Susanna GREGORY - An Order for Death

‘How do you know it is Walcote’s?’ asked Bartholomew, inspecting it carefully. ‘It could be anyone’s.’

‘Because Walcote is the only man to have lost a purse recently,’ said Agatha impatiently.

‘Faricius lost one,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘How can you be sure this is not his?’

Agatha gave a heavy sigh. ‘Because it is obvious that Walcote’s killers stole it from his body, and then threw it away as they fled from the town, just as they passed Barnwell Priory.’

‘That seems a strange coincidence,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘Walcote lived at Barnwell, and now Orwelle finds his purse nearby. Perhaps Walcote dropped it, and it was not stolen at all.’

‘I think Agatha is right: the killer took the purse, then made off to the wasteland around Barnwell before removing its contents,’ said Michael. ‘Orwelle found it empty.’

‘It is Walcote’s purse,’ declared Agatha firmly, seeing that Bartholomew remained uncertain. ‘I have a feeling about it, and my feelings are never wrong.’

Bartholomew saw there was no point in arguing with her. She was convinced she was right, and that was that. He looked down at the sodden leather bag. It was filthy, consistent with lying in the mud and rain since Monday night, and was empty. Other than that, it was unremarkable. It was one of the ones sold by the dozen in the Market Square, and comprised a brown pouch with holes punched into the top, through which a string was threaded that sealed it when drawn tight. Bartholomew owned one just like it. He doubted whether anyone would be able to identify it as definitely Walcote’s or Faricius’s – or even Kyrkeby’s.

‘If Walcote was a man of means, why would he own a cheap purse like this?’ he asked thoughtfully.

‘He did, though,’ said Michael tiredly. ‘We proctors fine undergraduates in pennies, and a sturdy leather scrip like this is perfect for holding them. More expensive ones tend not to be strong enough to hold large quantities of base coins of the realm.’

‘And what about Faricius?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Did he own one of these, too?’

‘We can ask,’ said Michael.

‘And Orwelle found this one empty?’ pressed Bartholomew. ‘He did not take its contents before passing it to you?’

‘I confess that crossed my mind,’ admitted Michael. ‘But Orwelle was bitterly disappointed that there was nothing in it. I do not think he would have been able to lie quite so convincingly, had he taken its contents for himself.’ He sighed. ‘So, the motive for Walcote’s murder looks to have been theft. It seems to fit the facts. And that means we are dealing with a random act of violence after all, not some clever conspiracy.’

‘I am not so sure,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Theft is inconsistent with the manner of his death: why hang someone when it is easier, quicker and much safer to stab him? Walcote’s death has the feel of an execution to me, not a simple robbery.’

Michael gestured to Kyrkeby’s body. ‘What can you tell us about him? You wanted more light so that you could see what you were doing, so what can you tell me now?’

‘I am sorry, Brother,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I have learned nothing new. All the options I outlined last night – struck on the head, his neck snapped, crushed in the tunnel or his heart giving out – are still equally possible.’

‘Not the latter, Matt,’ said Michael. ‘No one would need to hide a body that had died naturally. Oh, damn it all! Where did he come from?’

Bartholomew turned to see Richard Stanmore entering the church. His nephew’s scented goose grease could be smelled the instant he pushed open the door, and Michael immediately sneezed. Behind Richard, and cruelly – although very accurately – mimicking his mincing walk, was Cynric, coming to see whether Bartholomew needed any help.

‘God’s blood, man!’ Michael snuffled, removing a piece of linen from his scrip with which to dab at his nose. ‘What have you done to yourself? You smell as though you have spent the night romping with whores.’

‘And what would a monk know of such things?’ asked Richard innocently. ‘However, I can assure you that a man of my standing in society is hardly likely to “romp with whores”, as you so delicately put it.’

Bartholomew was sceptical of this claim, recalling the presence of Richard’s horse in the Market Square suspiciously early that morning.

Michael sneezed again, and looked Richard up and down disparagingly. Bartholomew could see why the monk was disapproving. Richard was wearing yet another set of exquisite clothes, this time in shades of red and gold. Around his waist was an ornate belt, from which dangled a dagger that was mostly handle and no blade. Bartholomew saw Cynric regarding it with amazement that turned to mirth. Despite his finery, however, Richard did not look well. There was a puffiness around his eyes, and his complexion was sallow and unhealthy, as if he were enjoying a lifestyle that was too hard on his body and required of him too many sleepless nights. With a flourish, Richard produced the bandage Bartholomew had lent him the morning after Walcote had died and wrapped it around the lower half of his face.

‘That is better,’ he declared in a muffled voice. ‘The King’s courtiers tie cloth around their noses to exclude foul smells from their nostrils. It stinks like a butcher’s stall in here.’

‘What do you want?’ demanded Michael, irritated. ‘Do not expect your uncle to waste time with you today. He is busy with University business.’

‘Since when has that fat monk been your keeper?’ asked Richard, addressing Bartholomew and deliberately turning his back on Michael. ‘Does he decide when you see your family these days?’

‘As it happens, he is right,’ said Bartholomew shortly, not liking the way Richard and Michael bickered. Richard was arrogant and obnoxious, and Bartholomew understood exactly why Michael had taken a dislike to him. But when all was said and done, he was Bartholomew’s nephew, and he felt Michael might have made some pretence at affability. ‘I am busy today.’

‘Very well,’ said Richard, disappointed. ‘I only wanted you to introduce me to Master Langelee. I suppose it can wait.’

‘What do you want with Langelee?’ demanded Michael immediately. ‘He will have nothing to say to a young man who wears an ear-ring.’

‘You should invest in one,’ said Richard, treating the monk to a knowing wink. ‘They are very popular with the ladies.’

‘Then maybe the ladies should wear them,’ retorted Michael. ‘Yours makes you look like a pirate, not a lawyer.’

‘I thought they were the same thing,’ muttered Cynric, regarding Richard, his ear-ring and his ornamental dagger with undisguised disdain.

Agatha stepped forward, and in one lightning-fast movement that caught Richard unawares, she seized the offending item between her thick fingers to inspect it minutely. Richard froze in alarm, while Bartholomew held his breath, half expecting her to rip the ear-ring from its lobe to underline her disapproval. But she merely released it and moved away, wrinkling her nose and pursing her lips to indicate that she did not like the scent of the goose grease that clogged the air around him.

‘This particular fashion will not last long,’ she announced, indicating the ear-ring with a jerk of her thumb. ‘What sane person deliberately pierces himself with a piece of metal?’

‘Everyone at court has one,’ objected Richard, rubbing his ear ruefully. ‘Those who do not are considered to be dowdy and not worth knowing.’

‘It is comforting to know that our country is being governed by men with gold through their ears and buttons on their shirts,’ said Michael coolly. ‘No wonder we have been at war with France for so long: everyone spends his time thinking about ear-rings and clothes, while affairs of state are deemed unfashionable and unimportant.’