‘Whatever gave them that idea?’ asked Michael.
‘They threw me in the mud,’ cried Clippesby, looking down at the front of his habit as though he had only just noticed that it was splattered with the grime of the road. ‘They picked me up and hurled me into the street.’
‘What would you have done if some lunatic from a rival Order thrust his way into your premises and started making wild accusations?’ asked Pechem, appealing to Michael. ‘It is not the first occasion he has made a nuisance of himself here, and there was no reason to assume that this time was any different.’
‘Did anyone recognise these robbers?’ asked Michael, exasperated that everyone seemed to be more willing to discuss Clippesby and his antics than the real culprits. ‘It is only just growing dark, so there must have been sufficient light to see their faces when they were here.’
With Michael’s appearance, the Franciscans had calmed down, and now stood in a quiet circle around the monk and their Warden, listening. They shook their heads when Michael glanced around at them: it seemed no one had recognised the intruders. Pechem began to shiver more violently than ever in the frigid breeze of early evening, and Clippesby, in a rare moment of sensitivity, removed his own cloak to drape around the man’s shoulders.
‘You should not be out here,’ Bartholomew reprimanded Pechem gently. ‘That horse bite may have unbalanced your humours and rendered you more susceptible to chills.’
‘Those thieves stole my cloak!’ cried Pechem, agitated again. He realised with a start that he was wearing a Dominican’s robe, and almost flung it away. But it was a warm garment, and he was very cold. He clutched it more closely around him.
‘So, what happened is that two strangers calmly joined the end of your procession and entered your friary,’ said Michael. ‘And not one of you asked who they were. Is that what you are telling me?’
‘We could not see their faces because their hoods were up,’ said a short, obese friar called John de Daventre, whom Bartholomew regularly treated for trapped wind. ‘All of us had our cowls drawn, because it is windy and there is rain in the air. It did not seem odd that these two men were also protecting themselves against the weather.’
‘And what happened when these two were inside?’ Michael demanded. ‘Did they dine with you, too, before they decided to commit their crimes?’
Daventre treated him to an unpleasant look. ‘We all went about our own business, and no one noticed where this pair went. But it seems they followed Father Paul to his cell and forced their attentions on him.’
Bartholomew’s stomach churned. ‘What do you mean? Did they hurt him?’
‘No,’ came Paul’s familiar voice as he elbowed his way through the watching friars. ‘They only questioned me. They did me no harm.’
‘What did they want?’ asked Michael.
‘Faricius’s essay on nominalism,’ replied Paul. ‘I am afraid I was obliged to give it to them.’
‘But you do not have it,’ said Michael. ‘You told Matt that you were distressed it had gone missing, and that you hoped it would reappear one day, so Faricius’s name would be remembered.’
‘I never told Matthew I did not have it,’ said Paul. ‘He did not ask me that specific question, and so I did not feel obliged to answer it and tell him it was in my room.’
Michael gave a heavy sigh. ‘That is hardly acting in the spirit of the truth, Father. How did it come into your possession? And why did you decline to tell Matt?’
‘I thought he would be safer knowing nothing about it, and anyway, I swore to tell no one. Oaths are sacred things.’
Angrily, Michael said, ‘You sound like Kenyngham. Has it never occurred to you that it is sometimes better to be honest with the forces of law and order? We are hunting someone who has taken the lives of four people, Father. Surely that transcends any promises you made?’
Paul’s usually expressive face was unreadable. ‘I am a novice in the world of killers and thieves, and I find it hard to see what is right and wrong in such circumstances. But suffice to say that Faricius’s essay was brought to me for safe keeping.’
‘By whom?’ asked Michael. ‘And where is Simon Lynne of the Carmelites? He seems to be missing, too.’
‘Here I am.’ Simon Lynne, wearing a Franciscan novice’s habit that was far too large for him, pushed his way past Daventre and stood next to Paul. He and his brother had been telling the truth, Bartholomew thought: they were indeed peas in a pod. He saw Pechem’s jaw drop in astonishment.
‘But you told us this boy was your kinsman,’ cried the Warden, regarding Paul accusingly. ‘You said he wanted to stay here until he decided whether or not to take the cowl.’
‘That is true,’ said Paul, smiling benignly in Pechem’s direction. ‘I just did not specify which cowl he would be taking – it will be that of a Carmelite, not a Franciscan. And as for him being my kinsman, well, we are all brothers in the eyes of God.’
‘That is a rather liberal interpretation,’ said Pechem sternly. ‘We Franciscans are not in the habit of taking waifs and strays from other Orders.’
‘We Franciscans also never close our doors to those in need,’ retorted Paul sharply. ‘Here is a young man who came to me because he was in fear of his life. I did what I thought was right; I would do the same again in similar circumstances.’
‘But I was not safe here,’ said Lynne unsteadily, on the verge of tears. He pressed more closely against Paul, who put a comforting arm around his shoulders. ‘I thought no one would find me in a friary of Franciscans, but I was wrong. It took those devils less than four days to hunt me down.’ He scrubbed at his nose and sniffed loudly.
‘Who are these “devils”?’ asked Michael gently. He saw the lad was frightened, and realised that now was not the time to give vent to his irritation that Lynne had eluded him for days and probably had been withholding information that might have allowed him to solve the case far sooner.
‘The men who murdered your Junior Proctor,’ said Lynne miserably. He glanced around him fearfully. ‘You must see how dangerous these men are, Brother Michael. If I, a Carmelite, feel driven to seek refuge in a convent of Franciscans – with whom we have been at loggerheads for years – you will understand how deeply I am afraid.’
‘It is clear to me that the men who have terrified Lynne are the same ones who marched in here and demanded Faricius’s essay,’ added Paul.
‘How do you know that?’ asked Bartholomew, a little bewildered by the sudden flow of information.
‘It is complex,’ said Paul. ‘And I do not want to discuss it here. It is cold and there is rain in the air. It is fine for you youngsters, but not for an old man who has just had a dagger at his throat.’
‘But you said they did not harm you,’ said Bartholomew, alarmed. ‘Now you say they held you at knife point?’
Pechem gave a hearty sigh. ‘I understand none of this. My friary is robbed, I learn that Carmelites have invaded the sanctity of our walls, and now you are talking about the murder of the Junior Proctor and stolen essays on nominalism. I think you all have some explaining to do.’
Paul agreed. ‘It is time the unpleasantness regarding Faricius’s essay was laid to rest. He was a gentle man, and would have been appalled to think that his scholarly opinions should be the cause of so much bloodshed and anguish.’
‘He should have considered that before he put pen to parchment, then,’ said Timothy, rather bitterly. ‘Faricius should have used his common sense to see that writing an essay on a subject that is currently so contentious would do nothing to improve the unity and peacefulness of the town.’