He had a point. Someone had executed Walcote in a most grisly manner, and whatever Timothy might believe about the purse they found, Bartholomew remained convinced that there was more to Walcote’s death than a simple case of robbery. Nicholas might well be right, and that one of the powerful men with whom Walcote dealt was responsible.
‘Is there anything more you can tell us?’ pressed Michael. ‘Any cases he was working on that he may have told you about?’
‘Nothing that you do not already know,’ replied Nicholas unhappily. ‘This Oxford business was the most risky, but he said you were dealing with that.’
‘And what about his spare time?’ asked Michael, ignoring the fact that persuading another academic to sign a piece of parchment was scarcely life-threatening. ‘What did he do when he was not working for me or fulfilling his duties here at Barnwell?’
‘He liked to read,’ said Nicholas. ‘We were studying the writings of William of Occam together, and next week we had planned to move on to the works of Heytesbury.’
‘But reading about nominalism is not dangerous, either,’ said Michael, frustrated by the lack of relevant information.
‘I am not so sure,’ said Bartholomew thoughtfully. ‘Walcote would not be the first to die because of an interest in philosophy.’
‘There is Lynne,’ said Michael suddenly, grabbing Bartholomew’s arm. ‘I want a word with him. The lay-brother in the infirmary can wait.’
Lynne watched them warily as they approached, but made no attempt to flee, as Bartholomew suspected he might at the sudden arrival of the University’s Senior Proctor.
‘I have some questions I want to put to you,’ said Michael peremptorily. ‘Why did you run away from the Carmelite Friary?’
‘I have never been to the Carmelite Friary,’ said Lynne. ‘You are confusing me with my brother. We are very alike.’
‘Really,’ said Michael flatly. His hand shot out to seize a handful of Lynne’s habit at throat height; then he lifted, so that the student-friar’s feet barely touched the ground. The lad’s sullen arrogance was quickly replaced by alarm.
‘I know nothing about anything,’ he squeaked. ‘I am an Austin novice. I am not a Carmelite.’
‘My cells will be full tonight,’ said Michael softly. ‘First Morden and now Simon Lynne.’
‘This is John Lynne,’ said Nicholas, surprised by Michael’s statement. ‘We have no Simon Lynne here.’
‘Simon is my brother,’ gasped John Lynne. ‘I told you.’ He struggled out of Michael’s failing grasp and brushed himself down. ‘And I know nothing about what Simon may have done.’
‘How do we know you are not lying?’ demanded Michael unconvinced. ‘You look like Simon Lynne to me.’
‘He is my younger brother. He ran away from the Carmelite Friary on Monday night because he was afraid. He went to hide with our Aunt Mabel at St Radegund’s Convent, but you found him on Tuesday, so he was forced to go elsewhere.’
‘Where?’ demanded Michael angrily. ‘Are you hiding him? If you are, you had better tell me, because if I later discover that you knew of his whereabouts and that you concealed them from me, I shall arrest you and charge you with conspiracy to murder. And that is a hanging offence.’
John Lynne paled. ‘I do not know where he is; I doubt anyone does, even Horneby. Simon fled because he was terrified.’
‘Terrified of what?’ asked Michael.
‘Of what happened to Kyrkeby.’
‘Kyrkeby? You mean Faricius, surely? Faricius was Simon’s friend; Kyrkeby was the Dominican Precentor.’
‘I know who Kyrkeby was. And it was Kyrkeby’s death that frightened Simon.’
‘But Simon was reported missing before we discovered Kyrkeby’s body,’ said Michael thoughtfully. ‘He fled on Monday night, and we found Kyrkeby on Wednesday. Are you saying that he knew what had happened to Kyrkeby?’
John Lynne nodded slowly. ‘Simon knew Kyrkeby was dead. And he did not want the same thing to happen to him.’
‘Where is he?’ asked Michael. ‘If he knows who killed Kyrkeby, then he must speak out. As long as the killer is free, then Simon will never be safe.’
‘I keep telling you that I do not know,’ insisted John Lynne, and the fear in his eyes that he would be dragged into the mess created by his brother indicated to Bartholomew that he was telling the truth. ‘But if I see him, I will tell him to contact you. It is the best I can do.’
‘Then make sure you do,’ said Michael, apparently deciding to accept the young man’s story. He gave a hearty sigh and turned to Nicholas. ‘And now we will talk to this stabbed gatekeeper in the infirmary.’
‘There are sick men in there,’ said Nicholas again. ‘I do not know whether Prior Ralph will agree to an invasion by the Senior Proctor.’
‘Let me go,’ said Bartholomew to Michael. ‘I am a physician: Prior Ralph can scarcely object to me visiting the sick.’
Michael seemed reluctant. ‘Very well. But if you take too long, I shall assume this man has something worthwhile to say, and I shall come to hear it for myself.’
The patient lay on a cot piled high with blankets in the large and airy room that served as the priory’s infirmary. Two other Austins were also there, one with a thick bloodstained bandage around his hand, indicating an accident that had probably seen the removal of some fingers, while another had the sallow, yellow look of some undefined and persistent problem with his liver. All three looked up as Bartholomew entered the room, hopeful of something that would break the monotony of a day in bed.
‘How is he, Father?’ asked Bartholomew of the small man in the stained habit. Urban was the canon who cared for the inmates of the nearby leper hospital, as well as tending the sick at Barnwell Priory. ‘Is his wound serious?’
Urban shook his head. ‘The cut is little more than a scratch. He claims it aches and burns, but so might I if the alternative was a day mucking out the pigs. Nigel is malingering, Doctor.’
‘Would you like me to examine him?’
‘He would not, because you would expose him as a fraud,’ said Urban with a smile. ‘I shall allow him his day or two of ease, but if he continues to complain after Easter, you can come and tell him he is fitter than most of the rest of us.’
‘Are you here to ask about the men who almost killed me last night?’ called Nigel, energetically plumping one of his pillows in a way that indicated Urban’s diagnosis was correct. On a small table next to him was a jug of wine, which, judging from his flushed face and confident manner, Nigel had been making the most of.
‘Men?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘How many of them were there?’
‘Two,’ said Nigel. When he had first started speaking, his voice had been a hoarse whisper, but this was soon forgotten as he began to tell his story. Bartholomew smiled, suspecting that the man’s spell of ease was likely to end a lot sooner than Easter unless he worked on his malingering skills. ‘They were big brutes, all swathed in black and meaning business.’
‘What business would that be?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘Stealing,’ replied Nigel promptly. ‘Prior Ralph says they were unsuccessful, although they broke into the documents chest and made a terrible mess of his room. He does not keep any gold there. That is all in the church, and no one would dare to steal from a church.’
‘How do you know the thieves wanted riches?’ asked Bartholomew, aware that many people had no such scruples but declining to argue the point. ‘Perhaps they came for something else.’
‘Such as what?’ asked Nigel, giving Bartholomew a baffled look. ‘They came for gold and they stabbed me to get it.’
‘Then tell me exactly what happened,’ said Bartholomew.