feel the need to suggest it, I know I should lay a blanket across the bottom of the door to hide the light from any restless Benedictines who happen to be passing, too.’
‘Good thinking,’ said Cynric, impressed. ‘I can see I taught you well after all.’
Bartholomew scrambled inelegantly on to the crate, wincing when his hands touched something soft that stank, and then heaved himself on to the kitchen roof. Using his knife, he then prised open the hall window. Cynric indicated that he should enter, and made a sign that he would keep watch by the entrance of the alleyway. Bartholomew was horrified.
‘Are you not coming with me?’
‘It is you who wants to raid a Benedictine’s chamber, lad,’ whispered Cynric hoarsely. ‘Not me. I will hoot like an owl if I hear anything. Good luck and do not be long.’
He had slipped soundlessly down the runnel before Bartholomew could suggest that Cynric did the burgling while Bartholomew kept watch. The Welshman was far better at such things, and the physician felt sure he would have the document in a trice and then they could both go back to Michaelhouse to tell Michael what they had done. Bartholomew gazed at the open window with trepidation, took a deep breath to steady his pounding heart, and started to climb through it. Feeling as though the Benedictines who were asleep in the adjoining chambers would have to be deaf not to hear the racket he was making, he clambered on to the landing, then stood still for a few moments, straining his ears for any sound that might indicate he had been heard. Opposite, Janius’s room was still and silent.
Bartholomew groped his way along the darkened corridor. He located the door to Timothy’s chamber with his outstretched hands, and listened for a few moments before carefully lifting the latch and stepping inside.
He recalled that a candle had been set on the table near the window, and reached out cautiously until he encountered wood. He located the candle and withdrew the tinder he carried tucked in his shirt, blinking as a dim light filled the room. Before he forgot, he took a blanket from the bed and dropped it against the door. And then he looked around.
For a moment, when he saw the neat room with its plain wooden cross nailed to the wall, he thought he had been gravely mistaken and that his invasion of Timothy’s privacy had been unwarranted, but then he saw that the blanket he had used to block the door was no blanket at all; it was a heavy black cloak. He poked at it, noting that it had been freshly laundered. Yolande had been telling the truth, and the grey cloak that Timothy had worn had nothing to do with her washing of it. Bartholomew glanced at the row of hooks on one of the walls. A grey cloak hung there. He inspected the inside of the collar, where the tailor had sewn a small mark that indicated it had been made for the Franciscan Order. It was Pechem’s.
He took a deep breath. Finding the cloak was good, but it was not conclusive evidence of Timothy’s guilt. What he needed to find was the essay that seemed to have been the cause of so many deaths. He began to search, resisting the temptation to ransack blindly, and forcing himself to be methodical. Timothy had gone to considerable trouble to gain possession of the text, and would hardly leave it lying around somewhere obvious.
Wax dripped as he began to inspect the floorboards, knowing such places were popular as hiding places. Sure enough, there was a loose plank, and Bartholomew prised it up quickly. In the small cavity below was a dirty scrip, stained with blood. Bartholomew was in no doubt that it had belonged to Faricius. He dug deeper, and emerged with a second purse, this one in immaculate condition and decorated with flowers and butterflies, consistent with the one of Kyrkeby’s that Ringstead had described.
A noise from the hall made him freeze in alarm. Brother Adam began to cough, loudly and desperately, and it sounded as though he could not catch his breath. Thumping footsteps on the stairs and on the landing outside suggested that the brothers were panicking, not knowing how to help the old man, despite the fact that they had watched Bartholomew prepare soothing balsams for him at least twice and he had even written the instructions down for them.
The coughing grew worse, and Bartholomew was in an agony of indecision. The physician in him longed to throw open the door and go to the old monk’s aid, knowing that he could ease the problem within moments. But then he would have revealed himself, and he would never have another opportunity to search the room of the man he was certain was a killer.
