An Order for Death (53 page)

Michael’s choir excelled themselves with an anthem they had been practising since Christmas, and the church rang with the
joyous sound of their singing, making up in volume what they lacked in talent. Afterwards, the scholars spilled out into the
sunlit churchyard, and Bartholomew saw that snowdrops were beginning to bloom among the grassy mounds. Langelee raised one
lordly arm to indicate that his scholars were to fall in behind him, and began to lead the way back to Michaelhouse, where
a special breakfast of oatmeal, eggs, boiled pork and fresh bread awaited them.

‘What a glorious day!’ exclaimed Michael, turning to the sun and closing his eyes, relishing its warmth on his flabby face.
‘Blue skies, a bright sun, the scent of spring in the air, and no murderers walking free on the streets of Cambridge.’

‘For now,’ said Bartholomew.

Michael jabbed him with his elbow. ‘It is a beautiful day and I am happy. Do not dispel my good temper by speculating any
more on the unsavoury business of last night.’

‘But I still have questions,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And so does Richard.’

‘Richard!’ spat Michael in some disgust. ‘That silly boy! Last night’s events will teach him not to play politics with men
he does not know. Had that plan of Timothy and Janius’s
worked, not only would he have been dead, but he would have forced his parents to live in the knowledge that he had killed
you, too. It would have broken Edith’s heart.’

‘She would not have believed it,’ said Bartholomew. ‘That was what I kept telling Timothy and Janius. They were basing their
plan on actions that people would just not have taken: Richard would not have killed me in a fit of pique and you would not
have killed him in retaliation.’

‘But they did not succeed,’ said Michael comfortably. ‘So it does not matter.’

They reached the College, and walked to the fallen apple tree in the orchard; they sat on its ancient trunk and rested their
backs against the sun-warmed wall and waited for the breakfast bell to ring. The light danced across the thick green grass
in tiny pools of brightness as it filtered through branches that were beginning to show signs of new leaves, and the town
was unusually peaceful.

‘We have done well,’ said Michael, pleased with himself. ‘We have exposed two vicious killers and thwarted a plot that would
have seen my beloved University in the hands of the excessively religious.’

‘So,’ said Bartholomew, trying to marshal his thoughts and summarise what had happened in chronological order. ‘In November
last year, Timothy and Janius grew concerned by rumours – put about by Langelee – that you were involved in a scheme to pass
Cambridge property to Oxford. They decided to act.’

Michael nodded. ‘At roughly the same time, weak Walcote started to arrange meetings at St Radegund’s Convent that would discuss
important issues without my knowledge. These were paid for with coins he had grabbed when Wilson’s effigy spilled gold in
the Market Square in November. He had been away in Ely while I was wrestling with that particular problem, but arrived back
in Cambridge just in time to snatch himself a small fortune.’

‘He was also concerned by your Oxford connections, and was thinking about the time when he would be Senior
Proctor. He wanted to impress the leaders of the religious Orders, who hold a good deal of power in the University. However,
his gatherings merely aggravated the growing realism–nominalism debate and caused the conflict to escalate.’

‘Janius and Timothy hired a mercenary to kill me. Their messenger drowned in a drunken stupor, and Walcote came into possession
of the letter to the assassin. Walcote was convinced by my Benedictine fellows that I should not be told about the plot. Meanwhile,
I removed property for safe keeping from the Carmelite Friary and brought it here. Walcote assumed I was stealing, and said
as much to everyone who attended his nasty meetings.’

‘Three months passed, and then two things happened at once,’ said Bartholomew. ‘First, Kyrkeby murdered Faricius for his essay
on nominalism and Walcote caught Kyrkeby, racked by guilt, trying to give it back. And second, Heytesbury appeared in Cambridge
intending to find out more about the man with whom he proposed to do business.’

‘They were unrelated events,’ said Michael. ‘But they provided a perfect opportunity for Timothy and Janius to use a tragedy
to further their own ends. Two days after Faricius’s death – on the Monday – Walcote discovered Kyrkeby lurking near the Carmelite
Friary, probably while checking to see whether Lynne had sealed up the tunnel.’

‘I spent that afternoon with Kyrkeby,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He was agitated and uncharacteristically uncommunicative. I thought
it was because he was worried about his lecture, but I see now that it was a guilty conscience that was making him irritable
and ill.’

