Susanna GREGORY - An Order for Death

Bartholomew was having serious misgivings about the wisdom of what he planned to do. Suddenly, it seemed madness to break into the private chamber of the Junior Proctor, especially given that the Senior Proctor had told him that he had no right to do so. But Bartholomew could see no other way forward; the thought of a murderer patrolling the streets and dispensing his own justice to scholars who flouted the University’s rules was not an attractive proposition.

Forcing his uneasiness to the back of his mind, Bartholomew followed Cynric down a stinking alley that led to the rear of Ely Hall. The stench was eye-watering, since the Benedictines had apparently been using it as a latrine instead of going to the public ones in the Market Square. Lazy cooks, who could not be bothered to take their waste to the river, had left their mark on the yard, too, and rotting cabbage stalks, unusable parts from joints of meat and old trenchers sodden with grease all festered together in a slimy mass that was as slick as ice under Bartholomew’s shoes.

‘Timothy’s room is that one,’ said Bartholomew, pointing to the tiny window, little more than a slit, that was above and to one side of the shack that acted as a kitchen. He frowned as he tried to recall details of Ely Hall from his visits to tend Brother Adam. ‘That larger window to the right is a small landing. I think I should be able to squeeze through it.’

He felt Cynric gazing at him witheringly in the darkness. ‘Why do you think I suggested we enter this way? I know where Timothy’s room is, and I know the landing window is large enough for you to enter. How many more times must I tell you that if you intend to break into someone else’s property, you should have a feel for the layout first?’

‘Right,’ said Bartholomew, hoping it was not something he would have to do again.

‘Here,’ said Cynric, moving an abandoned crate carefully, so as not to make a noise. ‘Climb on this, and see whether you can prise open the window. It will be dark inside, do not forget. How do you plan to see what you are doing?’

‘There was a candle on the table when I was last here,’ Bartholomew whispered back. ‘I think it is better to risk a light and search quickly, than to fumble around in the dark for longer.’

‘Did you bring a tinder to light the candle?’ asked Cynric.

It was Bartholomew’s turn to treat Cynric to a withering look. ‘I am not that incompetent. And before you feel the need to suggest it, I know I should lay a blanket across the bottom of the door to hide the light from any restless Benedictines who happen to be passing, too.’

‘Good thinking,’ said Cynric, impressed. ‘I can see I taught you well after all.’

Bartholomew scrambled inelegantly on to the crate, wincing when his hands touched something soft that stank, and then heaved himself on to the kitchen roof. Using his knife, he then prised open the hall window. Cynric indicated that he should enter, and made a sign that he would keep watch by the entrance of the alleyway. Bartholomew was horrified.

‘Are you not coming with me?’

‘It is you who wants to raid a Benedictine’s chamber, lad,’ whispered Cynric hoarsely. ‘Not me. I will hoot like an owl if I hear anything. Good luck and do not be long.’

He had slipped soundlessly down the runnel before Bartholomew could suggest that Cynric did the burgling while Bartholomew kept watch. The Welshman was far better at such things, and the physician felt sure he would have the document in a trice and then they could both go back to Michaelhouse to tell Michael what they had done. Bartholomew gazed at the open window with trepidation, took a deep breath to steady his pounding heart, and started to climb through it. Feeling as though the Benedictines who were asleep in the adjoining chambers would have to be deaf not to hear the racket he was making, he clambered on to the landing, then stood still for a few moments, straining his ears for any sound that might indicate he had been heard. Opposite, Janius’s room was still and silent.

Bartholomew groped his way along the darkened corridor. He located the door to Timothy’s chamber with his outstretched hands, and listened for a few moments before carefully lifting the latch and stepping inside.

He recalled that a candle had been set on the table near the window, and reached out cautiously until he encountered wood. He located the candle and withdrew the tinder he carried tucked in his shirt, blinking as a dim light filled the room. Before he forgot, he took a blanket from the bed and dropped it against the door. And then he looked around.

For a moment, when he saw the neat room with its plain wooden cross nailed to the wall, he thought he had been gravely mistaken and that his invasion of Timothy’s privacy had been unwarranted, but then he saw that the blanket he had used to block the door was no blanket at all; it was a heavy black cloak. He poked at it, noting that it had been freshly laundered. Yolande had been telling the truth, and the grey cloak that Timothy had worn had nothing to do with her washing of it. Bartholomew glanced at the row of hooks on one of the walls. A grey cloak hung there. He inspected the inside of the collar, where the tailor had sewn a small mark that indicated it had been made for the Franciscan Order. It was Pechem’s.

He took a deep breath. Finding the cloak was good, but it was not conclusive evidence of Timothy’s guilt. What he needed to find was the essay that seemed to have been the cause of so many deaths. He began to search, resisting the temptation to ransack blindly, and forcing himself to be methodical. Timothy had gone to considerable trouble to gain possession of the text, and would hardly leave it lying around somewhere obvious.

Wax dripped as he began to inspect the floorboards, knowing such places were popular as hiding places. Sure enough, there was a loose plank, and Bartholomew prised it up quickly. In the small cavity below was a dirty scrip, stained with blood. Bartholomew was in no doubt that it had belonged to Faricius. He dug deeper, and emerged with a second purse, this one in immaculate condition and decorated with flowers and butterflies, consistent with the one of Kyrkeby’s that Ringstead had described.

A noise from the hall made him freeze in alarm. Brother Adam began to cough, loudly and desperately, and it sounded as though he could not catch his breath. Thumping footsteps on the stairs and on the landing outside suggested that the brothers were panicking, not knowing how to help the old man, despite the fact that they had watched Bartholomew prepare soothing balsams for him at least twice and he had even written the instructions down for them.

The coughing grew worse, and Bartholomew was in an agony of indecision. The physician in him longed to throw open the door and go to the old monk’s aid, knowing that he could ease the problem within moments. But then he would have revealed himself, and he would never have another opportunity to search the room of the man he was certain was a killer.

‘Brother Timothy has it, I believe,’ came the voice of one of the monks, edged with fear. ‘Shall I see if I can find it?’

Bartholomew’s heart leapt into his mouth as the latch on Timothy’s door began to rise. Quickly, he pinched out the candle, and was only just under the table when Brother Janius burst in holding a lamp. Bartholomew held his breath when the skirts of Janius’s habit swung so close to his face that he could make out the individual fibres in the cloth. The monk then rummaged among documents on the very table under which Bartholomew crouched.

‘Here we are,’ Janius said suddenly, and Bartholomew heard the rustle of parchment. ‘I knew it was Timothy who had taken Bartholomew’s instructions.’