The following morning, Bartholomew found that his students had managed to work their way through the first set of texts he had set the day before, but not the second. He instructed that they finish it that afternoon and attend Master Kenyngham's astronomy lectures in the morning. The students would be tested on their knowledge of astronomy, and hearing lectures would refresh their memories.
Boniface, looking more rested and relaxed than Bartholomew had ever seen him, approached Bartholomew shyly. He said he intended to spend the day praying in the church. Bartholomew gave him leave gladly, thinking uncharitably that his other students would be able to study better without him. Bartholomew decided to attendKenyngham'slectures too, partly to ensure none of his students played truant, and partly because he found Kenyngham's knowledge fascinating, and liked to hear the enthusiasm in his voice as he spoke.
When the bell rang for dinner, Cynric was waiting to tell him that the Chancellor had arranged for Froissart and the unknown woman to be buried that afternoon.
The ceremony would not be an open one, and Gilbert had told Cynric that the coffins had already been sealed to keep their contents from prying eyes.
Dinner was eaten in silence, apart from the voice of the Bible scholar who read a tract from Proverbs. His Latin was poor, and Bartholomew was not the only one of the Fellows to glance up at him in puzzlement when his pronunciation or missed lines made what he was saying incomprehensible. Beside him, Michael grumbled under his breath about the food, tossing a piece of pickled eel away in disgust when he found it rotten. Bartholomew felt little inclination to eat the fish and watery oatmeal, but he was hungry and ate it all. He noted that there was barely enough to go round, and many scholars left complaining they were still hungry.
'Damn the plague,' Michael muttered. The sickness has gone, but now we will starve to death.'
By mutual consent, Bartholomew and Michael resumed their discussion of the night before in the deserted conclave. The sun streamed through the windows, and Michael reclined drowsily among the cushions of the window seats. Bartholomew paced restlessly, trying to make sense of everything.
"I am certain that Janetta is involved in all this,' he said. 'Perhaps she killed the women.'
'Janetta?' said Michael in disbelief. That is notpossible, Matt. She is not strong enough.'
'How strong do you need to be to cut someone's throat?' said Bartholomew. 'Perhaps she had help from one of those louts that always surround her. Perhaps it was her I saw in the orchard after Frances's murder.'
'But Sybilla saw the killer, and she said it was an average man, remember? There is no earthly chance that Janetta could be mistaken for an average man. Even wearing a man's clothes she would be too small.' He mused. 'But Nicholas is of average size.'
'So is Buckley. We have failed to find him, and it cannot be coincidence that he disappeared the night the friar died.' "I think the killer might be Tulyet,' said Michael.
Bartholomew stopped pacing. 'He has good reason to be out at night while he keeps the Sheriffs peace, and he and his father are obviously involved with this Guild of the Coming.'
'If we knew the identity of the high priest, we would probably have the solution to all this in our hands,' said Michael. 'Did you see nothing at all that might give us a clue? A limp, a distinctive walk?'
Bartholomew shook his head. 'All I know is that he wore a similar mask to the one I saw on the man in the orchard. We should have raided All Saints' Church and had Jonstan arrest the lot of them.'
That would have been outside Jonstan's power,' said Michael. 'He only has jurisdiction over University affairs, and there is not a shred of evidence that anyone from the University is involved. And we could hardly ask Tulyet to do it!'
Bartholomew rubbed his forehead, becoming exasperated with their lack of progress. He switched to another avenue of thought. 'So if you think Tulyet is the killer, it is likely that Tulyet is also the high priest, otherwise how would he be able to predict that there would be another victim before the new moon?'
Michael pulled at some stray whiskers at the side of his face. 'Yes,' he said slowly. 'Before the new moon, when it is especially dark.'
After a while, they realised that they were getting nowhere with their discussion. They could generate as many theories as they wanted, but progressed no further as long as they lacked the evidence to prove or disprove their ideas. Eventually, they left Michaelhouse to attend the funerals in St Mary's Church. The afternoon sun was blazing in a clear blue sky and the air buzzed with flies. They made their way to the crypt where Gilbert waited restlessly for de Wetherset and Father Cuthbert to arrive so that the ceremony could begin. There was a buzz of flies there, too, hovering over the coffin in which Froissart's remains were sealed.
Bartholomew wandered over to look at the coffins, and wondered how secret their presence could be. He saw that both had been securely nailed down, and frowned.
He ran his fingers over the rough wood of the woman's coffin and leaned to inspect a join where the wood did not meet properly. Gilbert and Michael watched him in distaste.
