyes indicated that he was very frightened. The room was stifling hot from the fire that blazed in the hearth, so the physician ordered the window opened. Then he helped Adam to sit and asked Timothy for a bowl of boiling water. While he waited, he gave Adam a small dose of poppy syrup to calm him, then a larger dose of lungwort in wine to ease the congestion. When the hot water arrived, he scattered myrrh into it and talked calmly while the old man inhaled the vapours with a cloth over his head.
After a while, Adam’s breathlessness eased and colour began to creep back into his cheeks. The monks who had clustered around the door heaved a sigh of relief, and Janius began to recite a prayer of thanksgiving in a loud, braying voice. He glared at his brethren until they joined in.