‘Bullied by Timothy and Janius, Walcote badgered the guilt-ridden Precentor until he died,’ Michael continued. ‘Walcote then
agreed to hide the body in the Carmelites’ tunnel.’

‘No one would have blamed Walcote for Kyrkeby’s death under the circumstances,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘But Timothy
and Janius preyed on his insecurities. And at this point, Walcote revealed a grain of strength they had not anticipated.’

Michael nodded slowly. ‘The fact that he escaped them for a few moments to hide the essay with Father Paul indicates that
he was already worried by their motives. And he refused to tell them where he had put it, so they did as they threatened and
hanged him.’

‘Then you played right into their hands by appointing Timothy as Junior Proctor the next day,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Your record
of selecting good juniors is not impressive, Brother.’

Michael ignored him. ‘Janius allowed Walcote’s purse to be found, so that we would assume he had been killed by desperate
outlaws, and he took Kyrkeby’s scrip for the same reason. You declined to accept that the three murders were committed for
theft alone, and then they learned from Simon Lynne that you wanted to search Timothy’s room for the essay. Therefore, they
were waiting for you when you effected that daring but ill-advised assault on their hostel.’

‘You refused to help,’ said Bartholomew. ‘What was I supposed to do?’

‘If their plan had been successful, you and Richard would have been murdered, with me “proved” to be the killer,’ continued
Michael, ignoring the question. ‘Timothy would have appointed Janius as his Junior Proctor; the arrangements with Heytesbury
would have fallen to pieces; and the University would have been under the power of two men who would have made additional
fortunes by publishing Faricius’s essay under their own names.’

‘I still have three questions, though,’ said Bartholomew. ‘First, why did Walcote hold his meetings at a place like St Radegund’s
Convent? Second, why did he agree to hide Kyrkeby’s body in the Carmelite Friary tunnel? And third, what was that yellow sticky
stuff on his and Faricius’s bodies?’

‘I doubt you will ever know the answer to the first question, Matt, but I can tell you the answer to the second. They were
right outside the tunnel, and no one wants to traipse
around the town with a corpse. It was simply a convenient hiding place.’

‘And the third?’

‘Lord knows,’ said Michael, sighing and stretching his feet in front of him, revealing a pair of monstrous white calves. ‘Frankly,
I do not care.’

At that moment, the bell began to clang, summoning the Michaelhouse scholars for their Easter breakfast.

‘Good,’ said Michael, rubbing his hands happily. ‘All this thinking has given me an appetite. We will have breakfast, then
go to the University debate. I would not want to miss hearing the great Heytesbury discussing life on other planets.’ He gave
a malicious snigger.

‘He is still going to speak?’ asked Bartholomew, as they picked their way through the long grass towards the path that led
to the kitchen door. ‘I thought he would have left with his deed as soon as he could hire a horse.’

Michael grinned wickedly. ‘He thinks he has bested me, and so feels no need to rush away. Heytesbury is now the proud owner
of a church and a couple of farms that will cost him more to run than they will make. Meanwhile, I have several important
bits of information secreted in one or two places.’

‘You cheated him,’ said Bartholomew, not particularly surprised. ‘You made him think he was gaining something valuable.’

‘Not cheated, Matt: outwitted. He should not have wasted his time coming to Cambridge to assess
me
. He should have gone to these properties and asked to inspect their records. I certainly would have done. But that is why
Cambridge will always be superior to Oxford in all respects. We think with our minds, not our pockets. And speaking of pockets,
you owe me an evening of fine wine and good food at the Brazen George.’

‘I do?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘Why is that?’

‘I told you we would resolve this by Easter Day, and we have.’

‘But you said the wager was invalid when you discovered you had more than one murder to solve,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘And
you failed to mention it was back on again.’

‘Well, I am mentioning it now,’ said Michael with a grin. ‘We will go after the debate.’

The recently rebuilt Church of St Mary was packed to overflowing with scholars from the University, as well as a few hardy
souls from the town. The black robes of Benedictine monks, Austin canons and Dominican friars formed stark blocks among the
pale grey of the Franciscans and the white of the occasional Cluniac monk. Between them were the blue tabards of Bene’t College,
the black of Michaelhouse, and the various uniforms of Peterhouse, Clare Hall, King’s Hall and the other Colleges and hostels.

