‘Who are these “devils”?’ asked Michael gently. He saw the lad was frightened, and realised that now was not the time to give vent to his irritation that Lynne had eluded him for days and probably had been withholding information that might have allowed him to solve the case far sooner.
‘The men who murdered your Junior Proctor,’ said Lynne miserably. He glanced around him fearfully. ‘You must see how dangerous these men are, Brother Michael. If I, a Carmelite, feel driven to seek refuge in a convent of Franciscans – with whom we have been at loggerheads for years – you will understand how deeply I am afraid.’
‘It is clear to me that the men who have terrified Lynne are the same ones who marched in here and demanded Faricius’s essay,’ added Paul.
‘How do you know that?’ asked Bartholomew, a little bewildered by the sudden flow of information.
‘It is complex,’ said Paul. ‘And I do not want to discuss it here. It is cold and there is rain in the air. It is fine for you youngsters, but not for an old man who has just had a dagger at his throat.’
‘But you said they did not harm you,’ said Bartholomew, alarmed. ‘Now you say they held you at knife point?’
Pechem gave a hearty sigh. ‘I understand none of this. My friary is robbed, I learn that Carmelites have invaded the sanctity of our walls, and now you are talking about the murder of the Junior Proctor and stolen essays on nominalism. I think you all have some explaining to do.’
Paul agreed. ‘It is time the unpleasantness regarding Faricius’s essay was laid to rest. He was a gentle man, and would have been appalled to think that his scholarly opinions should be the cause of so much bloodshed and anguish.’
‘He should have considered that before he put pen to parchment, then,’ said Timothy, rather bitterly. ‘Faricius should have used his common sense to see that writing an essay on a subject that is currently so contentious would do nothing to improve the unity and peacefulness of the town.’
‘We should discuss this inside,’ said Bartholomew, taking Paul’s arm and leading him towards the steps to Warden Pechem’s office. ‘Father Paul is cold.’
‘Come with us, Lynne,’ instructed Michael. ‘The rest of you should be about your business. Timothy, would you mind informing the beadles what has happened, and instruct them to be on the alert for these two robbers on their patrols tonight?’
Timothy nodded dutifully, and walked briskly across the courtyard. Bartholomew saw him offer to escort Clippesby back to Michaelhouse, although it was scarcely on his way. Bartholomew was again impressed by the man: it was not safe for Clippesby to linger inside the Franciscan Friary, and now that it was growing dark, it was not safe for the Dominican to be out at all. Timothy was kind to think of him, when virtually everyone else in Cambridge wished the crazed Dominican would just disappear. Clippesby allowed himself to be led away like a tame dog.
‘Good,’ said Paul, as they reached Pechem’s office where there was a fire blazing in the hearth. He turned his sightless eyes on Bartholomew and gave a mischievous grin, speaking in a low voice so that Pechem would not hear. ‘Actually, I am not particularly cold, but this will warm me nicely before I retire to bed tonight.’
Bartholomew looked around at the men who had gathered in Pechem’s small room, making it feel cramped and stuffy. Paul huddled close to the flames, holding towards them translucent, knobbly hands that were streaked with lumpy blue veins. Lynne hovered near the door, as if he imagined he might be able to escape if Michael’s questions became too uncomfortable. Pechem had retired to his bed, piling himself high with blankets in an attempt to warm himself.
‘Right,’ said Michael, gazing coolly at Lynne. ‘I am not pleased that you ran away, thus withholding valuable information from me. But I might be prepared to overlook that if you are honest with me now, and tell me what I need to know.’
Lynne nodded miserably.
‘So,’ began Michael. ‘Let us start with Faricius’s death. He was stabbed and, as we have done, you reasoned that he had been killed
‘Kyrkeby,’ said Lynne unhappily. ‘He killed Faricius for the essay. He was due to give the University Lecture, and he needed something more inspiring than the dull tract he had compiled. Faricius told me that Kyrkeby had given him a ruby ring in exchange for the essay.’
