An Order for Death (12 page)

‘How do you know Walcote was killed by a scholar, and not a townsperson?’ asked Bartholomew curiously.

Orwelle regarded him as though he were insane. ‘Of course it was a scholar. The townsfolk have nothing against the proctors
– quite the opposite, in fact, because it is the proctors who punish students for misbehaving. We
like
the proctors.’

‘Sheriff Tulyet said Walcote was hanged from the walls of the Dominican Friary,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Is that true? It is a
very public place.’

‘He was around the side,’ explained Orwelle. ‘The front would have been a public place, but Walcote was hanging from a drainage
pipe that juts out from the north wall. A line of trees conceals it from the road.’

‘How did you find him, then?’ asked Bartholomew.

Orwelle looked shifty. ‘Do not tell the Sheriff, but I slipped home for a cup of hot ale halfway through my patrol – it was
a horrible night, with all that wind and rain. I live near the Dominican Friary, and there is a shortcut along the wall that
I always take. I doubt anyone else uses it after dark, and it was lucky I found Walcote when I did, or he would have been
there until this morning.’

‘But he was dead when you found him?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘There were no signs of life?’

‘None,’ said Orwelle. ‘And I have attended enough hangings at the Castle to be able to tell right enough. He was stone cold,
too, so he had been hanging there some time before I came across him.’

‘What time did you find him?’

‘When the bells chimed for compline,’ replied Orwelle. ‘You and Brother Michael had left to go to Trumpington for the evening,
and I suppose it was a couple of hours after that. Whoever killed him must have done so just after dusk – any earlier, and
someone else would have found him; later, and he would have been warm.’

‘Was there anything at all that might help Michael catch the culprit?’ asked Bartholomew.

Orwelle shook his head. ‘The good Brother has already asked me all this. There was nothing. I cut Walcote down, to make certain
he was not still living, then I ran to the gatehouse for help.’

‘And what about the trouble between the Austins and the Franciscans?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Did they fight all night?’

‘The Franciscans went home when it became clear the rain was not going to stop that evening. They do not dislike the Austins
enough to endure a drenching. By the time the Sheriff arrived with Brother Michael, the Franciscans and the Austins were tucked
up in their own beds.’

‘Good,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I was expecting to hear that there had been a riot.’

‘There is unrest because the University is only teaching
in the mornings this week,’ said Orwelle knowledgeably. ‘The scholars are bored – they do not know what to do with free afternoons,
and so spend them looking for trouble. It is a good thing Lent is almost over.’

‘It is,’ said Bartholomew, hoping the problems would be resolved when lectures returned to normal after Easter.

Orwelle suddenly sniffed the air. ‘What is that dreadful stench? Is there a whore among the crowd waiting to come in?’

‘Not that I can see,’ replied Bartholomew, hoping Orwelle would not associate the powerful smell with Richard’s carefully
greased hair. The physician moved backward as Richard’s horse grew restless at the enforced delay.

‘Make sure you keep that thing under control,’ Orwelle instructed Bartholomew, eyeing the animal distrustfully. ‘We do not
want it stampeding around the town, upsetting carts and knocking people down.’

Bartholomew raised his hands, palms upward. ‘It has nothing to do with me. Tell Richard.’

‘Oswald Stanmore’s boy?’ asked Orwelle, peering up at the fine figure who sat on his horse with the bandage still around his
nose and mouth. The old soldier gave a sudden beam of delight. ‘You and my Tom used to go fishing together. You remember him.’

Richard gazed coolly at the sergeant. ‘Actually, I do not. And I prefer not to dwell on such unsavoury matters as fishing
in dirty water.’

Orwelle’s honest face crunched into a puzzled frown. ‘Of course you remember my Tom. It was just before the Death. You and
him used to sit together on the river bank, and catch minnows.’

‘I do not think so,’ said Richard, spurring his horse through the gate and into the town beyond.

Shooting an apologetic grin at Orwelle, Bartholomew rode after him, balling his fists so he would not be tempted to knock
his nephew from his fine saddle.

‘What are you thinking of?’ he demanded when he had
caught up, snatching the reins from Richard’s hands to make him stop. ‘You could have acknowledged Tom Orwelle’s father.
You and Tom were friends once.’