The church was a beautiful building, and its new chancel was made of bright sandstone and adorned with delicate pinnacles
that reached towards the sky. As befitted a University church, it was the largest building in the town, raised to accommodate
as many scholars as possible within its walls. The air rang with the sound of voices, some raised in cheerful greetings, some
in laughter, and others in argument. Michael nodded to Meadowman, who inserted a group of elderly commoners from the Hall
of Valence Marie between some Carmelites and Dominicans who were already eyeing each other challengingly, in the hope that
they would keep the two factions apart.

‘This is a nightmare,’ remarked Michael to Bartholomew. ‘Usually, it is not necessary to keep rivals apart at debates, because
even if people hold strong opinions, they are not usually committed to proving them with their fists. But this is different;
everyone seems ready for a good fight today.’

‘Good morning, Brother,’ came Heytesbury’s smooth voice from behind him. The Oxford man looked pleased with himself in his
ceremonial red gown, and Bartholomew
wondered how long it would be before he discovered he had not done as well out of Cambridge as he had anticipated. Heytesbury
nodded to the assembled hordes. ‘I am honoured. It seems almost every scholar in your University has come to bid me farewell.’

‘Michael tells me you are leaving today,’ said Bartholomew, politely making conversation.

Heytesbury smiled. ‘A clever man always knows the right time to make an exit. It is time now: Cambridge no longer holds any
attraction for me.’

‘How unfortunate,’ said Michael ambiguously.

Heytesbury allowed his gaze to rove over the gathering crowd again. ‘I am astonished that Cambridge scholars are so keen to
learn about life in other universes. Such a topic would not intrigue Oxford men. They are concerned with greater issues.’

‘Really,’ said Michael, bristling at the criticism. ‘Such as what, pray?’

‘The irrefutable premises of nominalism, for a start,’ replied Heytesbury immediately. ‘I am one of the foremost thinkers
on the subject. I cannot imagine why you will not allow me to lecture on it here. Some of that rabble might even learn something
from it.’

‘I have already explained that,’ snapped Michael, made irritable by the worry of keeping the students from each others’ throats
that day. ‘Nominalism is too contentious a subject at the moment. Return next year, and I shall be happy to oblige you, but
today we will hear about whether you think there is life on Mars.’

Heytesbury sighed. ‘As you wish, Brother. I warrant I shall clear this church within moments once I start to speak on such
a tedious subject, but you shall have it, if that is what you want.’

‘It is,’ said Michael firmly. He glanced at the door as more people began to elbow their way into the church, headed by a
flock of white-robed scholars, the size of which had every head turning in astonishment. ‘Look at that! It is
Lincolne, with virtually every Carmelite friar in the county! Where did they all come from?’

‘He summoned them from their parishes,’ said Beadle Meadowman, breathless from his exertions. ‘His gatekeeper told me that
he wants to prove the superiority of the realist argument by sheer dint of numbers.’

‘But the debate is not about realism,’ said Michael, exasperated. ‘Damn your nephew, Matt! It is his fault that all these
friars are here. He should never have suggested that Heytesbury speak here.’

‘There is Chancellor Tynkell,’ said Bartholomew, watching as the head of the University climbed unsteadily on to a wooden
platform that had been erected in the middle of the nave. Immediately, there was a hush, as scholars waited to hear what he
had to say. Heytesbury left Michael and went to stand next to him. From a distance the scholar looked small and unassuming,
even in his handsome robes, and Bartholomew thought it was not surprising that the likes of Lincolne imagined they could best
him in an argument. The Carmelite Prior would be in for a shock if he tried, Bartholomew thought, recalling the short work
Heytesbury had made of such men in Oxford.

As the assembled masses in the church waited for the Chancellor to begin, Lincolne elbowed his way to the front with his gaggle
of friars in tow, and Bartholomew saw the scholars behind him trying to see around the large expanse of his person and his
peculiar turret of hair. On the other side of the church, his mortal enemy, Morden of the Dominicans, recently freed from
the proctors’ cells, gave him an unpleasant glower. Morden had taken the precaution of bringing his own box to stand on, so
that he would be able to look over the shoulders of the scholars in front. Meanwhile, the Franciscan Prior Pechem looked uneasily
from one to the other, clearly anticipating trouble, while the student-friars from all Orders were alert and aggressive.