Susanna GREGORY - An Order for Death

Bartholomew addressed Adam. ‘What about the Franciscans, Carmelites and Gilbertines? Did you see any of those at these meetings?’

Adam shook his head. ‘When Walcote told me that he was organising meetings for the leaders of the religious Orders, I told him I would be surprised if he could persuade the Dominicans to sit under one roof with Carmelites and Franciscans. I was right: he could not.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew in sudden understanding. ‘Walcote probably divided his gatherings between those who follow nominalism and those who follow realism. That is why Matilde – whose information came from the Carmelite Lincolne – only knew about him, the Franciscans and the Gilbertines. And that is why only Benedictines, Dominicans and Austins were at the gathering attended by Adam.’

‘It also explains why Eve Wasteneys said she was not sure whether the men she saw attended the same meetings,’ said Timothy thoughtfully. ‘She knew different people came on different occasions.’

Michael sighed heavily. ‘But this still does not explain why no one told me about these wretched events. I am the Senior Proctor. It was not right for Walcote to have organised them without my knowledge.’

‘It was not,’ said Janius, who had finished his prayers and was apparently honing his talent for eavesdropping. ‘But now Timothy is your Junior Proctor, such things will not happen again.’

‘Did you know about all this?’ Michael asked him.

Janius nodded slowly. ‘Adam confided in me. He had been sworn to secrecy and so obviously I could not mention it to anyone else. However, I confess I had forgotten about it until Adam reminded me just now. It happened months ago – before Yuletide.’

‘I remember it clearly, because it was the walk in the cold and the rain that caused my illness,’ said Adam. ‘I was stupid to have gone in the first place, and Janius recommended that I should attend no more of them.’

‘And Walcote invited no one in your place?’ asked Michael.

There were shaken heads all around. ‘If he had, I would have suggested that we did not go,’ said Janius. ‘Who would want an assignation in a place like that, anyway?’

‘The fact that the Benedictines did not attend after the first time explains something else, too,’ said Bartholomew thoughtfully. ‘Matilde mentioned that the numbers of people at the meetings had been dwindling. Now we learn that Adam declined to go because he considered them a waste of time. I was worried that there might be a more sinister reason for the dropping attendance.’

‘But someone still should have told me,’ persisted Michael.

‘There was very little to tell,’ said Adam apologetically. ‘As I said, we chatted about whether to donate money to repair the Great Bridge and the nominalism – realism debate.’

‘But why did Walcote hold his gatherings in the middle of the night if you discussed such mundane matters?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘I suppose subsequent ones might have been more interesting,’ admitted Adam. ‘As I told you, I only went to one.’

‘We will have that information from Prior Morden of the Dominicans,’ determined Michael. ‘We shall ask him about it when we deliver his dead colleague. Meanwhile, if you receive another invitation to one of these affairs, please tell me.’

‘We can do better than that,’ said Timothy with a grin. ‘Janius or I will go in Adam’s place and report everything that is said.’

Michael smiled his appreciation, then followed Bartholomew down the stairs and out into the Market Square, leaving Adam to rest. Timothy walked with them, then made his way to St Mary’s Church, where the beadles were assembling to receive their daily orders. Michael watched him go.

‘I made a wise decision when I chose a Benedictine as Junior Proctor. Timothy has held office for only two days, and yet I can trust him to direct my beadles already. I would have far less time to investigate these murders, if it were not for him.’

‘There is Heytesbury,’ said Bartholomew, pointing to a small, neat figure who stood near one of the farmers’ stalls in the Market Square.

‘He is an early riser,’ said Michael.

‘It looks to me as though he has not yet gone to bed,’ said Bartholomew, smiling at Heytesbury’s display of whiskers and dishevelled appearance. ‘He and Richard have probably been enjoying Cambridge’s taverns. Look, there is Richard’s horse.’

‘Heytesbury is not the kind of man to indulge in all-night debauchery,’ said Michael. ‘I do not believe he has been carousing with your errant nephew.’

Heytesbury was watching with amusement the antics of the Black Bishop of Bedminster, which had managed to slip its tether and was browsing a stack of wizened apples. The outraged farmer was powerless to stop it: slaps on its gleaming rump resulted in flailing back hoofs that threatened to kill, while no one dared to grab the reins because they were too near its battery of strong yellow teeth. Black Bishop’s eyes glistened evilly in its head, and its ears twitched back and forth as it listened for anyone rash enough to approach it while it gorged itself.

‘I do not know what possessed Richard to buy that thing,’ said Heytesbury, as Bartholomew and Michael strolled over to join him. Bartholomew detected the unmistakable odour of wine on his breath, and knew that Michael was wrong to think that Heytesbury was no carouser. ‘He is quite unable to control it, and it is only a matter of time before it does someone a serious injury.’

‘How much longer do you plan to stay in Cambridge?’ asked Michael conversationally. ‘Because if you intend to leave soon, I have the documents that will formalise our arrangements already drafted in my room at Michaelhouse. You can sign them any time you are ready.’

‘I will bear that in mind,’ said Heytesbury. He nodded to where Black Bishop still grazed the furious farmer’s fruit. ‘Is that the Fellow of Michaelhouse whom everyone claims is mad?’

Bartholomew started forward in alarm when he saw Clippesby – who had evidently managed to slip away from the Michaelhouse mass – stride up to the horse and take a firm hold of the reins. Black Bishop started to rear, angry eyes rolling white in its dark head. But Clippesby was talking in a low, intense voice, and the horse apparently had second thoughts. Its front hoofs thumped down on the ground, and its ears flicked, as if it were listening. When Clippesby’s voice dropped to a whisper, Black Bishop’s head craned forward, as if straining to catch everything that was said.

‘I see what people mean about him,’ said Heytesbury, regarding the scene in amusement. ‘A Fellow who talks to animals is peculiar indeed.’

‘You have seen nothing yet,’ muttered Michael. ‘In a few moments Clippesby will probably tell everyone in the Market Square what the Black Bishop of Bedminster said to him.’

Heytesbury laughed. ‘How can I sign your document and leave Cambridge, Brother? There is simply too much here to entertain me.’

‘Damn!’ said Michael, as Heytesbury moved away from them and edged closer to Clippesby and the horse, aiming to gain a better view. ‘I wish he would just make his mark on our agreement and go home. The future of our University lies in securing wealthy benefactors, and the longer he dallies, the less time I will have to coax Oxford’s patrons over to Cambridge. I might have secured a couple this summer, but now I will not have sufficient time.’

‘Why do we need to steal Oxford’s patrons?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Why can we not find some of our own?’

Michael gave him an incredulous glance. ‘It is not so much that we need the patrons ourselves; it is more a case that we do not want Oxford to have them. They are already bigger than us, and I do not want to be in a position where they are capable of crushing us.’