An Order for Death (43 page)

Eve smiled enigmatically. ‘He came to visit his aunt,’ she repeated.

‘I want to know more about these meetings that Walcote arranged,’ said Michael, seeing that Eve was not prepared to be more
forthcoming about Lynne. ‘I want to know
exactly
how many of them there were, and I want to know
exactly
when they occurred.’

‘But I have told you all I know,’ said Eve with a sigh. ‘How many more times do you want me to say the same thing? Walcote
hired our chamber eight or nine times. I observed several men whom I thought I recognised and whose names I have already told
you. I do not know what they discussed, and I cannot recall specific dates.’

‘Dame Martyn did not tell the King’s Commissioners about the money Walcote gave her,’ supplied Tysilia helpfully. ‘She
did not want to give them any of it for tax, so she never wrote anything down in case they saw it.’

‘Thank you, Tysilia,’ said Eve coldly. ‘Now be quiet, and do your sewing.’

‘Can you recall just one date?’ pressed Michael, turning his attention back to Eve.

Eve shook her head. ‘Although I would not have mentioned it myself, Tysilia is right. We did not record the money Walcote
paid us, because we did not want to be penalised for it when the tax collectors come. Therefore we have no way to check dates
and times. All I know is that the second one was around late November, because we had been able to mend the roof – using gold
coins I grabbed from Master Runham’s icon. It was still leaking when he first came.’

‘And times?’ urged Michael. ‘How late?’

‘Well after dark, but not before matins. I suppose they were all some time between nine o’clock and midnight.’

‘And you never eavesdropped, to try to learn why the Junior Proctor and the heads of the religious Orders met here in the
middle of the night?’

Eve shook her head firmly. ‘What if I had been caught with my ear to the door? Walcote would not have used our room again,
and that money was very useful. Too much was at stake for me to risk it for mere curiosity.’

‘I listened,’ said Tysilia, beaming at them. She ignored Eve’s heavy sigh of exasperation at her orders for silence being
disobeyed. ‘I wanted to know when they would be finished, so that I could be ready for them when they came out.’

Bartholomew saw Matilde hiding her laughter by pretending to inspect her sewing at close range, so that it covered her face.

‘They chattered endlessly about whether things have names, and they talked about mending the Great Bridge, because Prior Lincolne
once fell through it,’ Tysilia went on. ‘He is a fat man, like you, Brother, and I expect he was too heavy for it.’

‘This is becoming intolerable,’ muttered Michael. ‘I am
not
fat.’

‘What else did you hear?’ asked Timothy, addressing her reluctantly.

‘Nothing. I was bored and went to bed,’ said Tysilia carelessly. ‘They were a lot of gasbags, repeating themselves and muttering
about tedious things. The only interesting one was that young man with the nice fingernails. But he only came to the last
meeting – the one that was held a day or two before Walcote died.’

‘And who might he be?’ asked Michael, trying to imagine which of the religious heads paid attention to his manicure. Neither
he nor Bartholomew recalled any of them as notably clean.

‘He has good calves and a handsome face,’ offered Tysilia.

‘That is not very helpful,’ said Michael. ‘How are we supposed to guess who came to these meetings based on the fact that
you found him attractive?’

‘Well, I suppose I could tell you his name,’ suggested Tysilia. ‘Would that help?’

‘For God’s sake, woman,’ snapped Michael, exasperated. ‘Tell us!’

‘His name is Richard Stanmore,’ said Tysilia, smiling her vacant smile.

‘What do you think, Matthew?’ asked Timothy as they left St Radegund’s Convent and started to walk along the causeway towards
Barnwell Priory, where Michael suggested they might find Lynne. ‘Is your nephew the kind of man to embroil himself in a plot
to kill Brother Michael the instant he arrives home?’

‘I have no idea,’ said Bartholomew bitterly. ‘I no longer know him. But when all is said and done, he loves his parents dearly,
and I cannot see him becoming involved in something that might hurt them – as his being implicated in a murder certainly would.
But I know that Tysilia is telling the truth when she says she knows him.’

‘She is?’ asked Michael, surprised. ‘How do you know?’

‘Because Richard had Matilde’s pendant,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘She mentioned last time that Tysilia had stolen it, and then
I recognised it when Richard pulled it from his pocket in the Cardinal’s Cap this morning. Tysilia must have given it to him.’

