An Order for Death

looking hard at Janius. ‘You had it in the basket you claimed was filled with food for the lepers. But the lepers received no food from you that day – or any other day this Lent.’

‘We have been feeding the riverfolk,’ said Janius, offended that his good works were being questioned. ‘We cannot provide for the whole town, and it has been a hard winter, even for us.’

‘You took Faricius’s essay from Paul yesterday,’ said Bartholomew, more bravely than he felt. ‘But only after you raided the Dominicans, Michaelhouse and the Barnwell Priory to look for it. You stole a glove when you burgled the Dominican Friary, and left it at Michaelhouse, so that we would accuse Morden of the crime.’

‘I was surprised you fell for that,’ said Janius, exchanging an amused glance with Timothy. ‘You must have seen that neither of us was small enough to be Morden when you tussled with us. Why did you allow Michael to believe it?’

‘He believed it because of the way the other glove dropped from the rafter when Michael slammed open Morden’s door,’ said Timothy gloatingly. ‘I flung it up there in the hope that Michael would see it “hidden”, but when it fell to the ground so conveniently – as if God Himself wanted you to see it – it made Morden appear more guilty than ever.’

‘Janius spoke to Father Paul,’ said Bartholomew, more interested in the raid on the Franciscan Friary than in how Timothy had laid false evidence against Morden. He watched Timothy test the blade of his sword with his thumb. It came away smeared with blood, indicating that it was very sharp. ‘Timothy kept silent, because he knew Paul would recognise his voice, while Janius demanded the essay.’

Janius inclined his head to indicate that Bartholomew had guessed correctly. ‘Obviously Paul could not see us, but we know his powers of observation are greater than those of many sighted men. We acted accordingly. As long as I never have cause to speak to him, he will never know our paths have crossed.’

‘If you spared Paul, why did you kill Arbury?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering whether he could shout and still evade the wicked blade Timothy wielded. He realised it would be hopeless. Timothy had been a soldier, and it had probably not been an empty boast when he promised to run Bartholomew through if he called for help. ‘There was no need to murder the lad.’

‘He recognised me,’ explained Timothy. ‘He addressed me by name, and politely offered to extract Michael from Langelee’s chamber, even though I had my hood pulled well over my eyes. We had a choice: we could abandon the notion of searching Michael’s room and fabricate some excuse as to why we were there, or we could continue with what we had planned.’

‘So, you chose the second option,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And you left Arbury to die.’

‘It was a pity,’ said Timothy. ‘But there is more at stake here than the life of a student.’

‘Such as what?’ demanded Bartholomew, realising that even if he did manage to shout for help before he died, the other monks would merely applaud Timothy for protecting them against someone who had just forced a window to gain entry to their hostel. ‘What is more important than human lives?’

‘The University,’ said Timothy immediately. ‘It transcends all of us. We will be dead within a few years – sooner in your case – but the University will still be here for centuries to come.’

‘Not if it has people like you in it,’ said Bartholomew, startled by the monk’s claim. ‘The King will not want a University that is in the control of murderers and thieves.’

‘You are wrong,’ said Janius smoothly. ‘He needs the University to produce educated men to be his lawyers, secretaries and spies. He will not care what we do as long as we continue to provide him with what he wants. But we had a Senior Proctor who gave away University property to promote his personal ambition, and a Junior Proctor who was weak and ineffectual.’

‘Had?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily. ‘Michael has not gone anywhere.’

‘Not yet,’ said Timothy. ‘But his days as Senior Proctor are numbered. I will take that position soon, and I shall appoint Janius as my deputy.’

‘Is that why you murdered Walcote?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Because you want to be proctors?’

‘Why do you think we killed Walcote?’ asked Janius, giving the impression that he was merely amusing himself at Bartholomew’s expense. Bartholomew wondered how he ever could have imagined that the monk was a good man, when the glint in his eyes was so patently cruel and cold.

