who knows exactly why I removed those particular items, before you ask. Carelessly, Walcote discarded his first copy in the box where we keep used parchment. I found it later.’
‘It was among the scraps in your room.’
‘I meant to burn it, but I forgot. It must have sat there undisturbed and forgotten for three months, until you discovered it by chance.’
‘Why did the Chancellor not tell Walcote that the theft from the Carmelite Friary was not what it seemed?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Did Tynkell distrust Walcote?’
‘He considered him too gentle and too easily led. Tynkell decided not to tell Walcote the truth about the “theft”, although he was obliged to ask him to investigate. It would have looked odd had he instructed him to forget about it.’
Bartholomew was feeling exhausted by the twists and turns the plot had taken. He was also hungry, and was grateful when the bell chimed to announce that breakfast was ready.
‘And there are other things I do not understand,’ Michael went on as they walked slowly towards the hall, ‘such as what is Simon Lynne’s role in all this? I am sure he is connected in some way, because I am positive he is lying.’
‘And Tysilia and the meetings at St Radegund’s,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There is a link between her and Walcote, I am sure.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Michael noncommittally, ‘although I am less convinced of that than you. We shall visit Matilde again today, to see if she has learned anything new.’
Matilde. Bartholomew sighed at yet another aspect of the case that was worrying him, and he wished with all his heart that she was anywhere but at St Radegund’s with Tysilia for company.
Michael nudged him in the ribs, and gave a weak grin. ‘Do not look so sombre, Matt. I know this has not been a pleasant night, but we will solve this mystery. And we will have Arbury’s killers brought to justice.’
‘But not by Easter Day,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You claimed we would have this mess cleaned up before Sunday, and it is Friday already.’
‘That was when I had only two deaths to investigate, and when the case seemed less complex. I had not anticipated that more people would die. The wager we had, giving the winner an evening of indulgence at the Brazen George, is now invalid. What are your plans today? Will you help me?’
‘I have patients to see,’ said Bartholomew.
‘Then I will accompany you, and you can assist me when you have finished,’ suggested Michael. ‘Now that the only decent student you ever had – Tom Bulbeck – has gone to make his fortune in Norwich, you are in need of a good assistant.’
‘I have other students,’ said Bartholomew, not wanting Michael with him while he did his rounds. Although he often did take his students with him, he preferred to work alone. Most people did not take kindly to spotty youths poking at them and asking impertinent questions, and he knew that the sick were more likely to be honest about embarrassing symptoms if there was not a crowd of undergraduates listening with mawkish fascination. And Michael would be worse. He would not like hearing descriptions of bowel movements and phlegm production, and was likely to intimidate any nervous patients with his impatience and distaste.
‘None of your students will compare with me,’ bragged Michael. ‘You will see. Once you have seen me in action, you will never want a student with you again.’
‘Very well,’ said Bartholomew reluctantly, seeing that the monk was not to be deterred and that he would have company that morning, whether he wanted it or not.
‘We shall see your patients as soon as we have eaten breakfast, and when we have done that, we will return this glove to Prior Morden and ask him how he came to lose it. And then I think it is time we paid another visit to St Radegund’s Convent. The time for lies and deceit is over, Matt. We shall put the fear of God into all these people who have been lying to us – Lincolne, Morden, Simon Lynne, Horneby and those disgraceful women at St Radegund’s Convent – and then we shall have some answers.’
‘My God, Matt!’ breathed Michael, as they emerged from the single-roomed shack near the river where Dunstan, one of Bartholomew’s oldest patients, lived. ‘How can you stand to do things like that day after day?’
‘The same way you are happy dealing with the crimes of the University, I imagine,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘Although I do not see what you are making a fuss about. None of the cases this morning have been particularly difficult.’
‘Not for you, perhaps,’ said Michael fervently. ‘I have a new-found admiration for you, Matt. You have nerves of steel and nothing revolts you – not the phlegm that old man had been saving for your inspection, not that festering wound that smelled as though its owner was three days dead, and not prodding about in that screeching child’s infected ear. No wonder you do not object to examining bodies for me. It is a pleasure for you after what your living patients require you to do.’
‘Do you plan to help me in the future?’ asked Bartholomew mildly, smiling at the monk’s vehemence. ‘You promised that I would never want a student after I had been assisted by you.’
‘You probably will not,’ said Michael haughtily. ‘I have no doubts that I dealt with your patients better than would any of your would-be physicians. But I am not for hire. You will have to manage without me.’
‘How will I cope?’ asked Bartholomew, amused.
‘Now you have finished, we should begin the real business of the day,’ said Michael, taking Bartholomew’s arm and steering him up one of the lanes that ran between the river and the High Street. ‘We must talk seriously to Morden about his glove, then I want to question Eve Wasteneys again: I want to know whether Dame Martyn’s “nephew” – Lynne – still lingers with his “aunt”.’
‘Not if he has any sense,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He was frightened of something, and abandoned the Carmelite Friary very promptly. He may be at Barnwell, though. Perhaps we should look for him there, as well as St Radegund’s.’
As they walked along the High Street, they met Brother Timothy outside St Mary’s Church. He had been giving the beadles their daily instructions, and was just dispatching the last of them to go about their business. He was grimly satisfied to hear they finally had a solid clue regarding the mystery, and willingly agreed to accompany them to arrest Morden. Together, the three of them made their way to the Dominican Friary, where Timothy knocked politely at the gate.
While they waited for an answer, Timothy nodded down at his cloak. ‘Look at this. What a mess, eh?’
Bartholomew had already noticed that instead of the black prescribed by the Benedictine Order, Timothy’s cloak was a uniform and rather tatty grey.
‘You should invest in another garment,’ advised Michael, regarding it doubtfully. ‘No self-respecting Benedictine wants to be mistaken for a Franciscan – and you will be, if you wear that.’
Timothy grimaced. ‘It was filthy from wandering around Cambridge’s muddy streets, and so I took it to Yolande de Blaston to be cleaned.’
‘Yolande de Blaston?’ asked Michael. ‘The whore?’
‘She also takes in laundry,’ said Timothy. ‘She is expecting her tenth child, and her whoring days are limited now. She needs all the money she can lay her hands on for her first nine brats, so all us Benedictines send her our laundry; we feel sorry for her.’
‘She is not as good a laundress as Agatha,’ said Michael, studying the cloak critically. ‘Yolande used water that was too hot, and it has taken the colour out.’
Timothy nodded. ‘I shall have to take it to Oswald Stanmore to be re-dyed. Do not mention this to Yolande, will you? I do not want her to worry that the Benedictines will take their trade elsewhere when she is about to give birth. She has more than enough to concern her already.’
Bartholomew was impressed that Timothy should consider the feelings of a lowly prostitute when he must have been angry that his fine cloak had been so badly misused. It was true that Stanmore could re-dye the damaged fabric, but it was unlikely to be as good as it had been. Bartholomew felt new admiration for a man who was not only prepared to overlook the damage to his property and the inconvenience of looking like a Franciscan, but was also keen that the perpetrator should not suffer for it. Timothy was right: Yolande de Blaston was desperately poor, and would need any work provided by the Benedictines.
Eventually, the door was answered by Ringstead, who admitted them to the yard. He told them to wait while he informed Morden that he had visitors, but Michael was having none of that. Shoving his way past the startled
