An Order for Death

purse, which was later recovered empty. What more evidence do you need?’

‘What about the meetings?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘A group of religious heads chatting about the Great Bridge and philosophy?’ countered Timothy dismissively. ‘How can such things result in murder?’

‘But Morden said they also discussed the plot to kill Michael,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And what about this alleged theft from the Carmelite Friary? That was mooted, too. Perhaps Walcote was using it to discredit Michael so that he could be Senior Proctor instead.’

‘I do not believe that,’ said Michael immediately. ‘Walcote did not have sufficient presence to take on a man of my standing in the University. Who do you think people would follow: a weak Austin, who is pleasant but ineffectual; or me, who has been Senior Proctor for years and whom everyone likes and respects?’

‘I am not sure everyone would see the alternatives quite in those terms,’ said Timothy diplomatically. ‘They may have seen it as a choice between a weak man, who could be manipulated to their advantage, or a man with known connections to Oxford, who is planning to give away our property to further his own career.’

‘That is not why I am dealing with Heytesbury–’ began Michael angrily.

Timothy patted his arm reassuringly. ‘I am merely voicing an opinion that may be expressed by others. Your years as Senior Proctor have not made you popular with everyone. You have made enemies as well as friends.’

Michael knocked at the gate of Barnwell Priory, and the three men were admitted by Nicholas, who was still ravaged by grief for Walcote. His red-rimmed eyes indicated that he had been crying, and the dirt that was deeply impregnated in his skin and under his fingernails showed that he had been engaged in manual labour in the gardens, perhaps to secure himself some privacy and be alone with his unhappiness.

‘Just the person I wanted to see,’ said Michael, taking the man by his arm and leading him to a quiet corner. ‘I am no further forward in catching Walcote’s killer. I know you two were close, and I want you to tell me anything – no matter how small or insignificant it may seem – that may help us.’

‘I have told you all I know,’ said Nicholas miserably. ‘I have no idea what business Walcote was involved in, which is just as well, given what happened last night.’

‘Why?’ demanded Michael. ‘What happened?’

‘Someone gained access to our grounds,’ explained Nicholas. ‘It must have been nearer to dawn than midnight, because our cockerel had already started to stir. But it was still an hour or two before we were due to rise.’

Michael exchanged a significant glance with Bartholomew. Their own intruders had been busy during the first part of the night, and now it seemed others had been in the Austin Priory near dawn. Were they the same people?

‘And?’ pressed Michael. ‘What did this intruder do?’

‘A lay-brother was stabbed,’ said Nicholas. ‘He is in the infirmary being cared for by Father Urban from the leper hospital.’

‘We will speak with this lay-brother,’ declared Michael, still holding Nicholas’s arm as he began to walk. ‘Take us to him.’

‘I am not sure whether you will be allowed into the infirmary,’ said Nicholas, alarmed by the way he was being steered in a direction he did not want to go. ‘It is full of sick people.’

‘I will be admitted,’ said Michael confidently, dragging the unhappy Nicholas along with him as he made his way through the church. ‘Now, tell me what this intruder did.’

‘He entered Prior Ralph’s solar, and ransacked the chest where we keep all our valuable documents,’ said Nicholas. ‘And then he left.’

‘Was anything stolen?’ asked Bartholomew.

Nicholas shrugged. ‘Prior Ralph says not. But although we own land, we are not really wealthy and we do not have much gold and silver for thieves to take.’

‘What about documents?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Were any scrolls or parchments stolen?’

Nicholas shrugged again. ‘You must address that sort of question to the Prior. I am only a lowly canon, and I have no idea what documents were stored in the chest.’

‘Have you learned anything more about the meetings Walcote organised?’ asked Timothy.

Nicholas took a deep breath, and cast a nervous glance over his shoulder. ‘I know he dealt with powerful men, like the heads of priories and convents. That in itself was sufficient to make me feel that I do not want to know about his business. In my opinion, life as Junior Proctor was dangerous.’

‘Hardly,’ said Michael, surprised by the man’s unease. ‘Powerful men do not always have evil in their hearts, and dealing with them is not always sinister.’

‘It killed Walcote,’ said Nicholas bitterly. ‘Tell him that.’

He had a point. Someone had executed Walcote in a most grisly manner, and whatever Timothy might believe about the purse they found, Bartholomew remained convinced that there was more to Walcote’s death than a simple case of robbery. Nicholas might well be right, and that one of the powerful men with whom Walcote dealt was responsible.

‘Is there anything more you can tell us?’ pressed Michael. ‘Any cases he was working on that he may have told you about?’

‘Nothing that you do not already know,’ replied Nicholas unhappily. ‘This Oxford business was the most risky, but he said you were dealing with that.’

‘And what about his spare time?’ asked Michael, ignoring the fact that persuading another academic to sign a piece of parchment was scarcely life-threatening. ‘What did he do when he was not working for me or fulfilling his duties here at Barnwell?’

‘He liked to read,’ said Nicholas. ‘We were studying the writings of William of Occam together, and next week we had planned to move on to the works of Heytesbury.’

‘But reading about nominalism is not dangerous, either,’ said Michael, frustrated by the lack of relevant information.

‘I am not so sure,’ said Bartholomew thoughtfully. ‘Walcote would not be the first to die because of an interest in philosophy.’

‘There is Lynne,’ said Michael suddenly, grabbing Bartholomew’s arm. ‘I want a word with him. The lay- brother in the infirmary can wait.’

Lynne watched them warily as they approached, but made no attempt to flee, as Bartholomew suspected he might at the sudden arrival of the University’s Senior Proctor.

‘I have some questions I want to put to you,’ said Michael peremptorily. ‘Why did you run away from the Carmelite Friary?’

‘I have never been to the Carmelite Friary,’ said Lynne. ‘You are confusing me with my brother. We are very alike.’

‘Really,’ said Michael flatly. His hand shot out to seize a handful of Lynne’s habit at throat height; then he lifted, so that the student-friar’s feet barely touched the ground. The lad’s sullen arrogance was quickly replaced by alarm.

‘I know nothing about anything,’ he squeaked. ‘I am an Austin novice. I am not a Carmelite.’

‘My cells will be full tonight,’ said Michael softly. ‘First Morden and now Simon Lynne.’

‘This is John Lynne,’ said Nicholas, surprised by Michael’s statement. ‘We have no Simon Lynne here.’

‘Simon is my brother,’ gasped John Lynne. ‘I told you.’ He struggled out of Michael’s failing grasp and brushed himself down. ‘And I know nothing about what Simon may have done.’

‘How do we know you are not lying?’ demanded Michael unconvinced. ‘You look like Simon Lynne to me.’

‘He is my younger brother. He ran away from the Carmelite Friary on Monday night because he was afraid. He went to hide with our Aunt Mabel at St Radegund’s Convent, but you found him on Tuesday, so he was forced to go elsewhere.’

‘Where?’ demanded Michael angrily. ‘Are you hiding him? If you are, you had better tell me, because if I later discover that you knew of his whereabouts and that you concealed them from me, I shall arrest you and charge you with conspiracy to murder. And that is a hanging offence.’