'Who ordered the coffins sealed?' he asked Gilbert.
'No one,' said Gilbert. 'But I have been given the duty of ensuring that their presence is kept secret. I do not need to tell you how difficult that has been in this warm weather. I sealed them myself. If anyone had managed to gain entry to the crypt, a sealed coffin presents a far more formidable obstacle than an open one.'
Bartholomew looked up as de Wetherset arrived, ushering Cuthbert in front of him, and pulling the gate closed.
"I have four clerks to help,' he said, rubbing his hands together in a businesslike fashion to conceal his nervousness. 'They have been told we are burying two beggars. We will carry the coffins out of the crypt ourselves so that no one will detect how long they have been here.'
The others moved towards the coffins, but Bartholomew held back. This is perhaps an odd request,' he began, 'but they have been lying here for some time. I would like them opened to make certain that we know whom we are burying this time.'
De Wetherset looked at the coffins in distaste, while Gilbert was visibly angry. 'What for? Can we not just get this foul business over and done with? I am tired of all this death and corruption!'
The Chancellor patted the arm of his distraught clerk sympathetically. "I am sorry, Gilbert. What I have asked you to do over the past week has been beyond your clerkly duties. I will see that you are well rewarded.'
Gilbert shook his head. 'You do not need to pay me for my loyalty. I want an end to this business with corpses and coffins. Let us just put these poor people in their graves and leave them in peace.'
De Wetherset nodded. 'You are right.' He bent to lift one of the coffins, and gestured to Bartholomew to pick up the other end.
Bartholomew stayed where he was. "It will not take a moment,' he said. 'Wait outside if it distresses you, and I will do it alone.'
'What are your reasons for this?' asked de Wetherset, setting the coffin back down and eyeing Bartholomew with resignation.
Bartholomew pointed to the woman's coffin. 'When we exhumed the body of the lady, she was in an advanced state of decay. The coffin is flimsy, and the lid does not fit properly. If the woman was in there, Master de Wetherset, you would need more than a few bowls of incense to keep her presence from being known. She would be smelt from the porch.'
De Wetherset let out an exclamation of dismissal.
'Rubbish! The shock of the exhumation has addled your brain, and now you are suspicious of everything.
Gilbert is right. Let us just get this done.'
Bartholomew looked at Michael for help. Michael raised his eyes to the ceiling, but rallied to his side. "It will take only a few moments. What harm can it do?'
'Why can we not just let the poor souls rest in peace?' muttered Cuthbert. 'Both murdered, and now, even in death, they are not safe from desecration!'
De Wetherset was torn. He looked at Gilbert's pleading eyes and grey, exhausted face, and then back to Bartholomew. He sighed. 'In the interests of thoroughness, and to satisfy the Doctor's unpleasant curiosity, I suppose the coffins may be opened. Do it if you must.'
Gilbert backed out of the door. "I want to see no more decaying corpses. I will wait in the church.' "I will wait with you,' said de Wetherset. "I too have had my fill of sights from beyond the grave.'
Cuthbert followed them out, his fat features set in a mask of sorrow.
When they had gone, Michael turned to Bartholomew irritably. 'Is this really necessary? De Wetherset will be furious if you are wrong, and poor Gilbert is at the end of his tether!' then wait outside,' said Bartholomew, losing patience.
"It is for your Bishop that we are investigating this.'
Michael went to sit on the steps as Bartholomew took a knife from his bag and levered up the lid of the woman's coffin. The cheap wood splintered, but the lid came off easily. He stared in shock, unprepared for the sight that faced him. He took a deep breath and stood back.
'Well?' said Michael.
Wordlessly, Bartholomew went to perform the same operation on Froissart's coffin, while Michael went to look in the woman's. Michael stared down at the corpse in the coffin in mystification and, hesitantly, went to look at Froissart's too. Bartholomew shut it before he could see.
'Look if you will,' he said, 'but it is only Froissart, alone and unmolested.'
Michael gazed in horror at the woman's coffin. 'Where is she?' He began a fruitless search of the crypt, hunting for a body that was not there.
Bartholomew scratched his head. 'Who knows? We should tell de Wetherset.'
Michael went to fetch him while Bartholomew re nailed Froissart's lid. De Wetherset peered cautiously into the woman's coffin.
'Nicholas of York!' he breathed. He raised a white face to Bartholomew. 'How?'
