Susanna GREGORY - An Order for Death

‘And by the Monday – two days later – Ringstead observed a marked improvement in the lecture’s quality,’ said Michael. ‘But meanwhile, Lincolne became obsessed with hunting down the essay and destroying it.’

‘He knew he was not in a position to look for it himself,’ said Bartholomew, ‘so he turned to Timothy and Janius, who were already working with him in the plot to overthrow Michael and Walcote and thus save the University from what they considered to be evil influences. The Benedictines eagerly obliged Lincolne, but did so because they intended to publish it themselves, not because they wanted to destroy it.’

‘It would have brought them fame and fortune,’ said Matilde. ‘But why would the fanatical Lincolne join forces with monks like Timothy and Janius? They seem odd bedfellows.’

‘They were not so different,’ said Michael. ‘They all used religion as a means to force their own views on people who begged to differ. And they were all afraid that my arrangement with Heytesbury would harm Cambridge. It just shows that they were poor judges of character, and that they did not know me at all.’

‘And poor Walcote, who we all chastised for being so meek and mild, showed considerable strength in the end,’ said Matilde. ‘He died because he refused to tell that wicked trio where he had hidden Faricius’s essay.’

Michael nodded. ‘He knew if he told them they would probably kill Paul, and he did not want that on his conscience. He died to protect Paul and to keep Faricius’s essay from men like Timothy and Janius, who would seek to profit from it, and from Lincolne, who would have burned it.’

‘Where is it now?’ asked Matilde.

‘Where Faricius wanted it to be,’ said Michael. ‘In the care of Father Paul.’

‘They must have killed Walcote very quickly,’ said Bartholomew, his mind still dwelling on the grisly details of the Junior Proctor’s death. ‘Lynne heard the commotion with Kyrkeby shortly after sunset, and both Kyrkeby and Walcote were dead before compline, because that is when Sergeant Orwelle found Walcote’s body and it was already cold.’

‘Why did Walcote not tell you about the tunnel?’ asked Matilde of Michael. ‘It seems the sort of detail proctors should share.’

‘I quite agree,’ said Michael. ‘But Walcote was a man of his word, and he had promised the Carmelite student-friars he would say nothing if they blocked the tunnel within a week. Also, you must remember that he was not present when the question about Faricius’s escape from the friary came up: he was making sure the Dominicans had all gone home at that point. He never knew that we were pondering the question of how Faricius could have left the friary without using the main gate, or I imagine he would have told us.’

‘You and he did not seem to work well together,’ remarked Bartholomew. ‘You may have liked each other, but you did not trust him – or he you.’

‘No,’ admitted Michael. ‘I thought him too weak, and he did not understand me at all. We did not talk as much as we should. I realised this was a mistake, and I determined such a lack of communication should not sully my working relationship with his successor. I told Timothy everything – which was also a mistake, as it happened.’

‘My role in this was rather worthless,’ said Matilde ruefully. ‘I thought I was helping you solve two murders, but despite the fact that I had a thoroughly enjoyable time at St Radegund’s Convent and I learned a good deal that might benefit the sisters, my spying was a waste of time as far as you are concerned.’

‘Not true,’ said Michael. ‘Matt was sure the nuns had a role in those deaths. And he was right in a way: Walcote’s meetings at St Radegund’s caused a good deal of trouble.’

‘Matt and I were mistaken about Tysilia, though,’ admitted Matilde. ‘We thought she was a highly intelligent manipulator, who masterminded the meetings and the murders. We could not have been more wrong. She is exactly what she appears to be: a pretty woman with a completely empty head. She thinks she will have a better life if she escapes from the convent, and regularly gives the men she meets small baubles in return for a promise of help.’

‘But she only keeps her lovers for a week, and so is obliged to buy off rather a large number of them,’ said Bartholomew, smiling. ‘She offered Richard trinkets to help her – which certainly accounts for how he paid for some of his new clothes.’

‘She gave him my locket,’ said Matilde, taking it from around her neck and gazing down at it. ‘She really is foolish: she has not realised that she needs to keep her lovers for longer than a few days if she ever wants to capitalise on the favours she has purchased.’

‘Richard was bitter about the nuns of St Radegund’s when we discussed them in the Cardinal’s Cap,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But I suspect that was because his week was up, and Tysilia had already abandoned him for her next victim.’

Michael frowned thoughtfully. ‘On the morning of his lecture, Heytesbury said that Cambridge “no longer held any attractions” for him. I wonder if he was Richard’s replacement for a while.’

Matilde nodded keenly, pleased to be able to provide at least some useful information. ‘He was. But she confided in me that men who drink a lot do not make good lovers. Poor Heytesbury was dismissed well before his week was up.’

‘Well, Tysilia need not worry about escaping from St Radegund’s any more,’ said Bartholomew. ‘She no longer lives there. Bishop de Lisle has removed her to the leper hospital.’

‘Has he?’ asked Michael, startled. ‘Does she have the disease, then?’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘But it is clear her mind is impaired, and she is pregnant for a third time in a very short period. Leper hospitals not only house lepers; they are a haven for those with other incurable diseases, too, including weaknesses of the mind. It is also cheaper than St Radegund’s, and the Bishop is apparently short of funds at the moment.’

‘Insanity?’ asked Michael bluntly. ‘She does not seem to be any more lunatic than most of the people who freely walk around Cambridge’s streets – including certain Michaelhouse scholars.’

‘I suppose we should feel sorry for her,’ said Matilde. ‘But she treated poor Brother Andrew shamefully, and it led to his suicide in the King’s Ditch. It is hard to feel compassion for someone who is so completely dedicated to her own selfish desires.’

‘I feel compassion for Faricius, though,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The poor man only wanted to express what he really believed, but academic bigotry silenced him. And I feel compassion for the Michaelhouse lad who was killed just for greeting Brother Timothy in a cheerful manner. And for Simon Lynne, murdered because he was walking down the street in the misguided belief that all his troubles were over.’

‘Simon Lynne is a good example of why liars are a danger to themselves,’ said Michael. ‘He told us untruths, and we later disbelieved him when he claimed he had an identical brother and that his aunt was Mabel Martyn. He was being honest, but we already had him marked as a liar. I might have been able to protect him if he had been open with me from the start.’

Matilde looked up at Michael. ‘Over the last two weeks, you have lost two Junior Proctors. What will you do? I cannot imagine that you have many willing volunteers lining up to take their places.’

‘No,’ admitted Michael. ‘Although there is one man who has offered me his services. I am seriously tempted to accept them, because at least I know that he will never organise clandestine meetings behind my back, or plot to have me murdered.’

‘Father William?’ asked Bartholomew, horrified. ‘You would appoint that old bigot to a position that will allow him to persecute anyone who fails to comply with his own narrow set of beliefs? And what about the realism – nominalism debate? It will never die down with William accusing all the nominalists of heresy.’