Susanna GREGORY - An Order for Death

‘Poor Walcote was horrified by his discoveries,’ Kenyngham went on relentlessly. ‘He told us he did not know what to do next, and said it was not pleasant for him to learn that a man he admired, and who is the embodiment of law and order in the University, is corrupt.’

‘I do not believe I am hearing this,’ said Bartholomew. He took another step away from Kenyngham, then turned his back on the Gilbertine and began to walk across the yard. ‘I refuse to listen to any more of it.’

‘God be with you, Matthew,’ came Kenyngham’s voice, drifting across the yard as he walked. ‘And do not let friendship blind you to the truth.’

From the shadows near his staircase, Bartholomew watched Kenyngham return to his bed, then paced back and forth in Michaelhouse’s dark yard, uncertain whether to join Michael and Langelee in the Master’s quarters and tell them what he had learned from Kenyngham, or whether to go to his room and give himself time to identify more flaws in Kenyngham’s story. The voices of Michael and Langelee, slurred from the wine, echoed around the stone buildings as they continued to carouse.

Bartholomew was unable to concentrate over their racket, and so he walked through the kitchens and opened a small back door, which led to a large garden that sloped towards the river. The grounds boasted vegetable plots that provided stringy cabbages and tough turnips, and a small orchard of apple and pear trees. Near the gate was Agatha’s herb garden, a neat rectangle of thyme, mint, rosemary and parsley. Even on a cold winter night, their comfortingly familiar scents pervaded the air.

Next to one of the walls a tree had fallen many years before, and the trunk provided a comfortable seat for scholars who wanted to be alone with their thoughts. In the summer it was an attractive place shaded by leaves and carpeted with long green grass; at night in late winter, it was less appealing, with leafless branches clawing at the dark sky and a sprinkling of frost underfoot, but at least it was quiet. Bartholomew sat on the trunk and leaned back against the wall, marshalling his thoughts.

The physician knew perfectly well that Michael was not above breaking all kinds of rules in order to achieve his objectives. He was also sure that the monk treated his religious vows with a certain degree of laxness, that he owned property he should not have had, and that the Seven Deadly Sins – especially Gluttony and Lust – were what provided him with his greatest enjoyment in life. The monk was a conspirator, he was not averse to lying, and he regularly cheated the people with whom he dealt – as Heytesbury would discover if he ever signed Michael’s contract. He played power games with the wealthy and influential, and was vindictive to people who tried to treat him in the same shabby way as he treated them. And despite the mutual backslapping that was taking place, even as Bartholomew agonised over his quandary, Langelee had been responsible for Michael not being elected as Master, and Bartholomew knew Michael had not forgiven him. At some point in the future, Michael would have his revenge.

But to claim that Michael was a thief – and worse – was another matter entirely. Bartholomew’s instinctive reaction was to dismiss what Kenyngham had told him, and to believe that Walcote had been mistaken. And yet the evidence for Michael’s guilt was compelling – especially the fact that he had been present in the Carmelite Friary without an excuse at the time of the theft, and that he had been seen carrying a bulky sack from the friary towards Michaelhouse. And then he had lied about the sack’s contents.

There was something else, too. Bartholomew leaned forward and buried his head in his hands, reluctant to confront the mounting tide of evidence against Michael. When Bartholomew had first agreed to help the monk, they had sat together in Michael’s room and Bartholomew had made notes on a scrap of used parchment. Walcote had written on it, and then someone – possibly Walcote but probably Michael – had scraped it and covered it in a thin layer of chalk so that it could be used again. But the scraper had done a poor job: Bartholomew had been able to read what had been written previously, and he recalled that one side had contained a list of items stolen from the chest at the Carmelite Friary.

So, what did that tell him? That Michael knew about Walcote’s investigation, and he had even managed to purloin a list of the very items he himself had stolen? Or was the parchment just some scrap Michael had grabbed without looking at it, and its presence in his room purely coincidence? Bartholomew decided it had to be the latter. Michael was no burglar.

He sighed and leaned back against the orchard wall, gazing up at the dark sky above. He realised that he would have to prove Michael’s innocence – that if he could show Michael had not committed the theft, then no one would have grounds on which to accuse him of murdering his Junior Proctor. But where was he to begin? How could he investigate a crime that had taken place months before? Any evidence that might have been left at the scene of the burglary would be long since gone.

He stood abruptly, and paced in front of the tree-trunk. Should he tell Michael what was being said about him, so that they could work together to clear the monk of the charges? Or would Michael be so outraged by the accusations that he would decline to respond to them at all, and forbid Bartholomew to give them credence by investigating on his behalf? He knew that the monk could be stubborn about such things. He also knew that Michael’s position as Senior Proctor did not make him popular with everyone, and that many scholars would love to see him fall from grace, especially those who had fallen foul of his quick mind and sharp tongue. It would not be easy to exonerate him in some circles, no matter how much evidence Bartholomew might provide to the contrary.

The physician rubbed a hand through his hair, trying to decide upon the best course of action. Michael would know immediately if Bartholomew was concealing something important from him, and the physician thought that there had been more than enough lies already: he owed Michael his honesty. Then, if Michael reacted as Bartholomew feared, and treated the accusations with dismissive contempt, the physician would have to conduct his own investigation to clear his friend’s name secretly, perhaps with Meadowman’s help.

He was too tired to discuss the affair with the monk that night, and decided to wait until morning. Michael was also drunk, and drunkenness often led to belligerence. Bartholomew did not want to start some argument for the whole College to hear, or run the risk of the monk damaging his chances of proving his innocence by storming off into the night to inform the heads of the religious Orders that they were wrong.

He left the orchard and made his way back to his room. The bells started to chime as he walked past Agatha’s neat rows of herbs, and he realised that it was time for the midnight vigil that many people kept in Easter Week. He was grateful that Michaelhouse did not insist that its scholars undertook such duties, as well as the other offices they were obliged to attend.

The kitchens were cold and empty as he walked through them, and even the cat that usually slept there had gone to find a warmer spot to pass the night. The yard was also deserted, except for Walter the porter’s cockerel, now minus several of its tail feathers. Michael and Langelee had moved on from noisy bonhomie, and were at the stage where they were sharing muttered confidences. Bartholomew knew Michael would learn a lot more about Langelee than Langelee would ever know about him, and as he passed under Langelee’s window, he thought he heard the distinctive sound of Michael’s chuckle.