‘I recognised his voice,’ said Lynne. ‘He caught me using the tunnel the week before, so I was familiar with it.’
‘You said Walcote’s beadles were there, too,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Are you sure it was Walcote who was badgering Kyrkeby, and not them?’
‘I do not recall who said what exactly,’ admitted Lynne. ‘But Walcote did a lot of the talking, because he was the Junior Proctor. That is what his beadles kept saying.’
‘What are you talking about?’ demanded Michael. ‘You say the beadles kept telling Walcote he was Junior Proctor? I can assure you that he knew.’
‘They kept reminding him,’ insisted Lynne. ‘Everyone knows he was weak. They told him that he was the Junior Proctor, and that it was up to him to locate the essay.’
‘How curious,’ said Michael, puzzled. ‘Still, I suppose someone like Meadowman might have reminded him of his responsibilities, perhaps sensing that Kyrkeby knew more than Walcote’s gentle questions would reveal. But then who killed Walcote?’
‘I imagine the pair who have been busy searching half of Cambridge for this damned essay was responsible for that,’ said Bartholomew.
‘Yes,’ agreed Lynne nervously. ‘That is why I ran away. When I heard that Walcote had been murdered, I decided that the power of men able to kill a proctor was more than I wanted to challenge. I fled to Father Paul, because I knew he would tell me what to do.’
‘But how did you come by the essay?’ asked Michael of Paul. ‘We know that it was stolen from Faricius by Kyrkeby. But how did it get from Kyrkeby’s possession to yours?’
‘Walcote brought it to me the night he died,’ replied Paul. ‘I thought at the time he was acting strangely; he was nervous and vague.’
‘Did he look as though he had been in a fatal struggle with someone?’ asked Michael.
Paul raised his eyebrows and pointed to his sightless eyes. ‘How can I answer that, Brother? He approached me as I was walking back to the friary after the evening vigil. I was alone, and I doubt anyone else saw him. He pressed the essay into my hands, made me swear to tell no one about it, and then left.’
‘Why you?’ asked Michael.
‘I suppose he knew I am sympathetic to the views of the nominalists, and he decided it would be safer with me than with anyone else. Who would think to look for a written essay with a blind friar?’
‘Those two intruders,’ said Michael promptly. ‘They knew where to look, because they made straight for you once they had insinuated themselves on to Franciscan property. They did not hunt around or ask questions of anyone else: they came directly to you.’
‘They certainly came to the point when they questioned me,’ said Paul ruefully. ‘They said they knew I had the essay and that no harm would come to me if I handed it over.’
‘Did they say anything else?’
Paul closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. Suddenly he seemed like the old man he was, and for all his confidence and poise, Bartholomew suspected that being attacked in his own cell and having a knife pressed to his throat had been a great shock. He would never admit to such weakness but Bartholomew knew he was not as unperturbed as he wanted everyone to believe.
‘They asked whether I had read the essay,’ said Paul. ‘I told them that I was blind, and that I had read nothing for many years. They seemed to accept my statement and left – with the essay.’
‘And have you read it?’ asked Michael.
Paul smiled wanly. ‘Of course not. But I know what was in it. However, I suspect the killers allowed me to live because they believe I do not know the contents of the essay. Do not tell anyone that is not so, or I may go the same way as others who have dealt with it in various ways – Faricius, Kyrkeby and Walcote.’
‘I disagree,’ said Michael. ‘I think they allowed you to live because you could not see them. Young Arbury of Michaelhouse was murdered so that he would not reveal their identities, and I suspect the gatekeeper at Barnwell Priory was stabbed for the same reason. I wonder why they did not finish him off?’
‘Perhaps because they saw no light of recognition in his face when they attacked him,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘Arbury must have been different, and may even have addressed them by name.’
‘That implies that he knew the killers,’ said Michael doubtfully.
‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew, his mind whirling as he considered the possibilities.
‘Perhaps you are right,’ said Paul. ‘But in my case, I think they were more interested in whether I knew the contents of the essay than whether I knew who they were.’
‘Why do you think the contents of this essay are so important?’ asked Michael. ‘I thought it was just an essay on nominalism. It is hardly a list of scholars who regularly visit St Radegund’s Convent, or a document outlining my negotiations with Oxford. I do not see why the intruders want to ensure that no one knows its contents.’
‘You are underestimating the power of this work,’ said Paul. ‘You dismiss it as the ramblings of some vague-minded undergraduate. It is not. It will be an important document for many years to come, and I imagine it will be discussed in universities all over the world, not just in Cambridge.’
Michael shrugged. ‘That still does not explain why the intruders did not want you to have read any of it.’
‘Because they plan to publish it and steal the glory for themselves,’ said Bartholomew in sudden understanding. ‘The fact that they have gone to so much trouble to get it speaks for itself. They searched the Dominican Friary and Barnwell Priory, because the Dominicans and the Austin canons are professed nominalists. They looked in Michaelhouse because they thought the Senior Proctor might have seized it as evidence. And then they came here.’
‘I suppose so,’ said Michael, unconvinced.
‘These intruders were desperate to get at Lynne, because they thought he would be able to tell them the whereabouts of the essay,’ said Paul, putting into words what Bartholomew had already reasoned. ‘Their way to Lynne was through me, so they came to me first.’
‘They did not actually expect you to know where the essay was,’ said Bartholomew slowly. ‘They demanded that you divulge its location simply to terrify you.’
‘I do not understand,’ said Michael, confused. ‘Why bother asking him, if they thought he did not know the answer?’
‘Because they intended to ask him a whole series of questions that they knew he could not answer,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Every time he did not know, he would become more frightened. Eventually, he would be so relieved to be asked a question he could answer, that he would tell them immediately. It is a standard interrogation technique. Father William told me it is used by the Inquisition.’
‘I thought the robbers seemed surprised when I handed them the essay,’ said Paul. ‘Now I know why. And because they have the essay, you are now irrelevant, Simon. You can go back to your own friary without fear.’
Bartholomew was thoughtful. ‘If whoever stole the essay intends to publish it under his own name, then the Carmelites, Franciscans and Gilbertines are not to blame. They despise nominalism.’
‘Excellent,’ said Michael gloomily. ‘That only leaves all the Dominicans, all the Austin canons and most of the Benedictines.’
‘Right,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But when we deduced that a good place to hunt for Lynne was with Father Paul, there was only one Benedictine present other than you: Timothy.’
‘You think Brother Timothy is the killer?’ asked Michael, aghast at the notion. ‘But he is my Junior Proctor! Junior Proctors uphold the law, not break it.’