Susanna GREGORY - An Order for Death

‘It must be very taxing for you,’ said Michael sympathetically, his eyes fixed on her swaying hips as she preceded him through the cloister. Aware of his attention, she lifted her robe higher than was necessary to keep it from trailing in the puddles on the paving stones, revealing a pair of shapely white calves and some shoes that were ridiculously inadequate for anything other than lounging indoors.

‘I am Tysilia de Apsley,’ she said, glancing around to give Michael a smile that had the undeniable qualities of a leer. Her disconcerting behaviour confirmed the impression Bartholomew had that morning: that she was not clever, and that she was being trained to hide the fact by flaunting her good looks. She certainly knew how to charm Michael. ‘I expect you have heard of me.’

‘I hear a great many things,’ replied Michael ambiguously, stepping quickly around her to open a door before she reached it. She disappeared inside, and then gave a shriek of delighted indignation. Bartholomew glanced up just in time to see Michael returning his hands to their customary position inside their wide sleeves. ‘But just remind me in what context I might have heard a pretty name like Tysilia de Apsley.’

‘My uncle is the Bishop of Ely,’ she said, her voice echoing back down the stairs as she climbed them. ‘Thomas de Lisle.’

‘Damn!’ muttered Michael to Bartholomew. ‘I would not have done that, had I known. Still, I think she enjoyed it.’

‘And what did you do exactly, Brother?’ asked Bartholomew.

Michael chuckled softly. ‘Nothing I would recommend you try, now that we know who she is. I should have remembered she was here. My lord Bishop told me that he had placed his wanton niece at St Radegund’s out of harm’s way; I recall telling him it was a very good place for her.’

Bartholomew glanced sharply at him. ‘Do you mean it is good because it is a convent and will cure her indecent behaviour, or because she will probably feel at home in an institution with a reputation like St Radegund’s?’

Michael’s smile was enigmatic. ‘What do you think?’

‘I do not know,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But it is unwise to trust someone like her with gate duties. It seems to me that she will allow anyone inside as long as he is male.’

‘The Sacristan, Eve Wasteneys, is no fool,’ replied Michael ambiguously. ‘I expect she knows what she is doing, although I cannot say the same for that sot who is currently drinking her way through the convent’s once-impressive wine cellars.’

‘Do you mean Prioress Martyn?’ asked Bartholomew, recalling that she was happy to avail herself of other people’s wine cellars, too, if her collapse at the side of the road that morning had been anything to go by.

‘Have you met her?’ asked Michael. ‘I suppose you have been called to give her cures for over-indulgence, although the nuns usually try to conceal her excesses.’

‘You look familiar,’ said Tysilia, turning to Bartholomew with a slight frown marring her pretty features. ‘I think I have seen you before.’

‘This morning,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You were on your way home from the Panton manor, and your Prioress was taken ill.’

‘She was not ill; she was drunk,’ stated Tysilia uncompromisingly. ‘But, yes, I think I remember you. However, you wore a pretty ear-ring this morning. What happened to it?’

‘An ear-ring?’ queried Michael, startled.

‘That was my nephew,’ replied Bartholomew.

‘Your nephew is an ear-ring?’ asked Tysilia, frowning harder than ever.

‘Lord help us!’ breathed Michael, regarding her uncertainly. ‘No wonder the Bishop wanted her out of the way.’

‘I am sorry I am confused,’ said Tysilia, looking anything but contrite. ‘But all men look the same to me when they wear black. If they wear pretty colours, I recall them better, but there is nothing memorable about black.’

‘That must be awkward for you, considering men of your own Order wear black habits,’ said Michael dryly.

Tysilia giggled, then pushed open a door at the top of the stairs. ‘It has proved embarrassing on occasion. But here is our day-room – I mean our… what did you say it was called again, Brother? I have forgotten already.’

Bartholomew gazed at the scene in the solar, and fought hard not to gape in open-mouthed astonishment. A large fire burned in the hearth, and so that the room was warm to the point of being overheated. A number of nuns were there, some sitting at a large table and engaged in communal embroidery, while others lounged on cushion-covered benches or were comfortably settled in cosy window-seats. Two things caught Bartholomew’s eye immediately. The first was that not all the nuns were fully clothed, although they did not seem to be especially discomfited by the sudden presence of two men in their midst; the second was that they were not alone.

Simon Lynne was there. He sat near a window, his freckled face flushed and his mop of thick hair tousled and unruly. He regarded Bartholomew and Michael warily, then rose slowly to his feet. The physician was not surprised that the Carmelite student-friar was red and tangle-haired, given that he must have run very quickly from Barnwell Priory to reach the convent before Bartholomew and Michael. He wondered whether Lynne had overheard Nicholas telling Michael about Walcote’s mysterious visits to the convent, and had determined to ask his own questions before the Senior Proctor could – or perhaps he had even come to warn the nuns that Michael was heading their way.

‘You arrived here remarkably quickly, Lynne,’ said Michael coolly. ‘But it is good to see you, nevertheless. There are a few questions I would like to put to you.’

‘Another time,’ said Lynne rudely, reaching for his cloak. ‘I am late for my duties and must go.’ He gave a brief nod to the nuns, who watched the exchange with amused detachment, and headed for the door. He was stopped dead in his tracks by a hand that was as expert at grabbing recalcitrant students as it was at making passes at Bishops’ nieces.

‘Then you can tell your Prior that you have been with me,’ said the monk. ‘What were you doing at Barnwell a few moments ago?’

‘You are mistaken, Brother. I have not been at Barnwell,’ replied Lynne hesitantly. ‘And I do not have time to discuss it with you. I am late.’

‘You can discuss it here or in my cells,’ said Michael sharply, and the icy gleam in his eye made it clear that he was not bluffing. ‘It is your choice, Master Lynne.’

‘Really, Brother,’ came a slightly slurred voice from one of the couches near the fire. ‘Can a lad not even visit his aunt without being questioned by the Senior Proctor these days?’

‘Not when that lad knows something that may be of relevance to a murder enquiry, Dame Martyn,’ said Michael, not relinquishing his grip on Lynne. ‘And you have never mentioned a nephew before. Is it true? Or is it a convenient lie told for this little tyke’s benefit?’

‘Of course it is true,’ said Dame Martyn, not sounding particularly offended that Michael had effectively accused her of being a liar. ‘And do call me Mabel. You know I am not a woman for unnecessary formality.’

‘Are you feeling better?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking that she did not look it. Her heavy face was unnaturally ruddy, and there was a bleariness about her eyes that spoke of poor health.

‘Better than what?’ she asked blankly.

‘The doctor stopped to help us this morning when you were taken ill,’ said the Sacristan, Eve Wasteneys, tactfully. Although almost all the other dozen or so nuns in the solar had followed Dame Martyn’s example of shedding unwanted clothes, Eve remained fully dressed, with a starched wimple cutting uncomfortably into her strong chin.