Bartholomew spoke quickly, seeing that the longer he could engage their interest, the longer he would live, although a nagging fear at the back of his mind told him that he was merely delaying the inevitable. ‘Lynne said he heard Walcote shouting at Kyrkeby until he had a fatal seizure and died. Lynne also heard “beadles” reminding Walcote of his appointment as Junior Proctor, and urging him to force the truth about the stolen essay from Kyrkeby. No beadles would have done such a thing. The “beadles” were you.’

‘Quite right,’ said Janius patronisingly. ‘Walcote was going to let that murdering Kyrkeby go, and was quite willing to believe the lying scoundrel when he said he did not have the essay.’

‘And did he have it?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Of course he did,’ replied Janius scornfully. ‘When we pressed him, he admitted that he had been loitering around the Carmelite Friary, hoping to find one of Faricius’s friends, so that he could return it. He claimed he should not have stolen it, and wanted to give it back. Foolish man!’

‘This happened on Monday night,’ said Bartholomew. ‘By then, Chancellor Tynkell had decided to change the topic of Kyrkeby’s lecture, so Kyrkeby would not have needed Faricius’s essay anyway. He did not know it, but he killed Faricius for nothing.’

‘Walcote’s interrogation was pathetic,’ said Timothy in disgust. ‘Kyrkeby expected us to believe that he found Faricius already stabbed, and all he did was take his scrip.’

‘So, Kyrkeby handed Walcote the essay, but then his weak heart killed him,’ said Bartholomew. ‘What happened next?’

‘Walcote offered to distract patrolling beadles, so that Timothy and I could hide Kyrkeby’s corpse without being seen,’ said Janius resentfully. ‘We should never have trusted him. We were furious when we realised that he had taken the essay.’

‘So furious, that you broke Kyrkeby’s neck and smashed his skull when you hid the body?’

‘No,’ said Timothy. ‘That was not our fault. The tunnel collapsed on him.’

‘But why was Walcote prepared to hide Kyrkeby’s body in the first place?’ asked Bartholomew, puzzled. ‘Why not just say that Kyrkeby’s heart had failed?’

‘We told Walcote that he would hang for murder if he tried that,’ said Janius smugly. ‘We said we should dispose of the body, so he recommended using the tunnel he had discovered earlier. Timothy climbed through it, pulling the body behind him.’

‘I reached the other side, and was in the process of dragging Kyrkeby after me when the tunnel caved in,’ explained Timothy. ‘I suppose a combination of exceptionally wet weather and having a heavy object dragged through it caused it to collapse. Unfortunately, I then found myself on the wrong side of the Carmelite Friary walls.’

‘How did you escape?’ asked Bartholomew, glancing at the small window to assess whether he could hurl himself through it before Timothy reached him. He could not: it was too small and he knew Timothy would get him before he even turned.

‘Walcote obligingly fetched a rope from St Mary’s Church,’ said Timothy. ‘He always did what he was told. He threw it to me, and I was able to climb out.’

‘And, of course, it came in useful to hang him with,’ said Janius, chillingly cold.

‘I am confused,’ said Bartholomew, glancing at the door and realising that his chances of reaching it before Timothy acted were even less than an escape through the window. ‘You killed once to gain possession of the essay, and you killed again because you wanted rid of Walcote. Which was more important – obtaining the essay or being appointed as proctors?’

‘One led nicely to the other,’ said Timothy. ‘Faricius’s essay is a brilliant piece of logic that no one has yet seen, because his narrow-minded Order forced him to keep his ideas hidden. But now he is dead, there is no reason why Janius and I cannot take credit for them. Blind Paul obviously has not read the essay and Lynne is dead, so no one will ever be able to prove that Faricius wrote what we will claim as our work.’

‘It will make us rich,’ said Janius smugly, ‘and we will be able to use the wealth that will accrue to spread the word of God among disbelievers. If the world does not mend its wicked ways, the plague will come again. It is my intention to prevent that.’

‘And is that why you want to become proctors?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Because such positions of power will