‘Brother Timothy has it, I believe,’ came the voice of one of the monks, edged with fear. ‘Shall I see if I can find it?’
Bartholomew’s heart leapt into his mouth as the latch on Timothy’s door began to rise. Quickly, he pinched out the candle, and was only just under the table when Brother Janius burst in holding a lamp. Bartholomew held his breath when the skirts of Janius’s habit swung so close to his face that he could make out the individual fibres in the cloth. The monk then rummaged among documents on the very table under which Bartholomew crouched.
‘Here we are,’ Janius said suddenly, and Bartholomew heard the rustle of parchment. ‘I knew it was Timothy who had taken Bartholomew’s instructions.’
He left as abruptly as he had entered, leaving the room in darkness. Bartholomew released a shuddering breath, and tried to quell the fluttering in his stomach. He heard more footsteps pounding on the stairs as hot water was fetched, and there was a clank as someone produced a metal bowl in which to mix the herbs and water so that Adam could inhale the steam. The frightened rasp of Adam’s laboured breathing began to ease.
Bartholomew began to relax, too, and was considering resuming his search when he realised that Janius must have noticed the cloak that lay across the bottom of the door. Would he assume it had fallen there? But it was fairly obvious that the garment had been placed in position by someone inside the room, and that it had not coincidentally fallen in such a way as to block light. With a surge of panic, Bartholomew scrambled out from under the table, half expecting Janius to burst into the chamber and catch him red-handed.
He glanced at the ambry in the far corner, not knowing whether to risk a few more moments to complete his search, or whether to count his blessings and leave while he still could. Instincts of self-preservation urged him to go, but he knew he would never have such a chance again – Timothy would know someone had been in his room because there was candle wax all over the floor, and Bartholomew intended to take the two purses he had recovered to Michael. If Bartholomew did not find the essay first, Timothy would move it elsewhere, and it would never be found. Reluctantly, he made his decision and turned towards the ambry, fumbling with the latch. It was entirely the wrong thing to have done. The door burst open and a sudden light flooded the room.
‘Is this what you were hoping to find, Matthew?’ asked Janius pleasantly, holding aloft a sheaf of parchment. ‘Here is Faricius’s essay. I assume that is what you were looking for?’
Timothy closed the door behind them, a hefty broadsword in one hand. ‘Do not even think of howling for help, Doctor. If you so much as try, I will kill you.’
For several moments, Bartholomew was too shocked to speak. He looked from the pile of parchments that Janius held, to Timothy’s amiable face with its ready smile. Behind Timothy, Janius’s blue eyes, which usually gleamed with the light of religious fervour, now seemed cold and sinister.
‘How did you know I was here?’ asked Bartholomew, trying to keep his voice steady and not to look at the monstrous sword that Timothy brandished with practised ease.
Janius continued to grin. ‘We expected you yesterday, but we knew you would come sooner or later. We have been waiting.’
‘But how did you know?’ asked Bartholomew again.
‘We met Simon Lynne strolling along the High Street last night,’ said Janius. ‘He was under the impression that he was safe, but he told us all about your suspicions before we killed him and hid him in the tunnel so conveniently vacated by Kyrkeby. It was a squeeze, given that the thing has collapsed, but it will do for now.’
Bartholomew gazed at him. The intense blue gaze was just as sincere when he talked about murder, as it had been when he had talked about his God. The physician tried to suppress a shudder.
‘I see you found my well-laundered black cloak,’ said Timothy, nodding at the garment that lay on the floor.
‘I found the grey one you stole from Pechem, too,’ said Bartholomew.
‘And the scrips that belonged to Kyrkeby and Faricius,’ said Janius, looking at the two purses that lay on the table. ‘Timothy took them, so that Michael would believe that some passing outlaw was at work, murdering men for the contents of their purses. It would have worked, if you had not insisted on looking for other motives.’
‘You took Walcote’s scrip and left it near Barnwell Priory for Sergeant Orwelle to find,’ said Bartholomew,
