An Order for Death

subject slightly. ‘She is tall with dark hair.’

‘I know her,’ said Langelee. He gave a salacious grin. ‘And so does every other red-blooded man in the town, I should imagine. Why? Had she worked her charms on Walcote? I thought he had a long-standing affection with one of his Austin colleagues. Still, with a woman like that…’

‘Matt thinks there is more to her than an evening of romping among the pews of the conventual church,’ said Michael bluntly.

‘Walcote’s meetings took place at St Radegund’s Convent,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘It is not the kind of place influential scholars should be seen frequenting, so they must have had good reason for choosing it over one of their own halls. I think the reason was that it suited Tysilia.’

Langelee rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘I would dismiss any of our students foolish enough to be caught in that den of iniquity, and something far more important than philosophy would need to be on the agenda to attract the heads of the religious Orders there. However, it is an excellent place for clandestine meetings, because no one would ever think of using it for such purposes.’

‘That is true,’ said Michael bitterly. ‘I certainly had no inkling that they were taking place.’

‘But Bartholomew is wrong about Tysilia,’ Langelee went on. ‘I have never met a person with fewer wits.’

‘No one believes Tysilia is involved, because they say she is too dense,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But what if that is an act? She is related to the Bishop of Ely, who is as cunning a man as I have ever met. Why will no one accept that she may be clever enough to fool us all?’

‘Because you only have to look at her face to see that there is nothing there,’ said Langelee, tapping his temple as he spoke. ‘It is like gazing into the eyes of a dead trout.’

‘Is that something you do often?’ asked Michael.

Langelee gave an irritable frown at Michael’s flippancy. ‘There is no earthly way Tysilia is involved, Bartholomew. I doubt the nuns even trusted her to open the convent doors on the nights these meetings took place. They would be afraid she would try to seduce their guests en route, or that she would forget they were supposed to be allowed in and see them out instead.’

‘She did try to seduce Kenyngham,’ said Michael, chuckling at the thought.

‘The nuns need the money she brings, and Eve cannot afford to lose it,’ said Langelee, ignoring him. ‘Still, I suppose the Bishop is unlikely to find anywhere else that will take such a brazen whore, so perhaps he will turn a blind eye to the situation for a while longer yet.’

Bartholomew stared into the flames of the fire, thinking about what they had learned. ‘If Walcote was killed because he came too close to discovering Michael’s would-be killer, then we have a smaller list of suspects than ever. Morden claims the murder was discussed at the meetings he attended; Kenyngham claims it was not.’

‘Kenyngham would never lie,’ said Langelee, settling back in his chair with his wine. ‘The poor man would not know how. I cannot imagine how he has managed to live to such a ripe old age by telling the truth, but there we are.’

‘His ripe old age almost ended when he refused to tell me what passed during these gatherings,’ said Michael resentfully. He raised Bartholomew’s overfilled cup to his lips with a steady hand that did not spill a drop.

‘We should return to the Carmelite Friary tomorrow,’ said Bartholomew, taking his cup from Michael, much to the monk’s annoyance. Langelee had provided a decent brew. ‘I am not yet convinced that they are innocent of Kyrkeby’s death. Perhaps they murdered him, and then killed Walcote because he heard or saw something on his patrols.’

‘Why do you think that?’ asked Langelee.

‘The timing,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Kyrkeby was last seen on Monday evening, while we know that Walcote was killed just after dusk on the same day. Perhaps one witnessed the death of the other, and was murdered to ensure his silence.’

‘That is possible,’ said Michael, thoughtfully. ‘And do not forget that Simon Lynne fled his friary on Monday night, too. We caught him in St Radegund’s Convent the following morning, pretending to visit his “aunt”.’

‘It seems a lot happened on Monday night,’ mused Langelee, voicing what Bartholomew had remarked upon at Faricius’s funeral, when Lincolne had told them that Lynne had gone. ‘Kyrkeby and Lynne disappeared and Walcote died.’

‘Very true,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But I am more concerned with catching the person who may have designs on Michael’s life than I am in looking for missing scholars.’

‘Walcote found that note three months ago,’ said Michael dismissively. ‘So, why should the killer strike now? It is entirely possible that Smyth’s death made him realise that murder is not an easy thing to do properly, and he decided to abandon the plan.’

‘Or perhaps the plan is already in action, and Walcote was killed because he stumbled on it,’ countered Bartholomew. ‘I do not understand why you seem so unperturbed about it.’

‘Because there is nothing I can do, so what is the point in worrying?’ replied Michael. ‘This is an excellent brew, Langelee. Is there any more of it? Matt seems to have taken mine.’

Bartholomew excused himself from Langelee’s room when the conversation degenerated into boastful accounts of Michael and Langelee’s past lives. Bartholomew had heard the stories before, and did not want to spend the rest of the evening listening to wildly exaggerated adventures that painted Michael and Langelee in ever more flattering light, so he returned to his own room to work on his treatise on fevers.

He had not been writing for long, although his eyes were already beginning to close as the unsteady light of a candle made him drowsy, and he was considering beginning the unpleasant transition from a cold room to a colder bed, when there was a knock at the door and Cynric entered.

‘I thought I would find you awake,’ the Welshman said softly, so as not to wake Suttone and his students, who occupied the room opposite. ‘I was just leaving home for the vigil in St Mary’s Church, when I met blind Father Paul, who used to be a Fellow at Michaelhouse.’

‘What was he doing out at this time of night?’ asked Bartholomew in surprise, thinking about the kindly Franciscan who had been so popular with the students. ‘He is too old to be roaming the streets so long after the curfew bell has sounded.’

‘He claims his blindness means that he is better equipped for wandering around in the dark than the others, and that by delivering any night-time messages he can serve his community in a way that no one else can.’

‘What did he want?’ asked Bartholomew, knowing that the friar was proud of his blindness and the fact that he felt it gave him an advantage over other men. ‘And where is he?’

‘Waiting by the gate,’ said Cynric. ‘He says Warden Pechem needs a physician.’

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew, reaching for his cloak and slinging his medicine bag over his shoulder. Then he recalled what Sergeant Orwelle had mentioned earlier that day. ‘It is nothing to do with being bitten by Richard’s horse, is it?’

Cynric grinned. ‘Apparently, the wound is sore. He was urged to send for you earlier, but he declined because he was afraid that the Dominicans would hear about it and make fun of him.’

But Bartholomew knew the real reason why Pechem had dallied: he had lied to Michael about being at Walcote’s meetings, and was now reluctant to talk to Bartholomew lest the physician also demanded some answers. That knowledge made Bartholomew even more determined to prise the truth from the Warden of the Franciscans.

He followed Cynric across the yard and out of the gate, where Father Paul was a pale grey shape in the darkness. The blind friar turned and smiled when he heard two sets of footsteps approaching him. Bartholomew took his arm and they began to walk towards the High Street, with Cynric slipping soundlessly in and out of the shadows behind them, watching over them like some dark guardian angel.

‘Warden Pechem will be pleased to see you,’ said Paul. ‘He is in pain.’

‘Bitten by a horse,’ mused Cynric, fighting not to smile.

‘It was not his fault,’ said Paul defensively. ‘He was lecturing to a group of novices in the Market Square, using his hands to illustrate the point, as is his wont…’

‘He is like a windmill,’ confirmed Cynric. ‘Arms wheeling around like sails in the wind.’

‘… and one of his hands came too near that horrible beast that Richard Stanmore uses to transport himself