An Order for Death (26 page)

Bartholomew pointed to the white leg that protruded
obscenely from the dirty hole. ‘How can I tell that from a foot, Brother? I need to look at the whole body.’

‘Hurry up, then,’ ordered Michael, oblivious or uncaring of the weary look Bartholomew shot him. ‘If Kyrkeby has been murdered,
I want to know as soon as possible.’ The expression on his face made it clear that he would start looking for suspects among
the Carmelites.

‘But why would any of
us
kill him?’ asked Lincolne, in what Bartholomew imagined he thought were reasonable tones.

‘Because someone murdered Faricius, and many of you believe that a Dominican was responsible,’ replied Michael promptly. ‘Or
perhaps because one of you caught him trespassing on Carmelite property, and decided to kill him before he reported to his
Prior all that he had learned from his illicit visit.’

‘What could he report, Brother?’ asked Lincolne in the same measured voice. ‘You are assuming that we have something to hide.
We do not.’

‘But you do,’ Michael pointed out. ‘For a start, your students had very successfully hidden the fact that Faricius was writing
an essay in defence of nominalism.’

‘No!’ objected Lincolne. ‘That was different—’

‘It was not,’ interrupted Michael brusquely. ‘And secondly, you have only just been told about this tunnel that is supposed
to have been here for years. Perhaps Kyrkeby found it, and someone was afraid that if he told his brother Dominicans, you
Carmelites would be vulnerable to attack.’

‘None of my students would kill for such paltry reasons,’ said Lincolne, although he continued to glance uneasily at his charges.

‘No?’ asked Michael. ‘Then perhaps there are other reasons why someone here would want Kyrkeby dead. I have just seen two
nasty secrets surface in the last few moments – three if we can count the presence of an extra corpse in the tomb of the illustrious
Humphrey de Lecton – so perhaps there are yet more for me to uncover.’

Lincolne was finally silent.

‘I really cannot move him,’ said Bartholomew, in the brief lull in the accusations and counter-accusations. ‘I cannot seem
to get a good grip. His skin is too slippery.’

‘We did not kill him,’ said Horneby, taking up the defence of his Order where his Prior had left off. Neither he nor anyone
else took any notice of Bartholomew, more interested in convincing Michael of their innocence than in retrieving the body
that lay in the hole. ‘We have no idea how he came to be here. I swear it.’

‘And who do you mean by “we” exactly?’ asked Michael archly. ‘You Carmelites have at least thirty student-friars. Do you speak
for them all? What about the masters? How can you know that no one has taken matters into his own hands and avenged Faricius
by killing a Dominican?’

Horneby shook his head slowly. ‘How can we have killed him? We have all been confined to the convent since Faricius was murdered.
No one has left except to go to church, and then Prior Lincolne was watching us.’

‘That is true,’ said Lincolne.

‘No,’ said Timothy softly. ‘That is not true. Horneby just told us that he and Simon Lynne went to look for Faricius’s essay
in the Church of St John Zachary on Monday. Obviously that was
after
Faricius had died, and so Horneby is lying when he says no one went out.’

‘And we saw a whole pack of you lurking outside the Dominican Friary on Sunday intent on mischief,’ Bartholomew pointed out.
‘We followed you home, remember?’

Michael indicated the tunnel. ‘Anyone could have slipped through this whenever he liked. You cannot prove otherwise.’

‘However, no one would have been using it as long as Kyrkeby was here,’ said Bartholomew, turning his attention back to the
body. ‘He is blocking it completely. And he will remain blocking it unless someone helps me. I cannot move him on my own.’

‘A visit to St John Zachary counts as going to church,’ said Horneby insolently. ‘We just made a slight detour for a few moments
to check Faricius’s hiding place.’

‘And what about your sally to the Dominican Friary?’ asked Michael coolly. ‘Does that count as going to church, too?’

Horneby sneered. ‘We were only there for a short while.

It was not worth mentioning.’

‘I will help you, Matthew,’ said Timothy, crouching next to Bartholomew and reaching into the hole to grab a handful of Kyrkeby’s
habit. His face was pale and his hands unsteady, and the physician saw yet again that dealing with corpses would not be part
of a Junior Proctor’s obligations that Timothy would enjoy.

‘It is all right,’ said Bartholomew, not wanting Timothy to do something that so obviously unsettled him. ‘I can probably
manage.’