Michael nodded slowly. ‘You are doubtless right.’

Bartholomew sighed as a few more pieces of the puzzle came together. ‘I should have seen this before. Eve said she took Tysilia
to Bedford, to keep her occupied for a few days, and Bedford is between Oxford and Cambridge. We all know that travellers
gather in large parties when they take to the roads. It is obvious that Richard joined Tysilia’s group, and that is how they
met.’

‘Are you sure about this?’ asked Timothy uncertainly.

‘No,’ admitted Bartholomew. ‘But Eve told us Tysilia misbehaved on the homeward journey, which was about two weeks ago. Richard
arrived in Cambridge at about the same time.’

Michael thought for a moment, then said, ‘This means that Tysilia met Richard at least twice – once in Bedford and once when
he attended Walcote’s last meeting here. However, you treated Dame Martyn for drunkenness the morning after Walcote was killed,
and Tysilia was there. Surely you would have noticed had they recognised each other?’

‘Then there are two possibilities,’ said Bartholomew, after a moment of thought. ‘First, it may suggest that Tysilia and Richard
did not acknowledge their prior acquaintance for sinister reasons. Or, second, it may be because Richard wore a scarf over
his nose to mask the smell of pigs; Tysilia did not see his face and so did not recognise him.’

Timothy raised his eyebrows. ‘The first theory suggests she is your cunning demon; the second that she is even more lacking
in wits than I imagined.’

Michael frowned. ‘If Richard
had
tampered with her on their Bedford journey, he would not want Tysilia squealing
a delighted greeting in front of all those disapproving nuns. It would be in his interest to keep himself hidden.’

‘It sounded to me as though Richard had considerable knowledge of St Radegund’s,’ said Timothy thoughtfully. ‘This morning
he referred to the nuns as sirens, about whom he had heard rumours. I deduce that Tysilia is telling the truth, and that Richard
is more familiar with the convent than he wants us to know.’

‘But why would Richard be involved in these meetings?’ asked Bartholomew, not liking the notion of his nephew being involved
in the plot. ‘Everyone else was the head of a religious Order. Richard is certainly no cleric.’

‘No,’ said Michael. ‘But it seems he was involved in these meetings some way or another. We shall just have to leave it to
him to tell us why. And there is something else I want to know, too. Ever since he arrived, he has been showing off his new
clothes and his new horse. I want to know how he pays for all these things.’

‘The proceeds of crime,’ said Timothy darkly. ‘But I do not think his offences are related to Walcote’s murder. I remain certain
that the motive for
his
death was theft. Someone stole his purse, which was later recovered empty. What more evidence do you need?’

‘What about the meetings?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘A group of religious heads chatting about the Great Bridge and philosophy?’
countered Timothy dismissively. ‘How can such things result in murder?’

‘But Morden said they also discussed the plot to kill Michael,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And what about this alleged theft from
the Carmelite Friary? That was mooted, too. Perhaps Walcote was using it to discredit Michael so that
he
could be Senior Proctor instead.’

‘I do not believe that,’ said Michael immediately. ‘Walcote did not have sufficient presence to take on a man of my standing
in the University. Who do you think people would follow: a weak Austin, who is pleasant but ineffectual; or me,
who has been Senior Proctor for years and whom everyone likes and respects?’

‘I am not sure everyone would see the alternatives quite in those terms,’ said Timothy diplomatically. ‘They may have seen
it as a choice between a weak man, who could be manipulated to their advantage, or a man with known connections to Oxford,
who is planning to give away our property to further his own career.’

‘That is
not
why I am dealing with Heytesbury—’ began Michael angrily.

Timothy patted his arm reassuringly. ‘I am merely voicing an opinion that may be expressed by others. Your years as Senior
Proctor have not made you popular with everyone. You have made enemies as well as friends.’

Michael knocked at the gate of Barnwell Priory, and the three men were admitted by Nicholas, who was still ravaged by grief
for Walcote. His red-rimmed eyes indicated that he had been crying, and the dirt that was deeply impregnated in his skin and
under his fingernails showed that he had been engaged in manual labour in the gardens, perhaps to secure himself some privacy
and be alone with his unhappiness.

