charming fellow. Not like that Richard Stanmore, who is too important to pass the time of day with the fathers of his old friends.’
‘Richard has only been home a few days, yet half the town seems to dislike him already,’ said Bartholomew, wishing his kinsman had made a more agreeable re-entry into Cambridge.
‘We do not like his horse, either,’ Orwelle went on. ‘It kicked over a meat stall in the Market Square yesterday, and this morning it bit the Franciscan Warden.’
‘Warden Pechem is back in Cambridge, is he?’ mused Michael. ‘Good. Now we can ask him why he attended Walcote’s meetings.’
‘Black Bishop bit Warden Pechem?’ asked Bartholomew, appalled. ‘What did Richard do?’
‘He told Pechem that if he wanted medical attention, he should summon you,’ replied Orwelle. ‘He said you would treat him free of charge, whereas Robin of Grantchester and Father Lynton of Peterhouse would make him pay.’
‘There is Master Kenyngham, free from his Easter vigil,’ said Michael suddenly, stopping the procession and pointing.
‘Speak to him about his role in these meetings now,’ advised Bartholomew, watching the familiar figure of the former Master of Michaelhouse walk dreamily along the High Street. Such was Kenyngham’s other-worldliness that Bartholomew noticed the hem of his pale habit was black with the mud through which he had unwittingly ploughed. ‘He may start another vigil, and you could find you have to wait until Easter Day for your information.’
‘Who is this?’ asked Kenyngham, looking at the coffin as he walked towards them. His halo of white fluffy hair blew gently in the wind, like a dandelion clock.
‘Kyrkeby of the Dominicans,’ said Michael. ‘Did you know him?’
Kenyngham nodded sadly. ‘I suppose his weak heart must have failed him. But he now rests with God, in a better place than us.’
‘He is in a cheap coffin covered with one of Agatha’s old sheets,’ said Orwelle, genuinely puzzled. ‘How is that better than us?’
‘I was referring to his soul,’ said Kenyngham mildly. ‘It is with God and His saints, which is where we will all be soon.’
‘Not too soon, I hope,’ muttered Cynric, indicating to the others that they should begin walking again and that Michael could catch them up when he had finished with Kenyngham.
But Kenyngham stood in front of them, inadvertently blocking their way so they were forced to stop, and then began a prayer that looked set to expand to a full requiem mass. Cynric and Meadowman shifted hands uncomfortably as the dead weight began to pull on their arms, and Bartholomew prodded Michael with his foot. Michael shrugged helplessly, not sure what to do in the face of such sincerity.
‘I am going to drop this,’ Orwelle said in a loud whisper. ‘Tell him to hurry.’
‘Prayers for the dead are our sacred duty,’ said Kenyngham gently, admonishing the impatient soldier. ‘We must never rush our time with God. But perhaps I should walk with you, and we can pray as we go.’
‘Good idea,’ said Michael quickly, taking his arm and pulling him forward. ‘Having you with us will certainly add favourably to the kind of impression I intend to make on the Dominicans. But first I would like to ask you some questions. You can pray in a moment.’
‘What sort of questions?’ asked Kenyngham nervously. ‘It is not about securing my vote for scouring the latrines twice a year instead of once, is it? That is for Matthew and Langelee to sort out between them.’
Michael raised an imperious finger to prevent Bartholomew from pursuing a matter that was very close to his heart – Michaelhouse’s drains were cleaner than most in Cambridge, but they still did not reach the physician’s exacting standards. ‘Why did you meet my Junior Proctor and others at St Radegund’s Convent?’ he demanded of Kenyngham.
Kenyngham stared at him. ‘How do you know about that?’
‘How I know is not important. What were you discussing that warranted you walking all the way out there in the dark? And why to such a place?’
Kenyngham shuddered. ‘It was like a foretaste of hell! I went perhaps five times, and on my last visit, that wicked woman tried to manhandle me.’
‘I heard about that,’ said Michael, and Bartholomew sensed he was struggling to maintain his sombre composure while his fertile imagination produced an image of Kenyngham wrestling with Tysilia. ‘But why were you there in the first place?’
‘I cannot tell you,’ said Kenyngham.
‘Why not?’ demanded Michael, peeved that Kenyngham should refuse to reveal what he was sure had a bearing on the case he was struggling to solve.
‘Because I promised I would not,’ said Kenyngham simply. ‘And now I must pray for–’
‘Walcote was murdered, Master Kenyngham,’ said Michael harshly. ‘Someone hanged him from a drainpipe. And in order to find out who did such a monstrous thing, and to prevent it from happening again, I need to know why you and various others met him at St Radegund’s.’
‘I took an oath,’ said Kenyngham. ‘I cannot reveal what I know, however much I may wish to.’
‘But there is a killer at large,’ protested Michael in frustration. ‘What is more important – your promise or a life?’
‘A promise before God is a sacred thing and cannot be broken,’ replied Kenyngham with finality. ‘And now, if you will forgive me, there is a soul that needs my attention.’ He clasped his hands, bowed his head and gave himself entirely to praying for Kyrkeby.
‘He is so annoying when he does that,’ muttered Michael to Bartholomew irritably, casting a venomous glower at the saintly Gilbertine. ‘How can he expect me to stand by and see my colleagues slaughtered by some maniac, just because
‘We are here,’ said Bartholomew, looking up at the great gates of the Dominican Friary. ‘Perhaps now we shall have some answers. We can ask Morden about these meetings, since Kenyngham will not tell us.’
Michael rapped hard on the gate, until it was answered by a lay-brother, who immediately agreed to fetch his Prior when he saw what they had brought. They saw him intercept Morden on his way to the chapel, then watched the tiny Prior rush across the muddy yard towards them with Ringstead and Bulmer at his heels. Morden’s face turned white when he saw the coffin; meanwhile Kenyngham prayed on, oblivious to the consternation and alarm that was ballooning around him.
‘I am sorry,’ said Michael gently to Morden. ‘We discovered Kyrkeby late last night, and have had him at St Michael’s Church to pray for his soul ever since. As you can see, Master Kenyngham has been active on this front.’
‘But how did this happen?’ asked Morden, his elfin face shocked and wan. ‘Why?’
‘I do not know how or why,’ admitted Michael. ‘I really am terribly sorry.’
Morden moved to the coffin and pulled back the sheet to look at his Precentor’s face. ‘My God!’ he breathed in horror, dropping the cover quickly before his colleagues could see what was underneath. ‘Did you find him like this?’
‘Not quite,’ said Bartholomew, who had also glimpsed what Agatha had done to Kyrkeby. He was not surprised she had declined to show them her handiwork in the church. The dead man’s face was no longer grey and flat, but a lively assortment of colours. His cheeks had been carefully reddened with rouge, and his lips were verging on scarlet. His eyelids were blue, and even his nose had a curious orange glow to it.
‘I think it would be best if we took him to the chapel immediately,’ said Morden. He glanced anxiously at Bartholomew and the three pall-bearers. ‘Does anyone else know about this?’
‘Only us,’ said Michael.
‘Then perhaps we could keep it like that,’ said Morden. ‘He has done this before, you know.’
‘Done what before?’ asked Michael, bewildered. ‘Died?’
‘Put women’s paint on his face,’ said Morden in a whisper. ‘It was many years ago, and I thought he had put an end to such peculiarities. But it seems he has not.’
‘It was Agatha,’ began Bartholomew, not wanting poor Kyrkeby’s reputation sullied when he was not in a position to declare his innocence.
‘Who is Agatha?’ asked Morden. ‘A whore?’ He gave a sudden shudder. ‘No! Please do not tell me. It is