‘So that is where that ring came from,’ said Michael, carefully not looking in Bartholomew’s direction so he would not have to acknowledge that the physician’s speculations about Kyrkeby had been correct. ‘We discovered it in Faricius’s spare scrip when we went through his belongings.’
Lynne nodded. ‘I was not there, but Horneby told me you had found it. Faricius took the ring from Kyrkeby, and promised to give him the essay later.’
‘Why would Faricius want a ruby ring?’ asked Pechem curiously. ‘He was a friar who had taken vows of poverty.’
‘Many friars forget that vow,’ said Paul from the fireside. ‘And Kyrkeby had a fine collection of jewels. He offered me some, too, if I would agree to write his lecture. I declined, because I do not consider it ethical for one man to pen work for another.’
Bartholomew recalled the jewellery among Kyrkeby’s personal possessions. Morden had thought some of the rings were missing, although he had been unable to specify which ones, and had assumed Kyrkeby had been wearing them when he had died, linking them with Kyrkeby’s penchant for women’s attire. He was wrong: one ring at least had been given to Faricius.
‘Why did Faricius agree to sell his work?’ asked Michael of Lynne. ‘Paul is right: it is wrong for one scholar to try to pass off the work of another as his own.’
‘Faricius wanted to go to Oxford,’ said Lynne. ‘Heytesbury had encouraged him to go to a place where a Carmelite could speak freely without fear of suppression by his Order, and Faricius planned to use Kyrkeby’s ring to pay for his education.’
‘Heytesbury!’ muttered Michael, his eyes narrowing in anger. ‘I might have known
‘He told us about it,’ said Bartholomew, recalling the evening they had spent at Edith’s house, when Heytesbury had claimed his ‘other business’ in Cambridge was poaching students. ‘He said the man he had seen was unsuitable – doubtless because by the time we asked him, Faricius was dead. He was also at Faricius’s funeral, claiming that he had admired him.’
Lynne took a deep breath and continued. ‘Faricius took the ring, and promised to give the essay to Kyrkeby. But then Lincolne nailed his proclamation to the church door, and the Dominicans marched on the Carmelites.’
‘And Faricius, being a prudent man, decided he could not risk leaving his essay in its hiding place at St John Zachary, and so he left the Carmelite Friary – via the tunnel – to retrieve it,’ concluded Michael.
Lynne nodded. ‘He had taken Kyrkeby’s payment, you see, and he felt that the essay was no longer his to stuff behind stones in graveyards. We tried to stop him, but he was adamant that he should make certain the essay was safe. When we saw his body, we realised that someone had cut the strap that attached his scrip to his belt, and that the essay had gone. I went with Horneby to check the churchyard at St John Zachary two days later – on Monday night – but it was not there.’
‘And the stone had been replaced and the bushes arranged in a way that implied Faricius had collected the thing, and had covered up his secret hole as he liked,’ said Michael.
Lynne nodded again.
‘So Kyrkeby stabbed Faricius and made off with the essay,’ said Michael. ‘But who murdered Kyrkeby? It was not the Carmelites, anxious to avenge the wholly unnecessary death of their most brilliant thinker, was it?’
‘It was not,’ said Lynne tearfully. ‘Walcote did that.’
‘Walcote?’ echoed Michael, again not looking at Bartholomew. ‘I do not believe you!’
‘Horneby and I had just climbed through the tunnel after searching St John Zachary’s churchyard for Faricius’s essay on Monday night when we heard an altercation taking place in the lane outside. Horneby said it was none of our affair and left, but I lingered. I wish to God I had not.’
‘Why?’ demanded Michael. ‘And who was involved in this “altercation”?’
‘I heard Walcote and his beadles ordering Kyrkeby to give them the stolen essay. Kyrkeby refused, because he said he had paid a good price for it. Then I heard Kyrkeby make a vile, strangled sound, as if he were trying to