‘Just the person I wanted to see,’ said Michael, taking the man by his arm and leading him to a quiet corner. ‘I am no further
forward in catching Walcote’s killer. I know you two were close, and I want you to tell me anything – no matter how small
or insignificant it may seem – that may help us.’

‘I have told you all I know,’ said Nicholas miserably. ‘I have no idea what business Walcote was involved in, which is just
as well, given what happened last night.’

‘Why?’ demanded Michael. ‘What happened?’

‘Someone gained access to our grounds,’ explained Nicholas. ‘It must have been nearer to dawn than midnight, because our cockerel
had already started to stir. But it was still an hour or two before we were due to rise.’

Michael exchanged a significant glance with Bartholomew. Their own intruders had been busy during the first part of the night,
and now it seemed others had been in the Austin Priory near dawn. Were they the same people?

‘And?’ pressed Michael. ‘What did this intruder do?’

‘A lay-brother was stabbed,’ said Nicholas. ‘He is in the infirmary being cared for by Father Urban from the leper hospital.’

‘We will speak with this lay-brother,’ declared Michael, still holding Nicholas’s arm as he began to walk. ‘Take us to him.’

‘I am not sure whether you will be allowed into the infirmary,’ said Nicholas, alarmed by the way he was being steered in
a direction he did not want to go. ‘It is full of sick people.’

‘I will be admitted,’ said Michael confidently, dragging the unhappy Nicholas along with him as he made his way through the
church. ‘Now, tell me what this intruder did.’

‘He entered Prior Ralph’s solar, and ransacked the chest where we keep all our valuable documents,’ said Nicholas. ‘And then
he left.’

‘Was anything stolen?’ asked Bartholomew.

Nicholas shrugged. ‘Prior Ralph says not. But although we own land, we are not really wealthy and we do not have much gold
and silver for thieves to take.’

‘What about documents?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Were any scrolls or parchments stolen?’

Nicholas shrugged again. ‘You must address that sort of question to the Prior. I am only a lowly canon, and I have no idea
what documents were stored in the chest.’

‘Have you learned anything more about the meetings Walcote organised?’ asked Timothy.

Nicholas took a deep breath, and cast a nervous glance over his shoulder. ‘I know he dealt with powerful men, like the heads
of priories and convents. That in itself was sufficient to make me feel that I do not want to know about his business. In
my opinion, life as Junior Proctor was dangerous.’

‘Hardly,’ said Michael, surprised by the man’s unease. ‘Powerful men do not always have evil in their hearts, and dealing
with them is not always sinister.’

‘It killed Walcote,’ said Nicholas bitterly. ‘Tell
him
that.’

He had a point. Someone had executed Walcote in a most grisly manner, and whatever Timothy might believe about the purse they
found, Bartholomew remained convinced that there was more to Walcote’s death than a simple case of robbery. Nicholas might
well be right, and that one of the powerful men with whom Walcote dealt was responsible.

‘Is there anything more you can tell us?’ pressed Michael. ‘Any cases he was working on that he may have told you about?’

‘Nothing that you do not already know,’ replied Nicholas unhappily. ‘This Oxford business was the most risky, but he said
you were dealing with that.’

‘And what about his spare time?’ asked Michael, ignoring the fact that persuading another academic to sign a piece of parchment
was scarcely life-threatening. ‘What did he do when he was not working for me or fulfilling his duties here at Barnwell?’

‘He liked to read,’ said Nicholas. ‘We were studying the writings of William of Occam together, and next week we had planned
to move on to the works of Heytesbury.’

‘But reading about nominalism is not dangerous, either,’ said Michael, frustrated by the lack of relevant information.

‘I am not so sure,’ said Bartholomew thoughtfully. ‘Walcote would not be the first to die because of an interest in philosophy.’

‘There is Lynne,’ said Michael suddenly, grabbing Bartholomew’s arm. ‘I want a word with him. The lay-brother in the infirmary
can wait.’

Lynne watched them warily as they approached, but made no attempt to flee, as Bartholomew suspected he might at the sudden
arrival of the University’s Senior Proctor.

‘I have some questions I want to put to you,’ said Michael
peremptorily. ‘Why did you run away from the Carmelite Friary?’

‘I have never been to the Carmelite Friary,’ said Lynne. ‘You are confusing me with my brother. We are very alike.’