An Order for Death

‘Mine is missing,’ said Pechem, rubbing his temples, as if the accusations and counter-accusations had given him a headache. ‘He must have taken it when he came to check that all was well with us earlier today. I wondered what had happened to it.’

‘Why did he feel the need to check on you?’ demanded Bartholomew.

‘I do not know,’ admitted Pechem. ‘He told me he wanted to make sure my hand was healing.’

Bartholomew shot Michael a triumphant look. ‘Timothy paid an unexpected visit to the Franciscans with the specific intention of stealing a cloak, because he was afraid he might be recognised by Nigel if he wore a dark one. But Nigel did recognise him. It was not you Nigel was howling at, Brother: it was Timothy, grey cloak or no. He entered the infirmary just behind you.’

‘He yelled at me because I was a stranger in a dark cloak,’ said Michael tiredly. ‘And anyway, Nigel did not see enough of the intruders to identify Timothy or anyone else.’

‘Nevertheless, Timothy was not prepared to take that chance. He donned the grey gown, and would have claimed that he no longer possessed a black one if challenged about the stabbing at Barnwell the previous night.’

‘Then it is his word against yours,’ said Michael. ‘And there is no compelling evidence why we should believe you.’

‘At the precise moment when the men who attacked Paul were fleeing, you and I were on the causeway near the Barnwell Gate with Richard,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The Causeway stands proud of the land around it, and you can see for a long away. I saw no chase across the wasteland, did you?’

‘I was not looking for one,’ said Michael. ‘But I did not see Timothy double back on himself to come here when he said he was going to St Radegund’s Convent, either.’

‘I am sure he made certain you did not,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is easy to stay hidden among all that scrub, if you do not want to be seen. But we should go back to the convent now, to ask whether he returned there as he says.’

‘No,’ said Michael. ‘It will be a waste of time. Timothy is innocent of these charges.’

Bartholomew did not think so, although he also knew for certain that Timothy had not returned to the convent: he would not have had time to walk all the way to St Radgund’s and then be back in Cambridge in time to chase the ‘intruders’ across the marshes. Timothy had done exactly as Bartholomew had surmised: he had grabbed Janius, invaded the Franciscan Friary and then escaped into the marshes while pretending to ‘give chase’ to the culprits.

Michael glared at Pechem, Paul and Lynne. ‘You three will say nothing about this to anyone. Matt has no evidence to support his accusations, and I do not want to lose a good Junior Proctor on the basis of a few wild guesses on his part.’

‘Then there is only one way to resolve this,’ said Bartholomew, undeterred. ‘We must pay Timothy and Janius a visit, and see whether they have an essay, two dark cloaks and a bloodied knife in their possession.’

‘No, Matt,’ said Michael yet again, stretching bare feet towards the flames that blazed in the kitchen hearth later that evening. The College cat jumped into his lap, and began to purr loudly as he scratched it under the chin. He sneezed, almost tipping it on to the floor, but it declined to abandon the comfortable haven it had located. ‘I will not allow you to invade the privacy of my Junior Proctor on the basis of the flimsy evidence you have presented.’

‘It will not be flimsy evidence when we find what we are looking for,’ persisted Bartholomew. ‘Within a few moments, your investigation will be over.’

‘I like Timothy,’ said Michael. ‘He has proved himself an excellent Junior Proctor over the last few days – better than Walcote could ever have been. I do not want him to resign just because you think he is a murderer.’

‘But he is a murderer,’ said Bartholomew, becoming exasperated. ‘He killed your last Junior Proctor so that he could step into his shoes and steal Faricius’s essay.’

‘Make up your mind, Matt. Timothy cannot have turned murderer for both reasons.’

‘Does it matter?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘He and his henchman Janius have committed terrible crimes. Are they really the kind of men you want representing law and order in the University you love?’

‘You are on the wrong track entirely,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘Walcote was murdered because of these nocturnal meetings he arranged. He was trying to discredit me, so that he would be appointed Senior Proctor and assume the power that I have accrued over the past five years. And it would have been disastrous for the University: he scraped by as Junior Proctor, because I was there to help him. He could never have managed what I do alone.’

‘But you were thinking of moving on anyway,’ said Bartholomew, seeing all kinds of problems with Michael’s assumptions. ‘You were prepared to become Master of Michaelhouse last year, and it is only a matter of time before a suitably prestigious position comes and you take it. Then Walcote would have been appointed Senior Proctor automatically. Why should he feel the need to organise secret meetings to oust you when his promotion was inevitable?’

‘Perhaps he wanted the appointment now, not at some unspecified point in the future,’ said Michael. ‘He accused me of stealing from the Carmelites–’

‘But you did steal from the Carmelites,’ Bartholomew pointed out.

Michael ignored him. ‘–so I suppose it is possible that he was murdered by someone loyal to me. Everyone knows that I keep the University stable and prosperous, and it is not inconceivable that someone decided to rid me – and the University – of a potential problem.’

‘Then why did this well-wisher not simply tell you about these meetings of Walcote’s?’ pressed Bartholomew. ‘You are a man who knows how to look after himself, and you would not need to murder your Junior Proctor to stop him from spreading lies about you.’

Michael sighed. ‘You are tired, Matt. You did not sleep much last night, because of that business with Arbury. Things will look different in the morning, when you have rested.’

He settled himself more comfortably in Agatha’s chair, and within a few moments, both he and the cat were snoring comfortably. It was a cosy scene, and Bartholomew might have been amused had he not been so frustrated. He poked viciously at the fire, and then made for the door.

‘Wait, lad,’ came a voice from the shadows.

Bartholomew nearly leapt out of his skin at the close proximity of Cynric’s voice. ‘What are you doing here at this time of night?’ he asked, a little irritably. ‘You should be at home with Rachel.’

‘She has a chill from attending all the midnight vigils this week,’ said Cynric. ‘She has gone to bed with possets and blankets, and is snoring almost as loudly as Brother Michael. I came here for some peace; instead I find you two arguing.’

‘How long have you been here?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Did you hear what we were saying?’

‘I heard,’ said Cynric. ‘And I agree with Brother Michael. You only have nasty accusations, not evidence. If you accuse a man of murder, you may see him hang. Is that what you want, based on the information you have?’

‘That is why I want to search Timothy’s room,’ whispered Bartholomew, glancing back across at the sleeping Michael. ‘I am sure the essay will be there.’

‘So will Timothy, most likely,’ said Cynric. ‘It would be a risky thing to do.’

‘He will not be in his room all evening,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I will wait until he leaves.’

‘Then do it tomorrow,’ suggested Cynric. ‘It will be Saturday, and many people – especially monks – will be keeping the Easter Eve vigil. He will almost certainly be out then.’

Reluctantly, Bartholomew conceded that Cynric was right. He was restless and his head ached from tension and lack of sleep, but he felt he had to do something. He certainly did not feel like going to bed.

‘I am going to see Matilde,’ he said, reaching for his cloak. ‘I want to make sure she arrived home safe from St Radegund’s.’

‘She did,’ said Cynric. ‘I saw her at sunset. But if you feel like visiting her anyway, old Cynric will escort you to make sure you do not disregard his advice and make a detour to places you have no right to be.’

Bartholomew smiled, touched by his book-bearer’s concern, and headed towards the front gate. He told the student on guard duty that he was going to visit a patient, grateful that it was dark and that the boy would not see