Susanna GREGORY - An Order for Death

Bartholomew wanted to talk to Michael, but he discovered that the monk and Langelee had done some serious harm to Langelee’s barrel of wine, and were still ensconced in comradely bonhomie next to the fire, toasting each other’s health. Their carousing could be heard all over the courtyard, and was probably keeping more than one weary student from his sleep. The physician wondered how Langelee felt able to justify the heavy fines he imposed on the scholars he caught doing the same thing.

He declined to join them, and instead went to Kenyngham’s room. He knocked softly on the door and slipped inside. Kenyngham was asleep, as were the three students who shared his room. They lay on straw mattresses that were stored under Kenyngham’s bed during the day and were brought out to cover the whole floor at night. Their steady breathing indicated that Bartholomew’s entry had not woken them, and he wondered whether they had been at the wine themselves, for the sounds of Langelee and Michael enjoying themselves in the room virtually above their heads were deafening. He sat on the edge of Kenyngham’s bed and shook the elderly Gilbertine awake.

‘I know what you discussed at these meetings,’ he whispered when the friar sat up rubbing his eyes. ‘The theft from the chest in the Carmelite Friary.’

He heard Kenyngham sigh softly. ‘Come outside, Matthew. My students mark all seven offices at church during Holy Week, and it will not do if they fall asleep during them because you want to talk to me in the middle of the night.’

If Kenyngham’s students were attending all the religious offices, as well as their morning lectures, no wonder they all slept so deeply, thought Bartholomew. He waited for Kenyngham to draw on a pair of shoes, then followed him into the courtyard.

‘What is that?’ asked Kenyngham, as his sleep-befuddled wits sharpened and he became aware of the row emanating from Langelee’s room. ‘I am surprised the Master permits such a racket at this time of night.’

‘I visited Prior Pechem tonight,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He told me about the Carmelites’ theft.’

‘He should not have done that,’ said Kenyngham, gazing up at the dark sky above. ‘But now you know, I suppose there is no point in further secrecy. I wish you had not meddled: you are Michael’s friend.’

‘Michael is not a thief,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He skates on thin ice from time to time, but he would never steal.’

‘The evidence suggests otherwise,’ said Kenyngham. ‘He was the only person with access to a key, other than Chancellor Tynkell.’

‘That means nothing,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Someone could have used a knife to prise the chest open.’

‘The master locksmith inspected it the morning after the theft. He told Walcote that it had been breached because someone had a key, not because it had been forced open.’

‘But Tynkell – or even Michael himself – could have mislaid the key or left it unguarded, enabling someone else to make a copy,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘This so-called “evidence” of yours does not prove that Michael is a criminal.’

‘I have not finished yet,’ said Kenyngham. ‘Michael was actually seen entering the friary by at least two people the evening the theft was committed. Walcote interviewed every Carmelite, and it was ascertained beyond the shadow of a doubt that he had visited no one there that night.’

‘But a good deal of Michael’s business is secret,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘Remember what happened when Langelee revealed his pending arrangements with Heytesbury last year? There was a perfectly honest explanation, but he could not tell anyone because of the delicacy of the negotiations.’

‘There is yet more evidence against Michael,’ Kenyngham went on. ‘The same night, he was seen by his own beadles carrying a bulging bag from Milne Street – where the Carmelite Friary is located – to Michaelhouse. Michael told them it contained fresh bread as a gift to his Michaelhouse colleagues. But we had no fresh bread that morning.’

‘How can you be sure of that?’ demanded Bartholomew, becoming distressed as Kenyngham’s accusations mounted. ‘I doubt you remember what you had for breakfast this morning, let alone what you ate months ago, and Michael does occasionally buy bread for us.’

‘But I do remember, Matthew,’ Kenyngham insisted. ‘It was Christmas Day. Traditionally, we give the parish children their breakfast then, but that morning we only had stale bread to offer.’

Bartholomew knew that was true, because he vividly recalled the expressions of abject disappointment in the faces of the children who had been waiting since dawn for their yearly treat. He also remembered that it had been Michael who had quietly suggested that they return that afternoon, when the children were given bread, apples, milk and cheese paid for from his own pocket. The fat monk had a soft spot for children.

‘Walcote then visited the baker,’ Kenyngham continued. ‘The baker was unequivocal: there was some problem with the oven, which meant that no one had fresh bread that night – including Michael. Whatever he had been carrying was certainly not food.’

‘And you think this proves Michael is guilty of theft?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Well, yes,’ said Kenyngham. ‘And so would you, if Michael were someone other than your dearest friend.’

‘There will be a rational explanation for all of it,’ Bartholomew declared.

‘I wish that were true,’ said Kenyngham. ‘But I do not see how there can be. Do you understand now why I declined to tell you what we discussed at St Radegund’s Convent?’

Bartholomew nodded reluctantly. ‘What else did you talk about? Was there any mention of a plot to kill Michael?’

‘I have already told you there was not,’ said Kenyngham. ‘Who said there was?’

‘Prior Morden.’

Kenyngham shook his head. ‘Morden was at no meeting I ever attended.’

‘Then what about the dead beadle and the letter?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Surely that is good evidence that something was afoot?’

Kenyngham sighed tiredly. ‘I know nothing of this. What beadle and what letter?’

‘A beadle called Rob Smyth drowned in a puddle last winter. Walcote found a letter in his possession that gave details of a plot against Michael’s life.’

‘Was Michael with you when Morden spun this tale?’

‘Of course,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We are investigating Walcote’s murder and were trying to understand the nature of these secret meetings, so that we could work out who might have killed him.’

Kenyngham scrubbed at his halo of fluffy white hair. ‘There is one explanation for why Morden chose to fabricate such lies, although I doubt you will appreciate the logic behind it.’

‘What?’ asked Bartholomew warily.

‘Walcote was looking into the theft from the Carmelite Friary. He had collected enough evidence to incriminate Michael, and was waiting for an opportunity to confront him with it. Then he was murdered. Obviously, Morden was not going to say all this with Michael towering over him, and so he invented some silly story to distract Michael’s attention from the real issue.’

Bartholomew gazed at Kenyngham in utter disbelief. ‘Surely you are not suggesting that Michael is investigating a murder he committed himself? How could you even begin to think such a thing?’

‘Whoever hanged Walcote was strong, and probably had a couple of henchmen to help,’ said Kenyngham heavily. ‘Michael’s beadles are loyal to him, especially Tom Meadowman. The killer was also able to stalk the streets at night; Michael regularly patrols the town, and few know it as well as he does.’

‘This is insane,’ said Bartholomew, beginning to back away from Kenyngham as though he was infected by a virulent contagion. ‘It is all gross supposition. The rawest undergraduate could destroy your arguments like a house of straw.’