Bartholomew’s heart leapt into his mouth as the latch on Timothy’s door began to rise. Quickly, he pinched out the candle, and was only just under the table when Brother Janius burst in holding a lamp. Bartholomew held his breath when the skirts of Janius’s habit swung so close to his face that he could make out the individual fibres in the cloth. The monk then rummaged among documents on the very table under which Bartholomew crouched.
‘Here we are,’ Janius said suddenly, and Bartholomew heard the rustle of parchment. ‘I knew it was Timothy who had taken Bartholomew’s instructions.’
He left as abruptly as he had entered, leaving the room in darkness. Bartholomew released a shuddering breath, and tried to quell the fluttering in his stomach. He heard more footsteps pounding on the stairs as hot water was fetched, and there was a clank as someone produced a metal bowl in which to mix the herbs and water so that Adam could inhale the steam. The frightened rasp of Adam’s laboured breathing began to ease.
Bartholomew began to relax, too, and was considering resuming his search when he realised that Janius must have noticed the cloak that lay across the bottom of the door. Would he assume it had fallen there? But it was fairly obvious that the garment had been placed in position by someone inside the room, and that it had not coincidentally fallen in such a way as to block light. With a surge of panic, Bartholomew scrambled out from under the table, half expecting Janius to burst into the chamber and catch him red-handed.
He glanced at the ambry in the far corner, not knowing whether to risk a few more moments to complete his search, or whether to count his blessings and leave while he still could. Instincts of self-preservation urged him to go, but he knew he would never have such a chance again – Timothy would know someone had been in his room because there was candle wax all over the floor, and Bartholomew intended to take the two purses he had recovered to Michael. If Bartholomew did not find the essay first, Timothy would move it elsewhere, and it would never be found. Reluctantly, he made his decision and turned towards the ambry, fumbling with the latch. It was entirely the wrong thing to have done. The door burst open and a sudden light flooded the room.
‘Is this what you were hoping to find, Matthew?’ asked Janius pleasantly, holding aloft a sheaf of parchment. ‘Here is Faricius’s essay. I assume that is what you were looking for?’
Timothy closed the door behind them, a hefty broadsword in one hand. ‘Do not even think of howling for help, Doctor. If you so much as try, I will kill you.’
For several moments, Bartholomew was too shocked to speak. He looked from the pile of parchments that Janius held, to Timothy’s amiable face with its ready smile. Behind Timothy, Janius’s blue eyes, which usually gleamed with the light of religious fervour, now seemed cold and sinister.
‘How did you know I was here?’ asked Bartholomew, trying to keep his voice steady and not to look at the monstrous sword that Timothy brandished with practised ease.
Janius continued to grin. ‘We expected you yesterday, but we knew you would come sooner or later. We have been waiting.’
‘But how did you know?’ asked Bartholomew again.
‘We met Simon Lynne strolling along the High Street last night,’ said Janius. ‘He was under the impression that he was safe, but he told us all about your suspicions before we killed him and hid him in the tunnel so conveniently vacated by Kyrkeby. It was a squeeze, given that the thing has collapsed, but it will do for now.’
Bartholomew gazed at him. The intense blue gaze was just as sincere when he talked about murder, as it had been when he had talked about his God. The physician tried to suppress a shudder.
‘I see you found my well-laundered black cloak,’ said Timothy, nodding at the garment that lay on the floor.
‘I found the grey one you stole from Pechem, too,’ said Bartholomew.
‘And the scrips that belonged to Kyrkeby and Faricius,’ said Janius, looking at the two purses that lay on the table. ‘Timothy took them, so that Michael would believe that some passing outlaw was at work, murdering men for the contents of their purses. It would have worked, if you had not insisted on looking for other motives.’
‘You took Walcote’s scrip and left it near Barnwell Priory for Sergeant Orwelle to find,’ said Bartholomew, looking hard at Janius. ‘You had it in the basket you claimed was filled with food for the lepers. But the lepers received no food from you that day – or any other day this Lent.’
‘We have been feeding the riverfolk,’ said Janius, offended that his good works were being questioned. ‘We cannot provide for the whole town, and it has been a hard winter, even for us.’
‘You took Faricius’s essay from Paul yesterday,’ said Bartholomew, more bravely than he felt. ‘But only after you raided the Dominicans, Michaelhouse and the Barnwell Priory to look for it. You stole a glove when you burgled the Dominican Friary, and left it at Michaelhouse, so that we would accuse Morden of the crime.’
‘I was surprised you fell for that,’ said Janius, exchanging an amused glance with Timothy. ‘You must have seen that neither of us was small enough to be Morden when you tussled with us. Why did you allow Michael to believe it?’
‘He believed it because of the way the other glove dropped from the rafter when Michael slammed open Morden’s door,’ said Timothy gloatingly. ‘I flung it up there in the hope that Michael would see it “hidden”, but when it fell to the ground so conveniently – as if God Himself wanted you to see it – it made Morden appear more guilty than ever.’
‘Janius spoke to Father Paul,’ said Bartholomew, more interested in the raid on the Franciscan Friary than in how Timothy had laid false evidence against Morden. He watched Timothy test the blade of his sword with his thumb. It came away smeared with blood, indicating that it was very sharp. ‘Timothy kept silent, because he knew Paul would recognise his voice, while Janius demanded the essay.’
Janius inclined his head to indicate that Bartholomew had guessed correctly. ‘Obviously Paul could not see us, but we know his powers of observation are greater than those of many sighted men. We acted accordingly. As long as I never have cause to speak to him, he will never know our paths have crossed.’
‘If you spared Paul, why did you kill Arbury?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering whether he could shout and still evade the wicked blade Timothy wielded. He realised it would be hopeless. Timothy had been a soldier, and it had probably not been an empty boast when he promised to run Bartholomew through if he called for help. ‘There was no need to murder the lad.’
‘He recognised me,’ explained Timothy. ‘He addressed me by name, and politely offered to extract Michael from Langelee’s chamber, even though I had my hood pulled well over my eyes. We had a choice: we could abandon the notion of searching Michael’s room and fabricate some excuse as to why we were there, or we could continue with what we had planned.’
‘So, you chose the second option,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And you left Arbury to die.’
‘It was a pity,’ said Timothy. ‘But there is more at stake here than the life of a student.’
‘Such as what?’ demanded Bartholomew, realising that even if he did manage to shout for help before he died, the other monks would merely applaud Timothy for protecting them against someone who had just forced a window to gain entry to their hostel. ‘What is more important than human lives?’
‘The University,’ said Timothy immediately. ‘It transcends all of us. We will be dead within a few years – sooner in your case – but the University will still be here for centuries to come.’
‘Not if it has people like you in it,’ said Bartholomew, startled by the monk’s claim. ‘The King will not want a University that is in the control of murderers and thieves.’