An Order for Death

and was silent.

At Urban’s request, Bartholomew examined the man with jaundice, discussing possible medicines and treatments and forgetting that Michael was waiting outside, now that he was confronted with the far more interesting and immediate question of a malfunctioning liver.

‘How are the lepers?’ asked Bartholomew, as he jotted down a recipe for tincture of hellebore on a scrap of parchment for Urban. ‘I have not had time to visit them lately.’

‘Not good,’ replied Urban. ‘It has been a long winter and supplies are scarce for everyone. Lent has not helped, either.’

‘Why not?’

‘No meat,’ explained Urban. ‘And the Benedictines used to give us all their eggs and butter during Lent, but they have needed them this year for Brother Adam. My poor lepers cannot expect good health on stale bread and cloudy ale alone.’

‘Spring cannot be far away,’ said Bartholomew.

‘It may be too late by then,’ said Urban. ‘Mistress Matilde often helps us when we are in need, but she is not at home and no one knows where she has gone. I have been to her house three times now with no success.’

‘I know where she is,’ said Bartholomew, pleased to have another reason to entice Matilde out of St Radegund’s Convent, if she had not already left. ‘I will tell her.’

Urban gave a relieved smile, while the physician turned his attention back to his writing. Everyone in the infirmary jumped when the door was thrown open violently, and Michael stepped across the threshold to glare around him. Timothy was behind him, his face apologetic, as though he had tried his best to stop the monk from bursting in, but had failed. Bartholomew started guiltily, knowing he should not have spent so long discussing the other patients with Urban while the monk was waiting for him.

‘Well?’ Michael demanded of Bartholomew. ‘What have you learned?’

Nigel gave a sudden cry of horror, and Bartholomew saw the colour drain from his wine-reddened face.

‘It is him!’ he shrieked, pointing at Michael. ‘There is the man who tried to kill me last night!’

‘I know where Simon Lynne is hiding,’ said Michael smugly, as he walked with Bartholomew and Timothy back to the town.

‘Really?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I thought his brother said he had no idea.’

‘He probably does not,’ replied Michael, pleased with himself. ‘I have worked this out for myself.’

‘How?’ demanded Timothy. ‘We have no clues.’

‘We have enough,’ said Michael, a self-satisfied smile creasing his fat features. ‘We have been told – by Ringstead of the Dominicans, by the Carmelite student-friars and by Father Paul – that two people went to one man for intellectual discussion and understanding: Faricius and Kyrkeby both spoke to Paul at the Franciscan Friary.’

‘They wanted a debate, Brother,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Simon Lynne does not want to talk: he wants somewhere to hide.’

‘And that is why he has gone to Paul,’ persisted Michael. ‘Paul is a gentle man, who is popular with students. He would never turn away a soul in need.’

‘We can try speaking to Paul, I suppose,’ said Bartholomew, unimpressed with Michael’s reasoning. ‘Although I cannot see why a Carmelite would seek sanctuary with a Franciscan.’

‘Why not?’ asked Michael. ‘He first sought sanctuary with a convent of Benedictine nuns, and probably even considered hiding with his brother at the Austin Priory. Desperate situations call for desperate measures.’

‘How do you explain Nigel’s accusation?’ asked Timothy of Michael, when Bartholomew could think of no further arguments to refute Michael’s claim. ‘He thought you were one of the men who stabbed him last night.’

‘I have no need to explain his ravings,’ said Michael haughtily. ‘While that incident was under way, I was at Michaelhouse, trying to work out what had happened to Arbury. Of course it was not me he saw.’

‘It seems he did not see enough of these intruders to identify them anyway,’ mused Timothy. ‘He remembered large men in dark clothes, then howled his head off at the first big black-robed person he set eyes on.’

‘But all the Austin canons wear dark robes,’ said Bartholomew. ‘So why did he not howl at them?’

‘All right, Nigel yelled at the first unfamiliar black-robed person he saw, then,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘Do not quibble, Matt. Nigel’s information is worthless anyway: most men wear dark cloaks in winter, and he only claimed his attacker was large because he did not want to admit to being bested by someone small.’

‘Will you let Morden go?’ asked Timothy. ‘Even the exaggerating Nigel would have noticed if one of the intruders had been Morden’s size. He is very distinctive.’

‘I will keep Morden for a while yet,’ said Michael. ‘I refuse to allow him to go free on the word of such an unreliable witness. And do not forget that his glove implicates him in the burglary of my room, even if he did not later travel to Barnwell and stab Nigel.’

‘What do you think these intruders wanted from Ralph?’ asked Timothy. ‘Was it the same thing that they wanted from you?’

Michael shrugged. ‘I cannot imagine what, although I think we are right to assume that these two burglaries were committed by the same people.’

‘Ralph and you are not the only ones to be burgled,’ said Bartholomew thoughtfully. ‘If Morden is telling the truth, then items have been stolen from him, too.’ He snapped his fingers suddenly. ‘And I think I may know exactly what those raiders were looking for.’

‘Well?’ asked Michael, when his friend was lost in thought.

‘Of course,’ said Bartholomew, as one assumption led to another and another, and gradually pieces of the puzzle began to fit together.

‘What?’ snapped Michael irritably. ‘I am in no mood for games, Matt. If you know, tell me; if it is some wild guess, then you can keep it to yourself. I am already confused, and I do not want more untenable theories muddying the water.’

‘This is not a guess,’ said Bartholomew excitedly, as parts of the mystery became crystal clear. ‘It was your mention of Father Paul that made me think of the solution. All this trouble has been over Faricius’s essay.’

‘How?’ asked Timothy doubtfully. ‘And why should Paul make you think of it?’

‘The essay defends nominalism,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There is our first clue.’

Michael sighed. ‘I fail to see how.’

‘Horneby and Simon Lynne went to Faricius’s hiding place in St John Zachary after Faricius’s murder; the evidence, however, suggests that Faricius had already collected his essay and was returning to the friary with it when he was attacked.’

‘It was not on his body, and his last words were spent asking you to find it,’ agreed Michael, impatiently. ‘And?’

‘Meanwhile, Kyrkeby was struggling to write a lecture defending nominalism, to be presented at the most auspicious event of the University year. He was unwell anyway – I treated him for an irregular heartbeat – and the pressure was beginning to mount. Morden thought Kyrkeby’s first attempts at the lecture were poor. But the day after Faricius’s death, Ringstead said that Kyrkeby’s lecture had improved.’

‘You think Kyrkeby killed Faricius for his essay?’ exploded Michael in disbelief, exchanging a glance with Timothy that was half-amusement and half-annoyance that they had wasted time listening to the physician. ‘Matt, you are out of your wits! I have heard you suggest some peculiar motives for murder in the past, but never one as bizarre as this.’

‘Because it is bizarre does not mean it is inaccurate,’ said Bartholomew defensively. ‘Perhaps racked by remorse, Kyrkeby may have tried to return the essay to the Carmelites by using the tunnel–’

‘Your theory fails here, Matt,’ interrupted Michael. ‘Kyrkeby did not know about the tunnel. How could he have done? Even Prior Lincolne was unaware of it and he is a Carmelite who lives in that friary, not a Dominican who has probably never set foot in it.’

‘Well, there is another possibility,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But you will not like it.’