Susanna GREGORY - An Order for Death

‘That will not happen. It was possible after the plague, when there was a shortage of scholars, but things seemed to have settled down since then. Oxford poses no danger to us now.’

‘Do not be so sure. It is not impossible that the plague will return, and then there will be even fewer men willing to study. I do not want to see this University cease to exist for the want of a little forethought. Look what happened to the fledgling universities at Stamford and Northampton.’

‘Scholars from Oxford and Cambridge joined forces and petitioned for them to be suppressed,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But it is a very different matter for two large universities to suppress a smaller third, than for one to suppress another.’

‘You are wrong to be complacent, Matt.’ Michael’s mouth narrowed in a determined line. ‘But if and when Oxford makes a move against us, I shall be ready.’

IT WAS NO EASY TASK TO WASH KYRKEBY’S BODY CLEAN OF mud so that a glance at it would not send the Dominicans racing to the Carmelite Friary to demand vengeance. While his colleagues’ voices echoed around the chancel of St Michael’s as they completed the first mass of the day, Bartholomew went to the south aisle where Kyrkeby’s body lay, and began his investigation as the early light filtered through the east window.

Kyrkeby looked even worse in daylight. His face was a mottled grey-white, partly from the filth that plastered it, and partly because his temporary tomb had been water-logged, and he had probably spent a good part of the previous two days buried in mud. Bartholomew had hoped to detect a slight blueness around the mouth and nose, which might indicate that the cause of death had been Kyrkeby’s weak heart, but it was impossible to tell. Kyrkeby’s eyes were slightly open in a head that lolled at a sickening angle, and there was also the wound to the back of the head. When the physician felt it, he could hear and see the broken skull bones grating under his fingers.

He stared down at the corpse. He knew that when a person died, the blood stopped moving in the veins. Thus, wounds inflicted after death tended not to bleed or to bleed very little. Bruises, however, were a different matter. These were injuries where a blow caused small blood vessels to rupture under the skin, rather than through it, and such ruptures did and could occur after death. Unlike with cuts, therefore, Bartholomew knew of no way to tell when a bruise was inflicted. So he was unable to determine whether the damage to Kyrkeby was done while he had still been alive.

He inspected the man’s hands, to see whether ripped or cracked nails indicated some kind of struggle with his attacker, as Walcote’s had done. Kyrkeby’s fingers were thick with dirt, but when Bartholomew wiped it off he saw nails that were gnawed to the quick and that would not have broken anyway. Next he checked for the kind of injuries he associated with someone trying to defend himself – wounds to the arms where the victim had tried to fend off an attacker, or where he had turned away to protect his head. There was nothing definitive, and the marks on Kyrkeby’s arms did not tell him whether the Dominican had struggled against an attacker or not.

Dispirited, Bartholomew examined the rest of the body, but found nothing to give him any further clues as to what had happened. The soles of Kyrkeby’s shoes were muddy, but with muck that seemed more like the dirt of the High Street than the clinging clay of the Carmelites’ hole in the ground. Bartholomew rubbed his chin, wondering whether this implied that Kyrkeby had not entered the tomb of his own accord.

And that was all. Beneath his habit, the Dominican Precentor wore homespun hose of dark brown and a woollen vest, both of which were thick and warm and of a quality that indicated the friar had the means to purchase better clothes than the ones that were provided free of charge by his Order. Recalling the purses that had been stolen from Walcote and Faricius, Bartholomew rifled through Kyrkeby’s clothes to see if he could find the leather scrip most friars carried at their waists, anticipating that the Dominican’s would be large and well filled if his clothes were anything to go by. However, if Kyrkeby had possessed such an item, it was not with his body now.

Bartholomew was just finishing his examination when Agatha arrived. The church was silent, and he realised that the scholars had finished their prayers and had returned to Michaelhouse. She nodded a brusque greeting, and began her work, grunting and swearing as she scrubbed the dark mud from the dead man’s skin, her large hips swaying vigorously and her skirts swinging about her ankles. While Bartholomew fetched pail after pail of water from the well in the Market Square, she gradually turned Kyrkeby into something that resembled a human being. She sluiced the dirt from his hair and brushed it back from his face, and rinsed the muck from his eyes and ears.

At eight o’clock the bells began to toll for terce, the great bass boom of St Mary’s drowning out the tinny clatters from St John Zachary and All Saints in the Jewry. Carts rattled along the High Street, and the shouts of the owners of the stalls in the market began to ring out as trade got under way. Feet splashed through puddles as students ran to lectures and apprentices hurried about their masters’ business.

‘That is better,’ remarked Michael, walking into the porch a little later, and leaning over to inspect their handiwork. ‘But he still looks rough. Can you do no better?’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew shortly, wiping his hands and arms on a piece of rag and rolling down his sleeves. ‘I have spent a large part of the morning on this. We should tell the Dominicans what has happened soon, or they will be accusing us of withholding information from them – no matter how honourable our intentions.’

‘True,’ admitted Michael. ‘Although I have been busy, too. I went to the Carmelite Friary to poke around that tunnel to see if we missed anything last night…’

‘And did we?’ asked Bartholomew hopefully.

‘No. Then I walked to St Radegund’s to see if Matilde had uncovered anything useful…’

‘How is she?’ asked Bartholomew anxiously.

‘She sat in the solar with her hands cupped around her ears, so she had nothing to report. Tysilia informed me, somewhat out of the blue, that eating too many oatcakes would turn me into a horse…’

‘That would not have been because you were eating the nuns’ food, would it, Brother?’ asked Bartholomew innocently.

‘And I spoke to Sergeant Orwelle again,’ continued Michael, ignoring him. ‘I asked whether there was anything more he could tell me about when he found Walcote’s body.’

‘And was there?’

‘Of course not,’ said Agatha dismissively. ‘I told you all there was to know. I have already informed you that I was in the King’s Head when he burst in and announced what had happened.’

‘It is as well to be sure,’ said Michael. ‘You may have forgotten something, or thought something was unimportant when it was vital.’

‘And had I forgotten anything?’ demanded Agatha, hands on hips and eyes narrowed.

‘No,’ admitted Michael. ‘However, I did learn one new thing from Orwelle.’

‘I suppose you mean the fact that he found Walcote’s purse at dawn this morning?’ asked Agatha carelessly. ‘He discovered it near Barnwell Priory.’

Michael stared at her. ‘You already know about this?’

‘Orwelle has been obsessed by that missing purse,’ said Agatha smugly, gratified that her intelligence seemed to be better than Michael’s. ‘Walcote was a fairly wealthy man, you see, and Orwelle could not push the thought of a full purse out of his mind. He is always on the lookout for dropped pennies in the mud, and this morning he found Walcote’s scrip.’ She pointed to a sorry-looking item that Michael extracted from his own scrip and held distastefully between thumb and forefinger. ‘That is it.’