Timothy gave a wan smile. ‘You cannot. And no one else seems willing to assist.’

‘When was the last time any of you used the tunnel?’ asked Michael, glancing briefly at Bartholomew’s struggle with Kyrkeby
before returning to the more interesting matter of interrogating the Carmelites.

‘Last Saturday,’ replied Horneby immediately. ‘It was used just before the riot in which those evil Dominicans murdered Faricius.’

‘Horneby, Horneby,’ said Lincolne, pretending to be shocked by his student’s accusation, even though he had made the same
ones several times himself. ‘That attitude will get us nowhere. What will Brother Michael think when he hears words like that?’

‘He will think that you decided to avenge Faricius’s death and kill yourself a Dominican,’ said Michael flatly. ‘Even the
most dull-witted of you must see that this is how it appears. And this sudden display of quiet reason does you no good, Prior
Lincolne. Until a few moments ago, you, too, were claiming that Dominicans murdered Faricius.’

‘That was then,’ said Lincolne, unabashed. ‘We were the wronged party. But now it will look as though we took justice into
our own hands, and I can assure you we did not. If we are not careful, the Dominicans will march on us again, and more people
might die.’ He looked alarmed as a sudden thought crossed his mind. ‘And they may even damage the friary!’

‘Then we shall have to ensure that both Orders behave themselves,’ said Michael. ‘You are not the only one who does not want
more bloodshed.’

‘The Dominicans will not be so amenable,’ said Lincolne bitterly. ‘They will deny murdering Faricius and demand another death
to pay for Kyrkeby. They may even secure the help of the Austin canons and the Benedictines, who seem to be on friendly terms
with them at the moment.’

‘But then we will call upon the Franciscans and the Gilbertines, who are not,’ said Horneby defiantly. ‘We can raise an army
that will match the one any Dominicans can muster.’

Bartholomew glanced up in alarm as Horneby’s friends began to voice their agreement in voices that were a combination of fearful
and defensive. Michael watched the proceedings with his arms folded and an expression of distaste on his face. Timothy abandoned
his attempts to help Bartholomew extract Kyrkeby, and stood, brushing the dirt from his hands.

‘Have any of you heard of the Ten Commandments?’ he asked, his quiet question cutting across the babble that was centred around
Horneby.

Lincolne regarded him uncertainly. ‘What have they to do with any of this?’

‘Just the fact that one of them forbids killing,’ said Timothy. ‘You are men of God, and yet here you are discussing how to
raise armies to attack your rival Orders. You should be ashamed of yourselves. You are supposed to be setting a good example
to the townsfolk, not demonstrating how to form armies and instigate street fights.’

‘The Dominicans started it,’ began Horneby hotly.

‘You do not know that for certain,’ said Michael. ‘And we will have no more of this talk of fighting. Is that clear?’

He glowered at each and every one of them until he was satisfied that they had acquiesced to his demand. Then he took a deep
breath and resumed his questioning.

‘Now, we were discussing Kyrkeby’s death. I had just asked when the tunnel was last used. Horneby informed me with great conviction
that no one has used the tunnel since Saturday. However, before that he admitted to using it with Lynne – on Monday – to see
whether he could find Faricius’s essay. So, I will have the truth, if you please. When did anyone last use the tunnel?’

Horneby flushed a deep red, and had the grace to appear sheepish. ‘Lynne and I did use it on Monday night,’ he said in a low
whisper. ‘But no one has used it since. I am sure of it.’

‘Very well,’ said Michael. ‘The next question that springs to mind is why are you so sure?’

‘Two very good reasons,’ said Horneby. ‘First, none of us wanted to be caught by the proctors, who we knew were keeping an
eye on it. And second, none of us have had any desire to be out on streets teeming with hostile Dominicans.’

‘How do you know that applies to everyone here?’ pressed Michael. ‘Can you account for the movements of thirty students every
single moment of the last few days?’

No one could answer him, although Lincolne blustered that his students should be given the benefit of the doubt, conveniently
forgetting that they had lied to him as well as to Michael.

‘Damn!’ muttered Bartholomew, as the habit he was tugging on ripped in his hands. ‘This is impossible. We need a spade.’

‘A spade?’ asked Lincolne, horrified. ‘Are you suggesting that we excavate poor Humphrey de Lecton’s grave?’