‘I cannot afford to be seen cavorting with the sons of common soldiers,’ Richard flashed back. ‘I have an impression to make
on this town. I hardly think people will want to employ me if they see me discussing old times with peasants.’

‘You need not be concerned,’ said Bartholomew, disgusted. ‘Tom Orwelle died of the plague. His father only wanted a kind word
from you about him – the sharing of a fond memory. You have changed, Richard, and I do not like what you have become.’

Richard’s jaw dropped. ‘But I …’ he began.

It was too late. Bartholomew was already riding away up the High Street towards Michaelhouse, leaving his nephew stuttering
an unheard apology.

Still angry, Bartholomew rode past the recently founded College of Corpus Christi and the Blessed Virgin Mary, or Bene’t College
as it was known to most people because it stood next to St Bene’t’s Church. Work still continued on the College, which seemed
to grow larger every time Bartholomew passed it. It already had two courtyards and a handsome hall building, and was being
furnished with more accommodation wings and a substantial kitchen block.

The church was an ancient monument with a square, almost windowless tower that many people believed had been built before
William the Conqueror had claimed the English throne in 1066. It was set in a grassy graveyard, and its amber stones were
shaded by yew trees. Diagonally opposite it was the Brazen George, a large tavern known for good food and clear ale, which
was a favourite of Michael’s. Rows of town houses followed, some grand and well maintained, like the one belonging to the
locksmith and his family, and some in sore need of a new roof and a coat of paint, like the one where Beadle Meadowman lived.

Beyond that, the great golden mass of St Mary’s Church rose out of the filth of the High Street. Its new chancel gleamed bright
and clean, elegant tracery reaching for the sky like stone lace. Its tower was a sturdy mass topped by four neat turrets that
could be seen from many miles away. In a room below the bells was a great chest in which the University stored its most precious
documents. To many, the sumptuous church represented all they did not like about the University, and the building was often
the target of resentful townspeople.

A short distance from St Mary’s was St Michael’s, a church that had been specially rebuilt by Michaelhouse’s founder Hervey
de Stanton to be used by the scholars of the College he had established. Next to the dazzling splendour of St Mary’s, with
its Barnack stone and intricate tracery, St Michael’s was squat and grey. It had a low tower, barely taller than the nave,
and tiny porches to the north and south. Its chancel was almost as large as its nave, a deliberate feature on Stanton’s part,
because he intended Michaelhouse’s scholars to pray in the chancel, while any congregation or members of other Colleges or
hostels would use the nave.

Bartholomew considered St Michael’s chancel one of the finest in Cambridge. Its tracery lacked the delicate quality of St
Mary’s, but possessed a clean simplicity that Bartholomew loved. The great east window allowed the early morning light to
flood in, although for much of the day the church was dark and intimate. A tiny extension to the south was called the Stanton
Chapel, and housed the tomb of Stanton himself. Other tombs and monuments lay in peaceful silence among the shadows, with
still figures in stone gazing heavenwards, occasionally lit by the odd beam of dusty sunlight.

Just to the left was St Michael’s Lane, a muddy track that led down to the wharfs on the river. On the corner was the handsome
red-roofed Gonville Hall, where scholars were already gathering in the street to process to St Mary’s, to celebrate the beginning
of a new day with a mass. Some of
them nodded to Bartholomew as he passed. Usually, members of different Colleges tended to regard each other with hostility,
but Master Langelee of Michaelhouse had recently sold Gonville Hall a piece of property for a very reasonable price, and the
scholars of Gonville and Michaelhouse had established a truce. Bartholomew was grateful that at least some factions within
the University were not at each other’s throats.

The horse slowed when it was faced with the muck of St Michael’s Lane, picking its way carefully and skilfully around the
larger potholes and piles of rubbish. The walls of Gonville loomed to Bartholomew’s left as he turned down the small runnel,
appropriately named Foule Lane, on which the mighty front gate of Michaelhouse stood. He hammered on the door, and was admitted
by a porter who took the horse, grumbling about the amount of mud that clung to the animal, which would have to be cleaned
off.

Michaelhouse’s scholars were already assembling in the yard to process to the mass at St Michael’s, most of them yawning and
still rubbing the sleep from their eyes. At their head was Master Langelee, a large, heavy man with no neck, who had decided
to become a scholar because life as a spy for the Archbishop of York was not sufficiently exciting. Given that his predecessor
had been murdered after attempting to oust Langelee himself from his Fellowship because of an annulled marriage, he had probably
been right.

