Susanna GREGORY - An Order for Death

‘But how did this happen?’ asked Morden, his elfin face shocked and wan. ‘Why?’

‘I do not know how or why,’ admitted Michael. ‘I really am terribly sorry.’

Morden moved to the coffin and pulled back the sheet to look at his Precentor’s face. ‘My God!’ he breathed in horror, dropping the cover quickly before his colleagues could see what was underneath. ‘Did you find him like this?’

‘Not quite,’ said Bartholomew, who had also glimpsed what Agatha had done to Kyrkeby. He was not surprised she had declined to show them her handiwork in the church. The dead man’s face was no longer grey and flat, but a lively assortment of colours. His cheeks had been carefully reddened with rouge, and his lips were verging on scarlet. His eyelids were blue, and even his nose had a curious orange glow to it.

‘I think it would be best if we took him to the chapel immediately,’ said Morden. He glanced anxiously at Bartholomew and the three pall-bearers. ‘Does anyone else know about this?’

‘Only us,’ said Michael.

‘Then perhaps we could keep it like that,’ said Morden. ‘He has done this before, you know.’

‘Done what before?’ asked Michael, bewildered. ‘Died?’

‘Put women’s paint on his face,’ said Morden in a whisper. ‘It was many years ago, and I thought he had put an end to such peculiarities. But it seems he has not.’

‘It was Agatha,’ began Bartholomew, not wanting poor Kyrkeby’s reputation sullied when he was not in a position to declare his innocence.

‘Who is Agatha?’ asked Morden. ‘A whore?’ He gave a sudden shudder. ‘No! Please do not tell me. It is better that I do not know.’

‘Very well,’ said Michael. ‘But Kyrkeby was found near the Carmelite Friary. Do you want to complain about that, or shall we keep it to ourselves for now?’

‘Do not tell me that the Carmelites saw him like this?’ whispered Morden in horror.

‘They did not,’ replied Michael truthfully. ‘But you can rest assured that I will do all in my power to discover how he died and why.’

‘I am not sure that would be best for our Order,’ said Morden nervously. ‘What do you plan to do? Ask around the vendors in the Market Square to ascertain which of them sold him the paints? I really would rather you did not.’

‘As you wish,’ said Michael smoothly. ‘I shall defer to you in that matter. But in return, I want certain questions answered.’

‘Very well,’ said Morden. He clasped Michael’s hand gratefully. ‘Thank you for what you have done, Brother – for tending Kyrkeby with such respect as well as for hiding him from prying eyes.’

‘Well,’ said Michael smiling in satisfaction as he watched Morden and his student-friars carry Kyrkeby to their chapel. ‘It seems we have averted a riot, Matt. The Dominicans will not march on the Carmelites today at least.’

‘Perhaps not, but word will soon spread that Kyrkeby was excavated from a tomb in the Carmelites’ graveyard. And then where will we be?’

‘That,’ said Michael complacently, ‘is a bridge we shall cross when we reach it.’

When Prior Morden had seen the body of his Precentor escorted to the chapel, Michael led the way to the small chamber that served as the Prior’s sleeping quarters and office. The monk thrust open the door with such vigour that it crashed against the wall with a sound like a thunderclap. Morden sighed irritably.

‘I wish you would not do that, Brother. Every time you visit my friary, I am obliged to repaint part of the wall.’ He bent to inspect the damage, clicking his tongue over the flakes of plaster that fell to the ground.

‘How long do you think Master Kenyngham will stay?’ asked Ringstead worriedly. In the chapel below, Kenyngham’s voice rose in an ecstasy of prayer. ‘We appreciate his concern, but we have friars of our own to say masses for Kyrkeby. I told him this, but he did not seem to hear.’

‘Kenyngham hears very little once he is into the business of praying,’ agreed Michael. ‘But if he is still here when we leave, we will try to take him with us.’

‘Good,’ said Morden, leaving the door and clambering into the large chair behind the table, to sit with his short legs swinging in the air. ‘He is a saintly man, but I do not want members of other Orders inside our grounds at the moment. The different sects have never been easy in each other’s company, but I am sure you have noticed matters have been worse recently.’

‘It is because it is Lent, and spring is a long time in coming,’ supplied Ringstead helpfully. ‘And because this realism – nominalism debate has everyone agitated.’

‘It is the Carmelites who exacerbated that,’ said Morden disapprovingly. ‘We might have all agreed to differ if Lincolne had not been so aggressive and dogmatic.’

‘He is a fanatic,’ said Ringstead, just in case Bartholomew and Michael had not noticed. ‘He gives the impression that he would defend realism to the death. I am not entirely convinced that nominalism provides all the answers, but his very attitude makes me want to oppose him.’

‘Quite, quite,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘But we should not be discussing philosophy when your Precentor lies dead. I need to ask some questions. Did he own a purse or a scrip?’

‘He had a leather scrip, as do we all,’ said Morden, pulling a tiny one from his belt and showing it to Michael. It looked like something a child might carry. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘We did not find one with his body, and we need to know whether it was stolen,’ said Michael. ‘Is there anything distinctive about this scrip? Was it patterned in a particular way?’

‘No,’ said Morden immediately.

‘Yes,’ said Ringstead at the same time.

Michael raised his eyebrows, and treated Morden to the kind of glance that was intended to remind him that a favour had been granted, but could just as easily be withdrawn. The tiny Dominican swallowed hard, then gestured for Ringstead to speak.

‘Kyrkeby’s scrip was of a very delicate design,’ said Ringstead. ‘You can see that ours are plain, but his was patterned with flowers and butterflies.’

‘Flowers and butterflies?’ asked Michael, startled. He raised his eyebrows. ‘Well, I imagine that will not be too difficult to identify!’

‘It was more like something a woman would own than the scrip of a friar,’ elaborated Ringstead. He saw Morden gesticulating not to give away more than was necessary, but went on angrily. ‘They already know about the face paint, Father Prior, so it cannot matter if they know about the scrip, too. Besides, we all want to know why he died.’

Morden sighed. ‘Then I hope you will be discreet with this knowledge, Brother Michael. Kyrkeby liked pretty things. He had jewellery, too.’

‘I thought Dominicans were sworn to poverty,’ said Bartholomew, thinking about the fine collection of crosses and rings that Ringstead had shown them when Kyrkeby was first reported missing. ‘Why did your Order allow him to own such things?’

Morden spread his hands and gave a sickly smile. ‘St Dominic did not intend us to live in poverty in a literal sense. He merely intended that we be aware of the dangers of earthly possessions, and that we eat bread and water from time to time.’

‘I see,’ said Michael wryly. ‘That is the most conveniently liberal interpretation of St Dominic’s Rule that I have ever heard. But let us return to Kyrkeby. Do you think he may have been wearing any of these rings when he died? It is important to know whether any are missing.’

‘You have already looked at his possessions,’ Ringstead pointed out. ‘And I have already told you that I do not know whether anything has gone.’

‘But I might,’ said Morden tiredly. ‘Fetch them, Ringstead, if you please.’