‘He said he did not want to bother you with administration when you were busy with murders,’ said Richard. ‘But he was worried last night – Wednesday – when Prior Morden informed him that Kyrkeby had gone missing. I happened to be on hand to solve his dilemma.’
‘What were you doing with Chancellor Tynkell?’ demanded Michael. ‘He is too busy to waste time on youths who believe that owning big black horses and an ear-ring make them respected members of the community.’
‘Be that as it may, but I did him and your University a favour last night,’ said Richard firmly. ‘It would have been difficult to find a replacement, given that Kyrkeby’s lecture is scheduled for three days’ time.’
‘It would not,’ argued Michael. ‘We have many skilled and distinguished speakers who are prepared to lecture at a moment’s notice.’
‘Name one,’ challenged Richard.
‘Your uncle,’ replied Michael promptly. ‘He is the University’s most senior master of medicine. Will you claim he is one of these old friars with no hair and poor teeth?’
The young lawyer tossed the end of his capuchin over his shoulder in a deliberately casual gesture and gave a careless smile. ‘I am sure he gives a fascinating account of lancing boils and examining urine. And he has fine hair and good teeth. But Heytesbury will talk about nominalism, not give some diatribe on pustules and amputation.’
Michael’s smile was suddenly wicked. ‘Perhaps you are right,’ he said, so abruptly acquiescent that Richard’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. ‘Has Heytesbury actually agreed to speak?’
‘Yes,’ said Richard. ‘It is all settled, so it is too late for you to interfere.’
‘I would not dream of it,’ said Michael, his grin widening. ‘I shall look forward very much to Master Heytesbury’s lecture on Sunday.’
‘Good,’ said Richard, giving a courtly bow before turning and strutting out of the church. The long points of his fashionable shoes flapped on the flagstones and his russet-red cloak billowed about his elegantly clad legs as he walked. One of the shoes caught in a crack and made him stumble, although his near fall did nothing to moderate his confident swagger.
‘What did Oxford do to him?’ asked Cynric. ‘No one in the town likes him any more. I wonder whether a witch put a spell on him. Perhaps I will make enquiries at the Franciscan Friary.’
‘Why there?’ asked Bartholomew curiously. ‘The friars will not know any witches.’
‘But they know cures for curses,’ said Cynric. ‘They are very good with their remedies. Their rat poison is famous from here to Peterborough.’
‘Perhaps so,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But killing rats and removing curses that make people unpleasant are scarcely the same thing.’
‘You are wrong,’ said Michael drolly. ‘Both rid the world of something we would rather be without.’
Bartholomew glanced at him. ‘Why were you suddenly so pleased to hear that Heytesbury’s lecture is now an immovable feature?’
‘The day that Faricius was stabbed – Saturday – Chancellor Tynkell told me he was worried that the subject of Kyrkeby’s lecture might cause further problems,’ began Michael.
‘Is that why Kyrkeby was killed, do you think?’ asked Bartholomew, glancing down at the grey body in the coffin. ‘Because he was going to talk about nominalism? Lord help us, Brother! We had better keep our opinions to ourselves in future, if holding controversial theories might result in our being stuffed in someone else’s tomb.’
‘Your interpretation of nominalism involves accelerating units and stable velocities,’ said Michael disparagingly. ‘No one is likely to become too excited about that. Kyrkeby, however, was more interested in how nominalism relates to the nature of God – that the Father, Son and Holy Spirit are in fact three names –
‘That would be contentious,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘But not nearly as exciting as Heytesbury’s ideas on uniformly accelerated motion.’
‘Each to his own, Matt. But Chancellor Tynkell told me on Saturday that he was reconsidering whether to ask Kyrkeby to change the title of his lecture. Then, yesterday morning, Tynkell mentioned that he
‘Then Kyrkeby never received that letter,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He has been dead for two days – probably since Monday night, when he was first missed from his friary.’
‘So, he died still thinking that he was going to speak on nominalism,’ said Michael. ‘But I know that Tynkell was nervous about demanding a change in topics at such short notice, and his letter told Kyrkeby to confirm that he was happy with the new arrangements – hence Tynkell’s concern last night when he still had not heard, I imagine.’
‘A lecture takes a long time to prepare,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It was unfair of Tynkell to expect Kyrkeby to talk about something completely different just like that.’
‘And that was exactly why he asked Kyrkeby to visit him, so that they could discuss it,’ said Michael. ‘But Tynkell thought he was doing Kyrkeby a favour, actually: everyone is so obsessed with the realism – nominalism debate at the moment, that Kyrkeby’s lecture would have had to be very good – and he was an adequate scholar at best.’
‘Why was he invited, then?’ asked Cynric bluntly. ‘I thought you had lots of brilliant scholars to choose from. At least, that is what you told Gold Ear.’
‘We do,’ said Michael. ‘But we were obliged to invite a Dominican to speak, because it is their turn. The Dominicans are short of brilliant scholars at the moment, and Kyrkeby was the best they could offer.’
‘So what did Tynkell suggest Kyrkeby should speak about instead of nominalism?’ asked Bartholomew curiously.
Michael’s grin widened. ‘The possibility of life on other planets. And that is the lecture Heytesbury will be obliged to give. Can you imagine a great man like Heytesbury discussing such a ridiculous topic? And it was Richard who arranged it – he told us so himself! Gold Ear will not be popular when Heytesbury learns that he is obliged to talk about civilisation on Mars!’
While Bartholomew, Michael and Cynric waited impatiently, Agatha gave her undivided attention to Kyrkeby’s body, dipping frequently into a basket filled to the brim with mysterious phials and packages. When she finished, she covered the body with a sheet to protect it from the driving rain, but declined to allow them to inspect her handiwork, claiming that tampering with the sheet might spoil her efforts. Beadle Meadowman, who always seemed to be conveniently close when Michael needed him, took one corner of the coffin, while Cynric, Sergeant Orwelle from the Castle and Bartholomew took the other. Then Michael led the procession at a suitably sombre pace out of the church and towards the Dominican Friary on Hadstock Way.
‘This is rough wood,’ complained Orwelle, jiggling the coffin as he tried to find a better grip. ‘Can St Michael’s not afford a decent parish coffin? Lord knows, with you scholars murdering each other all the time, it would certainly get some use. I have a splinter already.’
‘A splinter?’ echoed Cynric in disbelief. ‘I thought you were at the battle of Crecy, lad. What is a splinter compared to arrows, lances and broadswords?’
‘I did not have to endure arrows, lances and broadswords,’ replied Orwelle tartly. ‘I was an archer. I shot at other people; they did not shoot at me. This splinter hurts!’
‘Brother Timothy was at Crecy,’ said Cynric admiringly.
‘He was a captain under the Black Prince, and apparently fought very bravely. That is why it is good that the University made him Junior Proctor: a post like that needs a soldier, not just a cleric.’
‘Not necessarily,’ said Michael coolly, fixing Cynric with a look intended to remind him that some clerics made very good proctors.
‘Damn this useless chunk of wood!’ swore Cynric suddenly. ‘Now
‘Be quiet,’ ordered Michael. ‘The whole point of delaying the return of Kyrkeby’s body to the Dominicans was so that our respectful treatment of it will mollify them and prevent them from marching on the Carmelites. Do not spoil it by chattering like magpies as we walk.’
‘We were speaking softly,’ said Orwelle, stung. ‘And Kyrkeby would not have minded, anyway; he was a