Bartholomew inspected Nicholas's body. There was some stiffness, but Bartholomew imagined he had not been dead for more than a day. Like Froissart, a deep purple mark on his neck indicated that he had been garrotted.
He told de Wetherset, who looked at him blankly.
'But how could this have happened? And where is the body of the woman?'
'Someone must have stolen her,' said Michael. 'But Gilbert said he had been guarding the crypt, and that it is always locked. How could anyone have gone in without him seeing?'
'Where is Gilbert?' said Bartholomew. The small clerk had not followed de Wetherset back into the crypt.
'He is unwell. I have told him to wait in the church with Father Cuthbert,' said de Wetherset. 'All this has proved too much for him. But how could anyone take a body from here while the gate was locked?'
'Perhaps the gate was not locked,' said Bartholomew quietly.
De Wetherset looked blank for a moment. 'What?' he said sharply. 'What are you saying? Gilbert has been my personal clerk for the past ten years. I trust him implicitly.'
'Gilbert always came with you and Buckley when you opened the University chest,' said Bartholomew slowly.
'He knew about Nicholas of York's book. He was with you when you found the friar, and he helped us remove Froissart from the tower. Now we find he is the person to have the only key to the crypt during the time the woman's body disappeared.'
'That is preposterous!' de Wetherset almost snarled.
'Gilbert is my trusted clerk. How do I know that one of you is not behind all this?'
There is nothing to be gained from this line of thought,' Michael intervened smoothly, giving Bartholomew a sharp glance. 'All we need to do is to talk to Gilbert. Come.'
He led the way out of the gloomy crypt and the others followed.
De Wetherset walked to the Lady Chapel where he had left Gilbert, but his clerk was not there, and neither was Cuthbert. The Chancellor walked outside.
'He has probably gone for some fresh air,' he said.
There was no sign of Gilbert outside either. De Wetherset hailed a lay-brother who was sweeping the path. The lay-brother strolled over to them.
'Poor Gilbert,' he said in response to de Wetherset's question. 'He came tearing out of the church as if it were on fire. Then he ran straight to the bushes there and disappeared. He ate at the Cardinal's Cap last night, and I have warned him about the food there.'
De Wetherset glared at Bartholomew. 'You have made him sick!' he exclaimed.
Bartholomew was looking over at the bushes where the lay-brother had pointed. 'Oh, I do not think so,' he said. He found the two tombstones and the tree he had used to calculate the entrance of the pathway to Primrose Alley from the church tower, ran through the angles and formulae in his mind, and headed for the spot where the entrance was concealed. De Wetherset and Michael watched him dubiously as he poked around the bushes before giving a triumphant shout.
They hurried over and he pointed out the path to them, almost invisible in the dense foliage, but an unmistakable pathway nevertheless.
That proves nothing!' snapped de Wetherset. 'Gilbert?
Are you there?'
He began to force his way through the undergrowth, while Michael followed. Bartholomew, recalling vividly the last time he had taken the path, grabbed at Michael's habit.
'Wait! We should fetch the Proctors,' he said urgently.
He forced his way past Michael and seized de Wetherset.
'Wait!' he repeated.
There was a slight whistling sound followed by a thud, and de Wetherset gazed in disbelief at the arrow that trembled in the tree-trunk only inches from his head.
Wordlessly, he turned and fled, thrusting Bartholomew out of the way in his haste to escape. Bartholomew followed more slowly. He knew that had Janetta's men meant to kill, the arrow would be in de Wetherset, and not in a tree. Perhaps Gilbert's loyalty to his Chancellor was worth something after all.
When he emerged into the sunshine, de Wetherset was white with fright, while Michael was bewildered.
'Gilbert might be dead in there,' de Wetherset gasped.
'He might be injured.'
'He might have set the archer there, 'said Bartholomew.
De Wetherset strode over to him and grabbed him roughly by the shoulder. 'One more allegation like that, and you will be looking for a new teaching position!' he snapped angrily.
He thrust Bartholomew away from him with a glare, and strode back to the church, calling for a clerk to send for one of the Proctors. Michael watched de Wetherset go.
'Do you really think Gilbert is our man?' he asked.
Bartholomew shifted his bag into a more comfortable position. 'He is most certainly involved, would you not think? For a man who helped retrieve a corpse that had been nailed to a bellframe, he reacted very strongly over the mere opening of a coffin. Unless he already knew what we would find.'
