Susanna GREGORY - An Order for Death

‘But everyone agrees that two men joined the end of the procession and strolled on to Franciscan property,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Did you hear both of them speak?’

‘No,’ admitted Paul. ‘But I am sure I would have known if one of them had been Timothy.’

‘How?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Does he have a distinctive smell, or a particular way of moving his feet when he walks that you might have noticed?’

‘No,’ said Paul again. ‘He does not. But I would have recognised his voice.’

Bartholomew sighed. He understood that Paul was unwilling to admit that his blindness might have been a disadvantage, when he liked everyone to believe it was a boon, but the old man’s obstinacy might lead them astray. ‘Think carefully, Father. Did both these intruders speak or did just one of them do the talking?’

‘One,’ said Paul, rather reluctantly. ‘But it was not Timothy. He has a distinctive voice, pleasant and rich. The person who spoke had a thin voice, which had a disagreeable smugness to it.’

‘Have you ever heard Brother Janius of the Benedictines speak?’

‘Now wait a moment–’ began Michael angrily. Bartholomew raised a hand to silence him.

‘I do not know Janius,’ admitted Paul. ‘So I do not know whether I have heard him speak or not. Does he have a thin, reedy voice that sounds as if he could do with a good meal?’

‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew immediately.

‘A good meal? I thought you said he was a Benedictine,’ muttered Pechem.

‘Janius does have a high voice,’ said Michael begrudgingly. ‘But that does not identify him as one of these killers.’

‘Would you recognise the voice if you heard it again?’ asked Bartholomew of Paul. ‘Was it sufficiently distinctive for that?’

‘I am not sure,’ said Paul. He flushed, embarrassed. ‘Normally, I am observant, as you know. But I was flustered by the knife at my throat, and I did not think much about voices and their timbres.’

‘Of course you did not,’ said Michael, favouring Bartholomew with a scornful look. ‘And no one would expect you to, under the circumstances.’

Bartholomew was persistent. ‘Paul would have recognised Timothy’s voice; Timothy knows that, because we have made no secret of the fact that we admire Paul’s powers of observation. So, Janius did the talking.’ He shrugged. ‘And it does not sound as though Paul enjoyed a lengthy conversation with these intruders, anyway. The dialogue seems to have comprised a few direct and aggressive questions.’

‘That is true,’ said Paul. ‘The whole incident lasted only a few moments. The essay was on my table, and I knew they would have it whether I told them where it was or not. There was little point in dying over it, so I told them.’

‘We have no strong reasons to rule Timothy and Janius out as possible suspects,’ pressed Bartholomew, seeing that Michael remained sceptical.

‘Another Junior Proctor,’ said Lynne bitterly. ‘It is as well I fled here, or one of them would have arrested me, and I would have died in his cells. You should be more careful who you choose as deputies, Brother.’

‘There is no evidence that Timothy is the culprit,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘Matt’s logic is faulty as usual.’

‘There is evidence,’ insisted Bartholomew. ‘You just do not want to see it, because you do not want Timothy to be guilty. First, there is the fact that as soon as we had identified Father Paul as someone who might help us, the killer came here.’

‘Coincidence,’ said Michael.

‘Not coincidence,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It was a perfect opportunity. Timothy slipped away from us as soon as he could, by pretending to go to speak to Matilde about the lepers. He doubtless went immediately to collect Janius, so that they could act before it was too late.’

‘Too late?’ asked Michael.

‘You were coming here. Timothy knew that he had to get to Lynne – and then to the essay – before you laid hands on either and secreted them away. Once you had them in Michaelhouse, where security has been tightened since the murder of Arbury, reaching either would have been impossible.’

‘But I do not keep valuable documents in my room at Michaelhouse,’ protested Michael, carefully making no mention of the secret chest in the cellars. ‘I would not have taken the essay or Lynne there.’

‘Does Timothy know that? Have you told him where you keep your secret scrolls and parchments?’

Michael shook his head, and Bartholomew pressed on.

‘Timothy knows he cannot mount a second successful attack on Michaelhouse. The student on gate duty tonight will be cautious and watchful, given that the last person to do his job was murdered. Timothy knew that if he wanted the essay he would have to come to Paul before you did.’

‘I am not sure about this,’ said Michael uncertainly. ‘It is very circumstantial.’

‘Then think about the raid on Michaelhouse that I discovered in progress: two men, one with light footsteps who ran away first, and one who was strong enough to best me in a hand-to-hand contest.’

‘I thought you were convinced that the nuns at St Radegund’s were involved,’ said Michael disparagingly. ‘Perhaps one of the intruders was a woman. Tysilia, for example.’

‘The person I fought was no woman,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He was an experienced fighter. And Timothy told us only today that he was at Crécy. That is partly why you wanted him for your deputy – you knew that his fighting skills would come in useful for skirmishes with restless students.’

‘This is not evidence,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘This is pure conjecture.’

‘All right,’ said Bartholomew, trying a different tactic. ‘What about the fact that it was terribly convenient that Timothy just happened to be walking past when these two intruders fled the Franciscan Friary? Why was he there at such an opportune moment?’

‘On patrol, I imagine,’ said Michael, exasperated. ‘Of all the people in Cambridge, Timothy is probably the one who has more reason to be out on the streets than anyone else. It is his job; he is paid to walk around preventing trouble.’

‘And he did give chase to the intruders,’ added Lynne. ‘He followed them until he lost them among the reeds that lie between here and the Barnwell Causeway.’

‘How do you know that?’ demanded Bartholomew.

‘He told us,’ said Lynne. ‘He returned breathless and sweating to say that they had escaped.’

‘ He told you,’ said Bartholomew. ‘That means nothing. He probably did run to the wasteland, with his accomplice Janius. But as soon as he reached the cover of the reeds, he left the cloak he had used as a disguise, along with the essay, and returned to tell you that the two intruders had eluded him. And that is another thing. The cloak.’

‘What cloak?’ asked Michael wearily.

‘The men who stabbed Nigel at Barnwell Priory wore dark cloaks,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Timothy did not wear a dark cloak today; he wore a pale one that he claims was ruined in the laundry. Cloaks are expensive, and I do not accept that Timothy would be so stoical if Yolande really had turned his fine Benedictine garment into one that looked like a Franciscan’s.’

‘Mine is missing,’ said Pechem, rubbing his temples, as if the accusations and counter-accusations had given him a headache. ‘He must have taken it when he came to check that all was well with us earlier today. I wondered what had happened to it.’

‘Why did he feel the need to check on you?’ demanded Bartholomew.

‘I do not know,’ admitted Pechem. ‘He told me he wanted to make sure my hand was healing.’

Bartholomew shot Michael a triumphant look. ‘Timothy paid an unexpected visit to the Franciscans with the specific intention of stealing a cloak, because he was afraid he might be recognised by Nigel if he wore a dark one. But Nigel did recognise him. It was not you Nigel was howling at, Brother: it was Timothy, grey cloak or no. He entered the infirmary just behind you.’