An Order for Death

‘That is because you think Will Walcote was killed by a single person,’ said Tysilia. ‘And he was actually murdered by three.’

Bartholomew stared at her. Was she simply giving voice to whatever came into her head, or was she passing Michael a clue? ‘What makes you say that?’ he asked curiously.

‘It is obvious,’ said Tysilia with a careless shrug. ‘I heard his hands were tied and he was robbed of his purse before he was hung.’

‘Hanged,’ corrected Michael. ‘“Hung” is what you do to game. But how does this prove there were three killers?’

Tysilia sighed, to indicate her impatience at his slow wits. ‘Because it would need one person to tie his hands, another to steal his purse, and another to put the rope around his neck. One person could not have done all that, could he?’

Bartholomew had reasoned much the same, although he was disconcerted to hear such rational thinking emanating from the lips of Tysilia. He shot Michael a triumphant glance to show that this proved he had been correct all along, and that she was deeply involved. Michael declined to look at him.

‘We are wasting time,’ said Timothy distastefully, indicating with a curt nod of his head that she was to open the door to the solar. His cool disdain made it clear exactly what he thought of the novice’s comments. ‘We have a killer to catch, and we will not do it listening to this nonsense.’

Or would they? Bartholomew gazed uncertainly at Tysilia, trying to gauge yet again whether she was a cunning manipulator who was enjoying the spectacle of their floundering progress through the case, or the dull- minded harlot she seemed to be. But his intense scrutiny of her face told him nothing, and her eyes seemed empty behind their superficial sparkle. Pouting at Timothy’s brusque dismissal of her suggestion, she opened the door to admit them to the solar.

‘Brother Michael,’ said Eve Wasteneys, rising to greet her visitors. ‘Do come in.’

Bartholomew glanced around him. The few nuns present were industriously engaged in darning, and all of them were fully clothed. Dame Martyn slumbered quietly in a corner, and there was not a wine cup in sight. Matilde, still playing the part of Mistress Horner, was with them. Her eyes were bright and interested, and even with all the make-up that covered her smooth white skin, Bartholomew could see she was enjoying herself.

‘These are not the nuns from Ely who want to spy on us,’ stated Tysilia, inadvertently revealing why the day-room was not in its usual state of comfortable debauchery. ‘These are Brother Michael and his two friends, who are not as fat as him and who therefore do not look like Benedictines.’

‘Nicely announced, Tysilia,’ said Eve dryly.

‘Nuns from Ely?’ asked Michael, raising questioning eyebrows.

‘We are to be inspected by high-ranking abbesses,’ replied Eve. ‘What do you think they will say when they find us mending shirts for beggars and everyone wearing the prescribed habits with no personal deviations?’

‘They will think that you had wind of their visit and that you have prepared accordingly,’ said Michael. ‘But if you really want to fool them, you should appoint a new gate-keeper for the day, or you will find all your efforts have been in vain.’

Eve looked thoughtful. ‘You are right. Tysilia should spend the duration of the visit in the kitchen.’

‘A cellar might be a better choice,’ muttered Bartholomew. ‘She can still speak in a kitchen.’

‘I can sew, too,’ announced Tysilia. She threw herself on to a cushion, careful to treat the visitors to a flash of her legs as she did so, then held up a scrap of linen that was covered in clumsy stitches.

‘Very nice,’ said Michael ambiguously. ‘But what is your sewing supposed to be?’

‘Be?’ asked Tysilia, frowning in puzzlement. ‘Why should it “be” anything?’

‘She sounds like a realist,’ muttered Timothy. ‘Questioning the existence of things.’

‘Hardly,’ said Eve, waving a hand to indicate that Tysilia should retire to a window-seat, where she would not be able to interrupt every few moments with her peculiar announcements. ‘We are still learning basic table manners, and have a long way to go before we graduate to philosophy.’

‘Is she really as dense as she seems?’ asked Timothy baldly. Bartholomew winced and cast an anxious glance at Matilde, afraid that Timothy’s question might put her in danger if Tysilia suspected that her disguise was being questioned.

‘No,’ said Eve shortly. ‘She is trying very hard to be intelligent at the moment.’

‘She is not playing games with you?’ pressed Timothy.

Eve shook her head. ‘I thought the same when I first met her: no one could be as dim-witted as Tysilia and survive to adulthood. But I have spent a long time watching her, mostly when she thought she was alone, and I am certain her gross stupidity is genuine. Why do you ask?’

‘No reason,’ said Michael, unable to resist a victorious glance at Bartholomew. The physician remained sceptical, still thinking about Tysilia’s notion that they should be looking for more than one killer. He happened to think that she was right: it would be difficult to overpower a man, tie him up and hang him singled-handed.

‘Is there word from my kinsman?’ asked Matilde in the croaking voice she reserved for Mistress Horner’s use, fiddling with the ring on her finger to indicate that she wanted to talk to them alone. She levered her bulk from her cushions and made her way unsteadily towards Bartholomew. ‘Did you give him the message I dictated to you?’

‘I did,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And Robin of Grantchester sends greetings in return.’

‘Good,’ said Matilde, steering him towards an alcove where they could at least speak without being overheard, even if everyone could still see them. ‘Here is a penny for your trouble.’

‘Thank you,’ said Bartholomew, gazing at the brown coin she pressed into his palm.

‘My standing here dropped dramatically when they thought I was related to Robin,’ said Matilde, her eyes bright with mischief. ‘You deserve to be paid only a penny.’

‘Have you learned anything?’ asked Bartholomew urgently. ‘We do not have much time.’

‘Nothing. Tysilia rises late, has the manners of a peasant and is the most active member of the convent during the night. Sometimes she says things that are so stupid they are actually quite clever.’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘Michael and Timothy believe she is exactly what she appears to be.’

‘So I gathered. And they may yet be right.’

‘What have you learned about the other members of the convent? Tysilia is not the only one who might be involved in something sinister.’

‘Eve Wasteneys is a clever and astute woman; Dame Martyn is a drunkard who barely knows what day of the week it is. I have been trying to watch Eve, but it is difficult, because she spends a good deal of time alone.’

‘Why?’

‘Dame Martyn is incapable of running the convent, and so Eve does most of the work. I imagine a good portion of her time is spent juggling the finances, but I cannot be certain. She may well be organising meetings where Walcote left off.’

‘I want you to leave here,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Today. Tell them Robin has summoned you.’

‘But I have not yet done what I came to do,’ objected Matilde.

‘I do not care,’ said Bartholomew. ‘A student was murdered at Michaelhouse last night, and Michael’s room was ransacked. I have the feeling the killer knows we are closing in on him, and I want you well away from here.’

‘I will just stay until tomorrow,’ said Matilde. ‘It will be Saturday, and–’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Leave today. I will call on you this evening at home. If you are not there, I shall come here to fetch you.’

Matilde, seeing the determination in his face, reluctantly agreed, and Bartholomew left her to rejoin the others. Eve waved a gracious hand to indicate that her guests were to be seated near the fire. ‘How might I help you gentlemen? I would offer you wine, but you will understand that I would sooner you were gone before these nuns arrive. I do not want them jumping to the wrong conclusions.’

‘Then I will be brief,’ said Michael. ‘I want to know about Dame Martyn’s nephew.’

‘Which one?’ asked Eve uncertainly.

‘How many does she have?’ asked Bartholomew.

Eve shot him a playful grin. ‘It depends on how much trouble they are in for wandering along the Barnwell Causeway after dark.’