John Lynne paled. ‘I do not know where he is; I doubt anyone does, even Horneby. Simon fled because he was terrified.’
‘Terrified of what?’ asked Michael.
‘Of what happened to Kyrkeby.’
‘Kyrkeby? You mean Faricius, surely? Faricius was Simon’s friend; Kyrkeby was the Dominican Precentor.’
‘I know who Kyrkeby was. And it was Kyrkeby’s death that frightened Simon.’
‘But Simon was reported missing
John Lynne nodded slowly. ‘Simon knew Kyrkeby was dead. And he did not want the same thing to happen to him.’
‘Where is he?’ asked Michael. ‘If he knows who killed Kyrkeby, then he must speak out. As long as the killer is free, then Simon will never be safe.’
‘I keep telling you that I do not know,’ insisted John Lynne, and the fear in his eyes that he would be dragged into the mess created by his brother indicated to Bartholomew that he was telling the truth. ‘But if I see him, I will tell him to contact you. It is the best I can do.’
‘Then make sure you do,’ said Michael, apparently deciding to accept the young man’s story. He gave a hearty sigh and turned to Nicholas. ‘And now we will talk to this stabbed gatekeeper in the infirmary.’
‘There are sick men in there,’ said Nicholas again. ‘I do not know whether Prior Ralph will agree to an invasion by the Senior Proctor.’
‘Let me go,’ said Bartholomew to Michael. ‘I am a physician: Prior Ralph can scarcely object to me visiting the sick.’
Michael seemed reluctant. ‘Very well. But if you take too long, I shall assume this man has something worthwhile to say, and I shall come to hear it for myself.’
The patient lay on a cot piled high with blankets in the large and airy room that served as the priory’s infirmary. Two other Austins were also there, one with a thick bloodstained bandage around his hand, indicating an accident that had probably seen the removal of some fingers, while another had the sallow, yellow look of some undefined and persistent problem with his liver. All three looked up as Bartholomew entered the room, hopeful of something that would break the monotony of a day in bed.
‘How is he, Father?’ asked Bartholomew of the small man in the stained habit. Urban was the canon who cared for the inmates of the nearby leper hospital, as well as tending the sick at Barnwell Priory. ‘Is his wound serious?’
Urban shook his head. ‘The cut is little more than a scratch. He claims it aches and burns, but so might I if the alternative was a day mucking out the pigs. Nigel is malingering, Doctor.’
‘Would you like me to examine him?’
‘He would not, because you would expose him as a fraud,’ said Urban with a smile. ‘I shall allow him his day or two of ease, but if he continues to complain after Easter, you can come and tell him he is fitter than most of the rest of us.’
‘Are you here to ask about the men who almost killed me last night?’ called Nigel, energetically plumping one of his pillows in a way that indicated Urban’s diagnosis was correct. On a small table next to him was a jug of wine, which, judging from his flushed face and confident manner, Nigel had been making the most of.
‘Men?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘How many of them were there?’
‘Two,’ said Nigel. When he had first started speaking, his voice had been a hoarse whisper, but this was soon forgotten as he began to tell his story. Bartholomew smiled, suspecting that the man’s spell of ease was likely to end a lot sooner than Easter unless he worked on his malingering skills. ‘They were big brutes, all swathed in black and meaning business.’
‘What business would that be?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘Stealing,’ replied Nigel promptly. ‘Prior Ralph says they were unsuccessful, although they broke into the documents chest and made a terrible mess of his room. He does not keep any gold there. That is all in the church, and no one would dare to steal from a church.’
‘How do you know the thieves wanted riches?’ asked Bartholomew, aware that many people had no such scruples but declining to argue the point. ‘Perhaps they came for something else.’
‘Such as what?’ asked Nigel, giving Bartholomew a baffled look. ‘They came for gold and they stabbed me to get it.’
‘Then tell me exactly what happened,’ said Bartholomew.
‘I was on duty at the gatehouse,’ began Nigel, fortifying himself from the jug. ‘It was very late, and the canons were preparing themselves for matins, which takes place before dawn.’
‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I attend matins myself.’
Nigel looked Bartholomew up and down, taking in his scholar’s tabard. ‘Anyway, I heard a knock on the gate, so I answered it. I was obviously slow in the wits – I had spent all day with the pigs, and then passed the night on gate duty, you see.’
‘You mean you had fallen asleep, and you opened the gate in a drowsy haze?’ interpreted Bartholomew.
Nigel’s pursed lips told him that he was right. ‘I had only opened it the merest crack, when they were in. It happened so fast that one moment I was standing at the door, and the next I was lying on the ground pumping my life blood on to the floor.’
‘Your injury was not that serious,’ said Urban mildly.
‘They locked me inside the gatehouse,’ Nigel went on, treating Urban to an unpleasant look. ‘I was able to shout, but only weakly.’
‘It was loud enough,’ said Urban. ‘The gatehouse is a long way from the infirmary, but I still heard it. The truth is that you only started to yell when you were sure the intruders had gone.’
Bartholomew did not blame Nigel; it must have been a harrowing experience to be stabbed and then be in fear that the attackers might return to complete what they had started. But, at the same time, Bartholomew could see that Nigel’s wound was not debilitating, and the man should have raised the alarm, not cowered in a dark corner until it was safe to come out.
‘By the time anyone heeded my cries, the two intruders had left,’ concluded Nigel. ‘And that was that. I was carried here, and now lie in great pain waiting to recover.’
He took another gulp of wine and gazed at Urban with challenging eyes, daring him to contradict him further. Urban raised his eyes heavenward, then busied himself with his other patients, declining to waste his time listening to Nigel’s exaggerations.
‘Was there anything about either of them that was familiar?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Did you see a face or a distinctive mark?’
‘I saw big men,’ said Nigel promptly. ‘I may recognise them again; I may not. It was dark and, as I said, it all happened very fast.
‘How big?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘As big as me?’
‘Bigger,’ said Nigel immediately, barely glancing at the physician as he poured himself more wine. ‘They were both huge.’
Bartholomew gazed down at him thoughtfully. Was he telling the truth, or did he feel that being overpowered by large men gave more credence to his story? If he were being honest, his evidence would certainly vindicate Morden. Even the cowardly Nigel would have to concede that Morden was not a large man. Bartholomew wondered whether Michael would be obliged to release the Dominican Prior on the basis of Nigel’s report.
‘Why do you ask about their appearance?’ queried Nigel, looking up at Bartholomew with sudden fear in his eyes. ‘Do you have a suspect you want me to identify? I will not be able to do it. I did not see a thing before they struck me and I do not want to see them. They may try to kill me again.’
Bartholomew regarded him dispassionately, unimpressed by the man’s cowardice. ‘You were lucky. Our gatekeeper was killed when these intruders invaded Michaelhouse.’
For the first time, it seemed to occur to Nigel that he really had had a narrow escape, and that the danger he had faced had been genuine. Swallowing hard, he glanced around fearfully before subsiding under his blankets
