Susanna GREGORY - An Order for Death

‘Humphrey de Lecton saw this wicked man about to invade our sacred grounds and he struck him dead,’ proclaimed Horneby, the light of religious fervour already burning in his eyes.

‘No,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘That is not what happened. You can see for yourself that Kyrkeby’s feet are pointing this way. That means that he was leaving here, not coming to attack.’

‘He may have come feet first,’ said Horneby stubbornly.

‘The tunnel curves upwards,’ said Bartholomew. ‘No one goes up a tunnel feet first. It would be virtually impossible, not to mention uncomfortable. Where is that spade?’

One of the students handed him one of the heaviest and bluntest tools Bartholomew had ever seen. It possessed a wooden handle so worn that it was as smooth as new metal, and the rivets that held the iron blade were loose and wobbled disconcertingly when he leaned on it. He scratched away some of the muddy earth, then took hold of the cold, white foot to pull again.

‘Have there been collapses of the tunnel before?’ asked Michael of Horneby, watching Bartholomew strain and pant with the effort.

Horneby shook his head. ‘Not that I know of. It is made of clay, and clay never collapses.’

‘Do not speak nonsense,’ snapped Michael irritably. ‘Clay subsides just as readily as any other soil.’ He saw Bartholomew lose his grip on the foot again, and the body slid back into its premature tomb. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake! Let me do it.’

He elbowed Bartholomew aside, and began hauling and tugging on the foot for all he was worth. His sizeable girth gave the impression that he was flabby and weak, but Michael was actually a very strong man. Everyone winced when a loud crack indicated a broken bone, and Bartholomew stopped him before his impatience resulted in the removal of Kyrkeby’s foot. He did not want claims of mutilation to accompany the accusations of murder that were sure to follow. He lay on his stomach and applied the spade with a little more vigour, digging while Timothy held the damaged leg. And then Bartholomew felt something give.

‘He is coming out,’ he gasped, digging harder. ‘Pull!’

In a shower of pebbles and liquid mud, the Dominican Precentor shot from the earth, landing on Timothy, who was not quick enough to move out of the way. Revolted, the Junior Proctor scrambled away, leaving Kyrkeby lying in a dishevelled heap on the ground. Bartholomew knelt next to the corpse, wiping sweat from his eyes with the sleeve of his tabard, while Timothy hastily retreated behind Humphrey de Lecton’s tomb, where Bartholomew was certain he was being sick.

The body was filthy, and the physician could barely make out the features of the face, even when one of the students obligingly held a lamp closer. Kyrkeby’s head was loose, and rolled at an unnatural angle, while a brownish-red mess on the back of his skull indicated he had received a crushing blow there at some point.

‘Well?’ asked Michael, standing with his hands on his hips. ‘You said we would know more when you had a whole body to inspect. You have a whole body, so what can you tell me?’

‘Not here, Brother,’ said Bartholomew quietly. ‘I recommend we take Kyrkeby to St Michael’s Church, where I can examine him properly. Then we can have him cleaned before returning him to the Dominicans.’

‘Why?’ demanded Horneby aggressively. ‘Let them clean their own dead. They did not treat Faricius so kindly.’

‘Because if you hand Kyrkeby back to his colleagues looking like this, you will have angry Dominicans massing outside your gates demanding vengeance,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We will break the news to them when we can show them a corpse that does not look as though it has been treated with disrespect.’

‘Very sensible,’ said Lincolne approvingly. ‘I do not want a horde of nominalists yelling at me all night when I am trying to sleep.’

‘Perhaps a prayer for this poor man’s soul might not go amiss,’ said Michael coldly. ‘Whatever you might think of Dominicans, you might at least do that.’

‘Very well,’ said Lincolne with a sigh. He gestured to his students to kneel in a circle, and drew himself up to his full height to begin a mass that sounded impressive, even if it was probably not sincere. His flask of holy water emerged, and was splashed around with its customary vigour, splattering the students and the ground as well as Kyrkeby.

‘Fetch Cynric,’ said Michael in a low voice to Bartholomew. ‘Ask him to summon my beadles to carry Kyrkeby to the church. I will remain here with the body, and ensure they do not tamper with the evidence.’

‘Will you be all right alone?’ asked Bartholomew, reluctant to leave the monk in a graveyard where the killer might be kneeling in the praying circle around his victim.

‘Of course I will. Timothy will be with me, and anyway, even the most desperate of killers is unlikely to attack me in full view of the rest of his friary.’

‘Do you think any of them will stop him?’ asked Bartholomew nervously. ‘They might decide it is better for you to die, rather than the killer be exposed.’

‘They would find it difficult to explain my corpse and Timothy’s, as well as Kyrkeby’s, when you return with the beadles,’ said Michael, smiling wanly. ‘Go, Matt. Now that Cynric lives with his wife and not in Michaelhouse, he is not far away. You can be back within moments.’

Bartholomew glanced behind him as he left, and saw the lamplight gleaming around the edges of Lincolne’s funnel of hair, like a halo. The Prior’s prayers carried on the still air as the physician hurried out of the convent and into Milne Street, where his book-bearer occupied a pleasant room in Oswald Stanmore’s business premises.

Cynric answered the urgent knocking almost immediately, and Bartholomew was surprised to see the small Welshman cloaked and fully armed, as though he had anticipated being summoned on University business.

‘Have you been out?’ asked Bartholomew, as Cynric closed the door behind him so that their voices would not disturb his wife.

Cynric shook his head. ‘Not yet. Rachel and I have been going to the Holy Week vigils at St Mary’s Church. There is no point undressing when you have to put it all back on again in a few hours, so we sleep in our clothes. Anyway, it is warmer. But what is the problem? It would not be another murder, would it?’

‘How do you know that?’ asked Bartholomew warily.

Cynric grinned, his teeth gleaming white in the dim light from the candle he held. ‘What other business is there that brings you to me after dusk?’

‘I occasionally need you to go with me to see a patient,’ said Bartholomew.

‘But not often,’ said Cynric. ‘And anyway, you tend to use your students for that. No, boy. When I hear your soft tap on the door after the curfew bell has sounded, I know it only means one thing: the University has itself another killing.’

‘Well, that was an unpleasant day,’ said Michael, flopping into a comfortable chair in Michaelhouse’s kitchen much later that evening. He closed his eyes and willed himself to relax, aided by the large goblet of mulled ale that was pressed into his ready hand by Agatha the laundress.

It was very late, and most scholars were in bed, huddled under their blankets in an attempt to keep warm, even if they were not sleeping. It had been a long winter, and Michaelhouse had already spent the money allocated to firewood for the year. Langelee, juggling the College’s finances with a skill that surprised everyone who knew him, had managed to provide funds for fuel to warm the hall during breakfast and dinner, but the remainder of the day was spent in chilly misery. At nine o’clock that evening, the hall was abandoned, and lay dark, icy and silent.