Susanna GREGORY - An Order for Death

The kitchen was a different matter. It was not possible to cook without a fire, and so it was always the warmest place in the College. Also, Agatha the laundress, who unofficially supervised the domestic side of Michaelhouse, was not the kind of woman to freeze while there was kindling in the woods and all kinds of ‘kinsfolk’ to acquire it for her. There was a cosy fire blazing, even at that late hour, with a cauldron of spiced ale bubbling over it and fresh oatcakes heating on a griddle to one side.

Agatha was a formidable figure, whose personal opinions rivalled those of Father William for bigotry and ignorance. She had been laundress at Michaelhouse for years – how many years no one could remember – although she did not look any different to Bartholomew than she had done when he had arrived to take up his appointment as master of medicine some ten years before. She was a big woman, although Bartholomew would not have called her fat, and had a large, open face with a bristly chin that was the envy of some of Bartholomew’s younger, beardless undergraduates.

‘Terrible business about Walcote,’ said Agatha, passing Michael the platter of oatcakes before settling herself in her large wicker throne near the fire. ‘I was sorry to hear about him. He seemed a nice man.’

‘He was,’ agreed Michael. ‘You have not heard any rumours about his death, have you? My beadles said you were in the King’s Head the night he died, and that is often a good place to pick up snippets of information about such matters.’

‘It was certainly discussed,’ replied Agatha. ‘Sergeant Orwelle from the Castle came into the King’s Head for a drink to steady his nerves after he found poor Walcote hanging by the neck like some felon on a gibbet.’

‘What did he say?’ asked Michael, hastily suppressing the unpleasant image she had created in his mind. ‘I spoke to Orwelle myself, but people often say more to their drinking companions than they do to the forces of law and order.’

‘Only that Walcote was hanging from the drainage pipe outside the Dominican Friary,’ said Agatha. ‘And that someone had stolen his purse.’

‘His purse?’ asked Michael, startled. ‘I did not know about that, and no one mentioned it at Barnwell Priory. How did Orwelle come to notice such a thing?’

‘People do notice things like missing purses,’ said Agatha, surprised by the question. ‘These are hard times, Brother, and no one is paid what he deserves. The dead have no use for earthly wealth, and so it is only fitting that whoever finds a corpse and raises the alarm should have what is left.’

‘What are you saying?’ asked Bartholomew, astonished by the assertion. ‘That Tulyet’s soldiers regularly engage in corpse-robbing?’

‘You cannot rob a corpse,’ stated Agatha authoritatively. ‘A corpse cannot own anything, and so it stands to reason that you cannot steal from it.’

‘Well argued,’ said Michael. ‘Although I am not sure I concur. A corpse might not own anything, but his next of kin are entitled to what he leaves. But never mind the ethics of all this. Tell me more about the purse.’

‘Sergeant Orwelle noticed the purse was gone, because he was going to put it in a safe place for Walcote’s next of kin,’ said Agatha, unashamedly changing her story to protect Orwelle’s reputation. ‘We all asked him who might have killed poor Walcote, but he did not know. We all believe it was a scholar, though.’

‘Really?’ asked Michael, raising his eyebrows laconically. ‘And why would that be, pray?’

‘The proctors keep the scholars in order,’ said Agatha. ‘We townsfolk like proctors, but we do not always like the rest of you. You are always engaging in stupid squabbles. I heard in the King’s Head that the latest argument is about whether things that do not have names are real. It is all a lot of nonsense, if you ask me.’

‘Put like that, it sounds like a lot of nonsense to me, too,’ said Michael, smiling at Agatha’s terse summary of the nominalism – realism debate. ‘Still, you show a better understanding of the issues at stake than Father William does.’

‘Dear William,’ said Agatha fondly. ‘ He does not indulge in all this subtle plotting and cunning quarrelling.’

‘I should say,’ agreed Michael wholeheartedly. ‘No one could ever accuse William of being subtle or cunning.’

‘It is Thursday tomorrow,’ said Agatha, easing her bulk from her chair. ‘Only three days left of Lent. I had better go to bed, because I have Easter supplies to buy, baking to supervise, and doubtless you will all want your albs washed for the celebrations; Matthew’s will almost certainly need mending.’

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew, puzzled. ‘It is not torn.’

‘Everything you give me to launder is torn,’ Agatha admonished him. ‘Just look at you now. The hem on your tabard is down, your shirt cuffs are frayed, and you have ripped the knee out of your hose.’

‘That was from grovelling in the mud trying to pull Dominicans out of other men’s graves,’ muttered Bartholomew, noticing for the first time that thick, silty dirt still clung to him.

‘Brother Michael was also pulling dead men from the ground, but he is not in such a state. You need to improve yourself,’ instructed Agatha. ‘I am a laundress, not a muck-collector, and I do not want to be up to my elbows in filth every time you give me a bundle of clothes to clean.’

Having said her piece and expecting no argument, Agatha banked the fire and made her way to her quarters above the service rooms behind the kitchens. As the only female member of the College, she had more space and a better room than Master Langelee. She was proud of the sway she held in the College, and expected to be treated with deference.

When she had gone, Bartholomew took her place, settling himself down among the cushions that still held her warmth and that smelled of wood-smoke and cooked food. In pride of place was one that was blue with a gold fringe. It had been used to smother Langelee’s predecessor while the man had counted his money. Although Agatha swore it had been carefully cleaned, Bartholomew remained convinced that he could still detect a dark patch where the victim’s saliva had stained it. Picking it up between thumb and forefinger, he flung it to the other side of the room, where it was gratefully received by the College cat.

‘Pity about Kyrkeby,’ said Michael, taking another oatcake for himself and throwing one to Bartholomew, so hard that the physician found himself with a lap full of crumbs. ‘I confess I had not expected to find him dead when he was reported missing.’

‘And I had not anticipated finding his body stuffed inside an old tomb,’ said Bartholomew. ‘As you saw, he was not easy to extricate.’

‘He was not,’ agreed Michael. ‘How did he come to be thrust in it so tightly? I know it was growing dark, and that the Carmelites were fussing and flapping around us like bees at a honey pot, but what could you determine?’

‘Not much,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The body was in such a mess that it was difficult to tell what had happened to it.’

‘We will have a hard job cleaning it up,’ said Michael. ‘Will you do it? I will not.’

‘I did not imagine you would,’ said Bartholomew, sipping more of his ale, and relishing the warmth as it reached his stomach. ‘But perhaps Agatha will help. She had a lot of experience laying out bodies during the plague.’

‘You were right to suggest that we clean Kyrkeby before handing him to the Dominicans,’ said Michael thoughtfully. ‘I do not think I have ever seen a body in such a state. I know you said it was too dark to conduct a proper investigation until morning, but what are your first impressions?’