Langelee called an affable greeting to Bartholomew, then strode briskly along the line of scholars to ensure they were sufficiently
smart to represent Michaelhouse on the streets of Cambridge. Bartholomew did not much like the burly philosopher, whose belligerence
and single-mindedness also made him unpopular with the students, but he had to admit that standards had risen since Langelee
had assumed the Mastership. Michaelhouse scholars were inspected each morning, and any student whose tabard was not clean
and tidy and whose shoes did not shine to Langelee’s satisfaction
was fined fourpence. Scholars who could not afford or declined to pay were put to work as copyists, to add to Michaelhouse’s
expanding library.

It was not only outward appearances that had improved. Lectures always started on time, and meals were served promptly. Previously,
evenings had been free for the students, but Langelee had initiated a series of discussion sessions that the Fellows took
it in turn to lead. The students were obliged to attend at least four each week, and Langelee kept a careful record of anyone
who absented himself without permission. The topics were usually light-hearted ones, such as whether worms when cut in half
were two animals or one, or whether ale tasted better in the morning or the evening, but nevertheless were valuable practice
for the more serious disputations that were a major part of academic life. As long as Langelee did not take part in the discussions
himself – he was not possessed of the sharpest mind in the University, and even the rawest, most inexperienced student invariably
bested him – Bartholomew felt the students were benefiting enormously. There was also the fact that their busy schedules allowed
very little time for causing mischief in the town. It had been many months since the proctors had paid a visit to Michaelhouse
in pursuit of a student who had misbehaved.

The Michaelhouse Fellows were already waiting in their places at the front of the procession. The fanatical Franciscan Father
William was first, nodding approvingly as Langelee berated one student for having hair that was too long. William’s habit
was easily the filthiest garment in Michaelhouse, but even Langelee’s heavy-handed hints could not induce the friar to wash
it. Like all Franciscans’ robes, the habit was grey, but William’s was so dark that he was occasionally mistaken for a Dominican.
William detested the Black Friars, and Bartholomew found it extraordinary that he would risk being misidentified just because
he had an aversion to hygiene.

Standing next to William, and already muttering prayers
that would prepare him spiritually for the mass that was to come, was the gentle Gilbertine Thomas Kenyngham. Kenyngham had
performed the duties of Master for several years, and had been a kindly and tolerant leader. However, Bartholomew was rapidly
coming around to the opinion that the students fared better under the sterner hand of Langelee, although he was amazed to
find it so.

Michael waited next to them, the dark rings under his eyes indicating that the previous night had not been an easy one for
him. He gave Bartholomew a wan smile as the physician stepped into his place.

Behind Michael were the newest Fellows. The Dominican Clippesby stood with the Carmelite friar, Thomas Suttone. Clippesby
was talking in loving tones to a dead frog he had somehow acquired, and Suttone was trying to wrest it away from him before
Langelee saw it. Langelee was not particularly tolerant of the Dominican’s idiosyncrasies, mostly because he did not know
how to respond to them.

Suttone was a long, bony man with short white hair that contrasted oddly with Clippesby’s wild locks. He had some of the largest
teeth that Bartholomew had ever seen in a person, and was a sombre individual, wholly devoid of humour. He was not an unkind
man, but his unsmiling demeanour did not make him popular with his colleagues. Even the dour, uncompromising William was not
serious all the time, and enjoyed a little light-hearted banter of an evening, especially if it were at the expense of the
Dominicans.

Suttone and Clippesby began a covert push–pull competition over the frog, determination to possess it clearly written in the
features of both. Bartholomew and Michael watched the tussle warily, hoping that Clippesby would not have one of his tantrums
if Suttone were the victor, because when Langelee locked Clippesby in his room ‘for his own safety’ the other Fellows were
obliged to take over his teaching responsibilities. The struggle, however, ended abruptly when the frog broke in two. Clippesby
regarded
his part in surprise, and then generously presented it to Suttone, whispering that there was little anyone could do with
half a frog and that Suttone should take both bits. Michael snorted with laughter as Clippesby clasped his hands in front
of him in genuine innocence, while Suttone was left holding a mess of spilled entrails that he was unable to explain to the
disgusted Langelee.