Susanna GREGORY - An Order for Death

Bartholomew smiled, although most Founder’s Feasts at Michaelhouse ended with everyone face down on the table, and his memories of them tended to blend together. But he recalled this one. ‘You dressed as an old woman called Mistress Horner, because you did not want anyone to know who you were.’

Matilde raised her eyebrows. ‘I disguised myself because you were worried about inviting a courtesan to dine in your college, and because you had invited that murdering Eleanor Tyler as well. She abandoned you for the more appealing attentions of your students, if I recall correctly.’

‘All right, all right,’ grumbled Bartholomew, not wanting to be reminded about that particular adventure. ‘What has the Founder’s Feast to do with you going to St Radegund’s?’

‘It is not I who will sojourn there,’ said Matilde simply. ‘It is Mistress Horner.’

‘No!’ exclaimed Bartholomew. ‘It is too dangerous. What if they intrude on you while you are in bed and learn that Mistress Horner’s ample middle owes itself to a couple of cushions, or that her wrinkles disappear in water?’

‘I will make sure that does not happen.’

‘The good nuns might not want fat old ladies in their convent,’ Michael pointed out.

‘They will accept my offer of five groats for board and lodging,’ said Matilde mischievously. ‘They would agree to anything for five groats.’

‘That is true,’ admitted Michael. ‘They would.’

‘You cannot do this,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘If we are right, and Tysilia’s stupidity conceals a cunning mind that is involved in the murder of Michael’s Junior Proctor, then it is simply too risky. I cannot let you do it.’

‘Are you concerned for my safety, Matthew?’ asked Matilde playfully. ‘Or for my virtue?’

‘Your safety,’ replied Bartholomew immediately. He faltered when he realised what his words had implied, and flushed when Michael and Matilde laughed at him.

‘Are you sure you do not mind doing this?’ asked Michael of Matilde. ‘I cannot see how else I will be able to cut through the veil of secrecy and lies that those nuns have thrown over their activities. They may be perfectly innocent – well, as innocent as running a brothel in a convent can be – and we may be on the wrong path altogether.’

‘Then I will find out,’ said Matilde confidently. ‘And I will expose that Tysilia as a liar and a cheat, if that is what she is.’

‘I cannot believe you are encouraging her to do this,’ said Bartholomew to Michael.

Matilde sighed, and laid an elegant hand on Bartholomew’s arm. ‘Do not worry so, Matthew. I will be perfectly safe. As a fat and unattractive matron, I am unlikely to be invited to take part in anything too exotic, and all I plan to do is listen and watch. It will only be for a few days, anyway.’

‘If you discover anything, tell us immediately,’ advised Michael. ‘Do not deal with it yourself. Matt or I will visit St Radegund’s every day, and you can indicate then whether all is well.’

Matilde’s eyes gleamed at the prospect of an adventure. ‘Do not ask to see me personally, or they will be suspicious. I will pretend to be deaf, so that they will think they do not need to lower their voices around me. So, if you see me cupping both hands around my ears, you will know it is a sign that I have nothing to report; if I fiddle with a ring on my finger, it means I wish to speak with you privately.’

‘I do not like this at all,’ said Bartholomew. ‘If Tysilia is the kind of woman we suspect she is, then you will not be safe; she will quickly guess what you are doing. There must be another way to look into her dealings.’

‘I can think of none,’ said Michael. ‘And time is passing. The longer we take to apprehend this killer, the less likely it is that we shall catch him. Do you want Will’s murderer to go free?’

‘Of course not, but–’

‘I will be perfectly all right,’ said Matilde. ‘And, as I said, such an adventure will help me rouse myself from the lethargy that has been dogging me since the beginning of Lent. I am feeling better already: I have a challenge to rise to, and Easter is almost here.’ She stood on tiptoe and quickly kissed Bartholomew’s cheek. ‘I promise to be careful, and you must promise to do the same. But together, we will see Will’s killer brought to justice.’

She was gone in the gathering dusk before Bartholomew could voice any further objections, and he suspected they would be futile anyway. Matilde had made up her mind, and he knew that there was nothing he could say or do to prevent her from going ahead with her plans. He watched her walk away, thinking about how dear she had become to him over the last few years.

Michael yawned hugely. ‘It has been a long day, and I am exhausted. Tomorrow, we will interview Morden of the Dominicans – I want to know more about those six student friars whom you drove away from Faricius – but tonight I only want a decent meal and a good night’s sleep.’

‘And we should talk to Prior Pechem of the Franciscans, too,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He may tell us why he was at these meetings.’

Michael rubbed his chin. ‘I agree. But we must do so with care. I do not want to alarm this coven into silence. I was afraid to question Lincolne too vigorously about the meetings, and I am reluctant to interrogate Pechem for the same reason. If they close ranks, we might never have the truth from them. To find out what we want to know, we shall have to be circumspect.’

‘Not necessarily,’ said Bartholomew thoughtfully. ‘We could just ask Master Kenyngham. He may tell us what we need to know without resorting to trickery.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Michael softly. ‘I have not forgotten Master Kenyngham.’

Bartholomew slept badly that night, his dreams mingling unpleasantly with his waking concerns for Matilde and his sadness over the sudden death of Walcote. He tossed and turned, and when the tinny bell finally clanked to inform scholars that it was time for mass, he had only just fallen into a deep sleep. He splashed himself with cold water in an attempt to render himself more alert, grabbed his clothes from the wall hooks, and pulled his boots on the wrong feet before realising his mistake. He was the last to join the procession in the yard, earning a warning glance from Langelee for his tardiness.

After the service, as he was walking back to Michaelhouse, a plump, crook-backed woman nodded soberly to him, and he felt his stomach churn when he recognised the bright, clear eyes of Matilde. She rode a small palfrey, and was already heading to St Radegund’s Convent to begin her adventure. He considered calling out, but knew that to expose her disguise in the High Street would put her in even greater danger. With a heavy heart, he followed Langelee back to Michaelhouse, where he ate a bowl of grey-coloured oatmeal that tasted of sawdust.

Leaving Langelee to ensure that his students read a tract from Theophilus’s De Urinis , Bartholomew set off with Michael to visit the Dominican Friary, where the monk intended to ask Prior Morden for more details about the six students Bartholomew had encountered near Faricius. Bartholomew fretted about Matilde as they walked, although Michael claimed he was being overprotective and that she knew perfectly well how to look after herself.

It was another murky day, with leaden skies filled with fast-moving clouds, and only the faintest hint of pink glimmering in the east. It had been a wet night, and the streets were clogged with rain-thinned horse manure that seeped through shoes and clung to the hems of cloaks.

When they arrived at the Dominican Friary, the priests were just finishing a hearty meal of coddled eggs, fresh bread and dates, the smell of which made Bartholomew hungry again. Ringstead, the Prior’s secretary, came to greet them, but said that Morden had gone to see if he could locate his Precentor, Henry de Kyrkeby, who had not been seen since Monday afternoon.