An Order for Death

ways to introduce the topic, but Michael gave a small shake of his head, afraid that Morden would simply deny the accusation and promptly warn his associates that the Senior Proctor had wind of their dealings.

‘Do not forget to collect Master Kenyngham on your way out,’ said Morden, scrambling down from his chair to prevent Michael from opening the door. He was too late, and it crashed against the wall, so hard that he winced. ‘And take Clippesby with you, too.’

‘I am leaving now anyway,’ said Clippesby, following Michael. ‘It is kind of you to be concerned for my safety in these times of unrest, Father Prior, but you have no need to worry.’

‘I am glad to hear it,’ said Morden, clearly not at all interested in Clippesby’s well-being.

‘I often walk alone,’ Clippesby went on. ‘You and I are much alike in that respect.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Morden uneasily. ‘I do not wander the town unaccompanied. I always take a servant with me.’

‘Not always,’ corrected Clippesby, sounding surprised by the assertion. ‘Sometimes you go alone. For example, I have seen you several times on the Barnwell Causeway at night.’

Michael closed his eyes in exasperation. He had decided that to interrogate Morden about the meetings might prove detrimental to the case, and the last thing he wanted was for the insane Clippesby to be conducting the interview.

But Clippesby was oblivious to the foul looks shot his way by both the Prior and Michael, although their disapproval was for very different reasons. ‘You walked to St Radegund’s Convent, where you met your friends,’ he said.

‘And which particular animal told you this?’ asked Ringstead unpleasantly. ‘An owl? Or do creatures who spy on men in the night tend towards slugs and bats and other unclean beasts?’

‘No animal told me,’ said Clippesby, offended. ‘I saw him myself. He met Prior Ralph from Barnwell and old Adam from Ely Hall, and they went into St Radegund’s Convent together.’

‘Really?’ asked Michael mildly, realising that it would look suspicious not to persist with the query now that Clippesby had raised the issue. ‘And what were you doing there, Prior Morden?’

‘If you must know, I had business with Walcote, your Junior Proctor.’

‘And what business would that be?’ pressed Michael.

‘I cannot tell you,’ said Morden, folding his small arms and looking away, signifying that he had said all he was going to on the matter.

Michael had other ideas. ‘You can tell me. Or the Carmelites might discover what passed in the Dominican Friary involving certain face paints.’

‘No!’ exclaimed Morden in horror. He glowered at Clippesby, seeing in the Michaelhouse man the reason for his awkward situation. ‘But this is blackmail!’

‘My Junior Proctor was murdered, Prior Morden,’ said Michael coldly. ‘I will do whatever it takes to catch the person who did it, and if that includes telling the Carmelites that the Dominicans like to paint their faces, then so be it.’

Morden closed his eyes in resignation. ‘Very well. But you will not like what I have to say.’

‘Probably not,’ said Michael. ‘But you will tell me anyway.’

Morden sighed. ‘I met three or four times with your Junior Proctor. Prior Ralph and some of his colleagues were there and once – in December – so was Brother Adam from Ely Hall.’

‘Did Master Kenyngham of Michaelhouse ever go?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘No Gilbertines were invited. And no Franciscans or Carmelites, either. Doubtless Walcote only wanted civilised company.’

‘And what did you talk about?’ asked Michael.

‘We discussed the validity of nominalism, among other things. We all believe it to be the superior philosophical theory.’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘I know many Benedictines and Austin canons concur with you on that. But why did you go to St Radegund’s in the middle of the night to discuss it? What was wrong with a lecture hall in the day?’

‘We discussed other matters, too,’ said Morden. He licked his lips, and glanced at the others. Ringstead, it seemed, was as curious as the others to learn what his Prior did at a place like St Radegund’s Convent at the witching hour.

‘Like what?’ pressed Michael.

‘Murder,’ said Morden in a low voice. ‘We discussed murder.’

‘Now we are getting somewhere,’ said Michael. ‘Whose murder?’

‘Yours, Brother,’ replied Morden.

‘I confess Morden’s claim unsettled me at first,’ said Michael, taking his place at the high table in Michaelhouse’s hall for dinner that night. ‘But on reflection, I think there is no need to worry.’

Bartholomew regarded him uneasily. ‘And how did you reach that conclusion, Brother?’

‘According to Morden, Walcote learned about the plan to kill me in December, but I am still here. Whoever it is must have given up the idea.’

‘I am not so sure about that,’ said Bartholomew, worried. ‘Walcote is dead, and we cannot be sure that he was not murdered because he was close to exposing this plot.’

‘It is also possible that he was murdered for the contents of his purse,’ said Michael practically. ‘I walked to Barnwell Priory this afternoon, and Nicholas identified the purse Orwelle found. He told me there was a small imperfection in its drawstrings, and when I looked I saw that he was right.’

‘But Walcote carried that cheap purse because he collected penny fines,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘Why rob him?’

‘For people with nothing, any purse is worth stealing.’

Bartholomew wavered, knowing that Michael was right on that score. But he still believed that hanging suggested a degree of premeditation, and imagined that most robbers would prefer the speed and silence of a blade.

‘Did you see Matilde when you went to St Radegund’s this afternoon?’ asked Michael, breaking into his thoughts. ‘Has she learned anything more about these secret meetings at which my murder was discussed?’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘But I told her what Morden had claimed, and she warned you to be careful. That is good advice, Brother.’

Michael waved a dismissive hand, indicating that he thought their fears groundless. ‘Is she still convinced that there is more to Tysilia than the body of a goddess with no brains?’

‘Apparently, she spent the whole morning trying to teach Tysilia how to hoe. It is not difficult: a child could do it. Tysilia could not, however, and repeatedly raked out seedlings instead of weeds. When Eve Wasteneys saw that Tysilia was incapable of hoeing, she was sent to work in the kitchens instead.’

‘So?’ asked Michael.

‘So, the weather was cold and wet. Matilde believed Tysilia was only pretending to be inept, so that she would not have to be outside. It worked: Tysilia spent the rest of the morning in a warm kitchen, while everyone else was out in the rain. Matilde considered this evidence of Tysilia’s cunning.’

‘It could equally be evidence that Tysilia has an inability to learn,’ said Michael. ‘However, the Bishop is a clever man, and it is difficult to imagine him siring a child who is quite so dense.’

‘Thomas de Lisle sired Tysilia?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘You told me she is his niece.’

‘Did I say sired?’ asked Michael. He blew out his cheeks. ‘Damn! I must be more careful in future. De Lisle certainly does not want her to know the identity of her father, and it is not good for bishops to have illegitimate children in tow.’

‘I should think not,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But if Matilde and I are right about Tysilia, then she may very well know something about this plot to kill you. Perhaps she was the one who devised it in the first place.’

‘I do not think so,’ said Michael. ‘Why would she do something like that? I am her father’s best agent, and she has no reason to wish me harm.’

‘If she is as clever as Matilde believes, then perhaps the plot is her way of striking at Bishop de Lisle. Or