Susanna GREGORY - An Order for Death

‘And we saw a whole pack of you lurking outside the Dominican Friary on Sunday intent on mischief,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘We followed you home, remember?’

Michael indicated the tunnel. ‘Anyone could have slipped through this whenever he liked. You cannot prove otherwise.’

‘However, no one would have been using it as long as Kyrkeby was here,’ said Bartholomew, turning his attention back to the body. ‘He is blocking it completely. And he will remain blocking it unless someone helps me. I cannot move him on my own.’

‘A visit to St John Zachary counts as going to church,’ said Horneby insolently. ‘We just made a slight detour for a few moments to check Faricius’s hiding place.’

‘And what about your sally to the Dominican Friary?’ asked Michael coolly. ‘Does that count as going to church, too?’

Horneby sneered. ‘We were only there for a short while. It was not worth mentioning.’

‘I will help you, Matthew,’ said Timothy, crouching next to Bartholomew and reaching into the hole to grab a handful of Kyrkeby’s habit. His face was pale and his hands unsteady, and the physician saw yet again that dealing with corpses would not be part of a Junior Proctor’s obligations that Timothy would enjoy.

‘It is all right,’ said Bartholomew, not wanting Timothy to do something that so obviously unsettled him. ‘I can probably manage.’

Timothy gave a wan smile. ‘You cannot. And no one else seems willing to assist.’

‘When was the last time any of you used the tunnel?’ asked Michael, glancing briefly at Bartholomew’s struggle with Kyrkeby before returning to the more interesting matter of interrogating the Carmelites.

‘Last Saturday,’ replied Horneby immediately. ‘It was used just before the riot in which those evil Dominicans murdered Faricius.’

‘Horneby, Horneby,’ said Lincolne, pretending to be shocked by his student’s accusation, even though he had made the same ones several times himself. ‘That attitude will get us nowhere. What will Brother Michael think when he hears words like that?’

‘He will think that you decided to avenge Faricius’s death and kill yourself a Dominican,’ said Michael flatly. ‘Even the most dull-witted of you must see that this is how it appears. And this sudden display of quiet reason does you no good, Prior Lincolne. Until a few moments ago, you, too, were claiming that Dominicans murdered Faricius.’

‘That was then,’ said Lincolne, unabashed. ‘We were the wronged party. But now it will look as though we took justice into our own hands, and I can assure you we did not. If we are not careful, the Dominicans will march on us again, and more people might die.’ He looked alarmed as a sudden thought crossed his mind. ‘And they may even damage the friary!’

‘Then we shall have to ensure that both Orders behave themselves,’ said Michael. ‘You are not the only one who does not want more bloodshed.’

‘The Dominicans will not be so amenable,’ said Lincolne bitterly. ‘They will deny murdering Faricius and demand another death to pay for Kyrkeby. They may even secure the help of the Austin canons and the Benedictines, who seem to be on friendly terms with them at the moment.’

‘But then we will call upon the Franciscans and the Gilbertines, who are not,’ said Horneby defiantly. ‘We can raise an army that will match the one any Dominicans can muster.’

Bartholomew glanced up in alarm as Horneby’s friends began to voice their agreement in voices that were a combination of fearful and defensive. Michael watched the proceedings with his arms folded and an expression of distaste on his face. Timothy abandoned his attempts to help Bartholomew extract Kyrkeby, and stood, brushing the dirt from his hands.

‘Have any of you heard of the Ten Commandments?’ he asked, his quiet question cutting across the babble that was centred around Horneby.

Lincolne regarded him uncertainly. ‘What have they to do with any of this?’

‘Just the fact that one of them forbids killing,’ said Timothy. ‘You are men of God, and yet here you are discussing how to raise armies to attack your rival Orders. You should be ashamed of yourselves. You are supposed to be setting a good example to the townsfolk, not demonstrating how to form armies and instigate street fights.’

‘The Dominicans started it,’ began Horneby hotly.

‘You do not know that for certain,’ said Michael. ‘And we will have no more of this talk of fighting. Is that clear?’

He glowered at each and every one of them until he was satisfied that they had acquiesced to his demand. Then he took a deep breath and resumed his questioning.

‘Now, we were discussing Kyrkeby’s death. I had just asked when the tunnel was last used. Horneby informed me with great conviction that no one has used the tunnel since Saturday. However, before that he admitted to using it with Lynne – on Monday – to see whether he could find Faricius’s essay. So, I will have the truth, if you please. When did anyone last use the tunnel?’

Horneby flushed a deep red, and had the grace to appear sheepish. ‘Lynne and I did use it on Monday night,’ he said in a low whisper. ‘But no one has used it since. I am sure of it.’

‘Very well,’ said Michael. ‘The next question that springs to mind is why are you so sure?’

‘Two very good reasons,’ said Horneby. ‘First, none of us wanted to be caught by the proctors, who we knew were keeping an eye on it. And second, none of us have had any desire to be out on streets teeming with hostile Dominicans.’

‘How do you know that applies to everyone here?’ pressed Michael. ‘Can you account for the movements of thirty students every single moment of the last few days?’

No one could answer him, although Lincolne blustered that his students should be given the benefit of the doubt, conveniently forgetting that they had lied to him as well as to Michael.

‘Damn!’ muttered Bartholomew, as the habit he was tugging on ripped in his hands. ‘This is impossible. We need a spade.’

‘A spade?’ asked Lincolne, horrified. ‘Are you suggesting that we excavate poor Humphrey de Lecton’s grave?’

‘Do you have any other suggestions?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Kyrkeby’s body is wedged very firmly inside it. I cannot work out whether someone rammed him down there with such force that he is stuck, or whether the tunnel has suffered some sort of collapse.’

‘I do not see why it should have collapsed if it has been here since 1290,’ said Michael. ‘I think it would be a peculiar coincidence if it stood whole and safe for so long, and only fell the moment a Dominican set foot in it.’

‘It is Humphrey de Lecton protecting us,’ said Horneby suddenly, his voice low and awed. ‘He saw that we were about to be invaded by a Dominican, and he caused the tunnel roof to collapse in order to save us!’

The Carmelites crossed themselves as Horneby made his pronouncement, and one or two of them dropped to their knees in a gesture of reverence. It was almost dark, and the curfew bells were beginning to toll, lending the graveyard an eerie atmosphere. Among the student-friars, a growing murmur that featured the word ‘miracle’ could be heard.

‘Oh, Lord, Matt!’ breathed Michael wearily. ‘This situation is going from bad to worse. As soon as I prevent them from following one wild belief, they simply come up with another. I always knew friars were not of the same intellectual calibre as monks, but this is ridiculous!’

‘We need to nip this one in the bud fairly quickly,’ said Timothy urgently. ‘The Dominicans will not sit by quietly while the Carmelites claim one of them was killed by divine intervention.’

‘Let us not jump to rash conclusions,’ said Michael loudly, silencing the reverent whispers that filled the dark graveyard. ‘As my colleague said, the body is stuck. There is nothing mysterious about a body stuck in a hole.’