An Order for Death

Standing to one side was Clippesby, his eyes so wild that the white parts gleamed peculiarly against the black of his Dominican habit. His hair jutted in all directions, so that he looked even more eccentric than usual. Bartholomew saw that his robe was dirty, as if he had been rolling in mud.

‘What is the matter?’ asked Bartholomew, watching Clippesby twist one of his sleeves so hard that he threatened to do it permanent damage. ‘All this has nothing to do with you, does it?’

‘No!’ wailed Clippesby, his voice loud enough to draw the hostile attention of several Franciscans. ‘If they had listened to me, this would not have happened.’

‘I warned you to stay away from the Franciscans,’ said Michael angrily. ‘You know they do not like Dominicans on their property.’

‘But I wanted to see Father Paul,’ howled Clippesby. ‘He is the only person in this town who is not short of a few wits. I have a right to sane conversation if I want it.’

‘Lord save us,’ muttered Michael. ‘If the likes of him are demanding sane discussions, what does that say about the rest of the University?’

‘What is going on?’ asked Bartholomew of Clippesby a second time. ‘What has caused this disturbance?’

‘You will get no sense out of him,’ said Michael, giving Clippesby a disparaging glance as he took Bartholomew’s arm and pulled him away. ‘Timothy will tell us what is happening.’

‘Another robbery,’ explained Timothy as they approached. ‘And it happened just moments ago.’

‘We were lucky Brother Timothy happened to be passing when it occurred,’ said Pechem unsteadily. ‘He and Brother Janius gave chase, but the culprits disappeared into the scrub-land that leads to the Barnwell Causeway.’

‘We did our best,’ said Timothy apologetically to Michael. ‘But they were too fast for us.’

‘Was anyone able to identify the thieves?’ asked Michael. ‘Who were they?’

‘We do not know,’ said Pechem. ‘But they were brazen. Two men just joined the end of our procession as we walked home from the church after vespers. Everyone assumed they were the guests of someone else, and no one questioned their right to be inside.’

‘I did,’ shouted Clippesby, coming to join them. ‘I told you they were not Franciscans, but no one took any notice of me.’

‘They did worse than not listen to him,’ explained Timothy to Michael. ‘They ejected him from their premises, because they thought his warnings were the ramblings of a madman.’

‘Whatever gave them that idea?’ asked Michael.

‘They threw me in the mud,’ cried Clippesby, looking down at the front of his habit as though he had only just noticed that it was splattered with the grime of the road. ‘They picked me up and hurled me into the street.’

‘What would you have done if some lunatic from a rival Order thrust his way into your premises and started making wild accusations?’ asked Pechem, appealing to Michael. ‘It is not the first occasion he has made a nuisance of himself here, and there was no reason to assume that this time was any different.’

‘Did anyone recognise these robbers?’ asked Michael, exasperated that everyone seemed to be more willing to discuss Clippesby and his antics than the real culprits. ‘It is only just growing dark, so there must have been sufficient light to see their faces when they were here.’

With Michael’s appearance, the Franciscans had calmed down, and now stood in a quiet circle around the monk and their Warden, listening. They shook their heads when Michael glanced around at them: it seemed no one had recognised the intruders. Pechem began to shiver more violently than ever in the frigid breeze of early evening, and Clippesby, in a rare moment of sensitivity, removed his own cloak to drape around the man’s shoulders.

‘You should not be out here,’ Bartholomew reprimanded Pechem gently. ‘That horse bite may have unbalanced your humours and rendered you more susceptible to chills.’

‘Those thieves stole my cloak!’ cried Pechem, agitated again. He realised with a start that he was wearing a Dominican’s robe, and almost flung it away. But it was a warm garment, and he was very cold. He clutched it more closely around him.

‘So, what happened is that two strangers calmly joined the end of your procession and entered your friary,’ said Michael. ‘And not one of you asked who they were. Is that what you are telling me?’

‘We could not see their faces because their hoods were up,’ said a short, obese friar called John de Daventre, whom Bartholomew regularly treated for trapped wind. ‘All of us had our cowls drawn, because it is windy and there is rain in the air. It did not seem odd that these two men were also protecting themselves against the weather.’

‘And what happened when these two were inside?’ Michael demanded. ‘Did they dine with you, too, before they decided to commit their crimes?’

Daventre treated him to an unpleasant look. ‘We all went about our own business, and no one noticed where this pair went. But it seems they followed Father Paul to his cell and forced their attentions on him.’

Bartholomew’s stomach churned. ‘What do you mean? Did they hurt him?’

‘No,’ came Paul’s familiar voice as he elbowed his way through the watching friars. ‘They only questioned me. They did me no harm.’

‘What did they want?’ asked Michael.

‘Faricius’s essay on nominalism,’ replied Paul. ‘I am afraid I was obliged to give it to them.’

‘But you do not have it,’ said Michael. ‘You told Matt that you were distressed it had gone missing, and that you hoped it would reappear one day, so Faricius’s name would be remembered.’

‘I never told Matthew I did not have it,’ said Paul. ‘He did not ask me that specific question, and so I did not feel obliged to answer it and tell him it was in my room.’

Michael gave a heavy sigh. ‘That is hardly acting in the spirit of the truth, Father. How did it come into your possession? And why did you decline to tell Matt?’

‘I thought he would be safer knowing nothing about it, and anyway, I swore to tell no one. Oaths are sacred things.’

Angrily, Michael said, ‘You sound like Kenyngham. Has it never occurred to you that it is sometimes better to be honest with the forces of law and order? We are hunting someone who has taken the lives of four people, Father. Surely that transcends any promises you made?’

Paul’s usually expressive face was unreadable. ‘I am a novice in the world of killers and thieves, and I find it hard to see what is right and wrong in such circumstances. But suffice to say that Faricius’s essay was brought to me for safe keeping.’

‘By whom?’ asked Michael. ‘And where is Simon Lynne of the Carmelites? He seems to be missing, too.’

‘Here I am.’ Simon Lynne, wearing a Franciscan novice’s habit that was far too large for him, pushed his way past Daventre and stood next to Paul. He and his brother had been telling the truth, Bartholomew thought: they were indeed peas in a pod. He saw Pechem’s jaw drop in astonishment.

‘But you told us this boy was your kinsman,’ cried the Warden, regarding Paul accusingly. ‘You said he wanted to stay here until he decided whether or not to take the cowl.’

‘That is true,’ said Paul, smiling benignly in Pechem’s direction. ‘I just did not specify which cowl he would be taking – it will be that of a Carmelite, not a Franciscan. And as for him being my kinsman, well, we are all brothers in the eyes of God.’

‘That is a rather liberal interpretation,’ said Pechem sternly. ‘We Franciscans are not in the habit of taking waifs and strays from other Orders.’

‘We Franciscans also never close our doors to those in need,’ retorted Paul sharply. ‘Here is a young man who came to me because he was in fear of his life. I did what I thought was right; I would do the same again in similar circumstances.’

‘But I was not safe here,’ said Lynne unsteadily, on the verge of tears. He pressed more closely against Paul, who put a comforting arm around his shoulders. ‘I thought no one would find me in a friary of Franciscans, but I was wrong. It took those devils less than four days to hunt me down.’ He scrubbed at his nose and sniffed loudly.