‘Do you have any other suggestions?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Kyrkeby’s body is wedged very firmly inside it. I cannot work
out whether someone rammed him down there with such force that he is stuck, or whether the tunnel has suffered some sort
of collapse.’

‘I do not see why it should have collapsed if it has been here since 1290,’ said Michael. ‘I think it would be a peculiar
coincidence if it stood whole and safe for so long, and only fell the moment a Dominican set foot in it.’

‘It is Humphrey de Lecton protecting us,’ said Horneby suddenly, his voice low and awed. ‘He saw that we were about to be
invaded by a Dominican, and he caused the tunnel roof to collapse in order to save us!’

The Carmelites crossed themselves as Horneby made his pronouncement, and one or two of them dropped to their knees in a gesture
of reverence. It was almost dark, and the curfew bells were beginning to toll, lending the graveyard an eerie atmosphere.
Among the student-friars, a growing murmur that featured the word ‘miracle’ could be heard.

‘Oh, Lord, Matt!’ breathed Michael wearily. ‘This situation is going from bad to worse. As soon as I prevent them from following
one wild belief, they simply come up with another. I always knew friars were not of the same intellectual calibre as monks,
but this is ridiculous!’

‘We need to nip this one in the bud fairly quickly,’ said Timothy urgently. ‘The Dominicans will not sit by quietly while
the Carmelites claim one of them was killed by divine intervention.’

‘Let us not jump to rash conclusions,’ said Michael loudly, silencing the reverent whispers that filled the dark graveyard.
‘As my colleague said, the body is stuck. There is nothing mysterious about a body stuck in a hole.’

‘Humphrey de Lecton saw this wicked man about to invade our sacred grounds and he struck him dead,’ proclaimed Horneby, the
light of religious fervour already burning in his eyes.

‘No,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘That is not what happened. You can see for yourself that Kyrkeby’s feet are
pointing this way. That means that he was
leaving
here, not coming to attack.’

‘He may have come feet first,’ said Horneby stubbornly.

‘The tunnel curves upwards,’ said Bartholomew. ‘No one goes up a tunnel feet first. It would be virtually impossible, not
to mention uncomfortable. Where is that spade?’

One of the students handed him one of the heaviest and bluntest tools Bartholomew had ever seen. It possessed a wooden handle
so worn that it was as smooth as new metal, and the rivets that held the iron blade were loose and wobbled disconcertingly
when he leaned on it. He scratched away some of the muddy earth, then took hold of the cold, white foot to pull again.

‘Have there been collapses of the tunnel before?’ asked Michael of Horneby, watching Bartholomew strain and pant with the
effort.

Horneby shook his head. ‘Not that I know of. It is made of clay, and clay never collapses.’

‘Do not speak nonsense,’ snapped Michael irritably. ‘Clay subsides just as readily as any other soil.’ He saw Bartholomew
lose his grip on the foot again, and the body slid back into its premature tomb. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake! Let me do it.’

He elbowed Bartholomew aside, and began hauling and tugging on the foot for all he was worth. His sizeable girth gave the
impression that he was flabby and weak, but Michael was actually a very strong man. Everyone winced when a loud crack indicated
a broken bone, and Bartholomew stopped him before his impatience resulted in the removal of Kyrkeby’s foot. He did not want
claims of mutilation to accompany the accusations of murder that were sure to follow. He lay on his stomach and applied the
spade with a little more vigour, digging while Timothy held the damaged leg. And then Bartholomew felt something give.

‘He is coming out,’ he gasped, digging harder. ‘Pull!’

In a shower of pebbles and liquid mud, the Dominican Precentor shot from the earth, landing on Timothy, who
was not quick enough to move out of the way. Revolted, the Junior Proctor scrambled away, leaving Kyrkeby lying in a dishevelled
heap on the ground. Bartholomew knelt next to the corpse, wiping sweat from his eyes with the sleeve of his tabard, while
Timothy hastily retreated behind Humphrey de Lecton’s tomb, where Bartholomew was certain he was being sick.

The body was filthy, and the physician could barely make out the features of the face, even when one of the students obligingly
held a lamp closer. Kyrkeby’s head was loose, and rolled at an unnatural angle, while a brownish-red mess on the back of his
skull indicated he had received a crushing blow there at some point.

‘Well?’ asked Michael, standing with his hands on his hips. ‘You said we would know more when you had a whole body to inspect.
You have a whole body, so what can you tell me?’