'You are right,' said Michael, thinking carefully. I have been wondering whether one of the clerks has been acting as a spy. Who better than Gilbert, who is privy to all the Chancellor's secrets? That is why we have had so little success with our investigation. The perpetrators of these crimes have known exactly what we have been thinking and planning!'
Bartholomew rubbed his chin. 'Remember when we almost dug up Mistress Archer's grave because the marker Gilbert left was on the wrong tomb?'
Michael stared at him. 'Cuthbert said children must have moved it. But what if it had never been moved at all, and it was exactly where Gilbert had set it?'
'And he must have known precisely where to find the path,' said Bartholomew, looking back at where the bushes once again hid it from sight. 'He went there without hesitation. His arrival in Primrose Lane must have alerted them to the possibility of pursuit, and so the archer was set there.' "I wonder what goes on in Primrose Lane that warrants such security?' mused Michael.
Bartholomew considered. Was that it? Did the seedy shacks and hovels behind the church hold the secret that would explain the deaths of the friar, Froissart, Nicholas, and the disappearance of Buckley? 'What can we do?' he said helplessly. 'We cannot ask Tulyet to raid it, because he is probably involved; it is beyond the Proctor's powers, because Gilbert disappearing down that path is insufficient to prove that it is University business; and if there are archers and crowds of ruffians on guard, we can do nothing ourselves.'
He turned as a large figure lurched out of the church. As Bartholomew and Michael waited for Cuthbert to reach them they saw tears glittering on his cheeks.
'Is it true?' he said. 'Does Nicholas lie dead in the crypt?'
Michael nodded, eyeing him suspiciously.
'He has been with me this past week. I confess it was a shock to see him out of his grave, but he told me he had needed to escape.'
'Escape what?' asked Bartholomew, bewildered.
Cuthbert shrugged, giving a huge sniff, and rubbing his face with his sleeve. 'He would not say, but he was clearly terrified. He said I would be safer not knowing.'
'Why did you not tell us?' cried Michael, exasperated.
'Because he said if I told anyone he was still alive, I would place him in mortal danger, and myself, too,' said Cuthbert, his voice rising. "I am certain he told me the truth. I have never seen him so frightened or angry.' He looked up suddenly. That lay-brother who locked the church for me saw him once. He came to me and said he had seen Nicholas risen from the dead.
I advised him to keep silent, and the next thing I knew was that he had fled the town.'
'Cuthbert!' exclaimed Bartholomew in disgust. 'Nicholas may have been the man who killed those women! How could you keep silent?'
'He was not!' cried Cuthbert vehemently. 'He would never kill,' he added more gently.
'But a dead woman was found in his coffin,' said Bartholomew. 'How can you explain that?'
'When we exhumed the grave, Nicholas had already come to me,' said Cuthbert. "It was no surprise to me that he was not in the grave we dug up, but I was not expecting another corpse! When I returned home, I told him what we had found, and he became frantic with grief. He believed she was the woman he had been seeing before he escaped.'
'But why did you not tell us all this?' cried Michael in despair. 'Did you not recognise her?'
Cuthbert shook his head. 'She had thick black hair, and the woman in the coffin was bald. I told Nicholas it could not be his lover, but he said she had a disease whereby her hair fell out and she always wore a wig.'
That is not proof that he did not kill her,' said Michael.
'He loved her,' said Cuthbert earnestly. "I met her, and it is clear that they made each other very happy.
He would not have harmed her. And we were members of the Guild of the Holy Trinity, a group dedicated to opposing sin. We do not kill!'
Bartholomew looked at him disbelievingly, while Michael walked with the distraught priest to his small house nearby. Bartholomew waited restlessly until Michael returned.
'Now what?' he said, exasperated. 'What a mess!'
'We must think,' said Michael, sitting down on the low wall surrounding the churchyard. 'Cuthbert claims that Nicholas returned a week ago in a state of terror.'
'We should start with his death,' said Bartholomew.
'He clearly feigned it, and if Cuthbert can be believed, he did so because he was afraid of something.'
'Yes,' said Michael. 'And what better way to escape danger than to pretend you are dead? Who ever hunts a corpse?'
'If the woman was Nicholas's lover, then she must have helped him feign his death, perhaps with potions and powders. Then she went to help him out of the coffin the night before he was due to be buried.'
'And then what?' asked Michael. 'We can prove nothing else. Did he kill her then to ensure her silence so that he would be safe? And why was she wearing that hideous mask?'
'Whatever happened, Nicholas fled, and then returned a week ago,' said Bartholomew. 'When Cuthbert told him that a bald woman was found in his coffin, he realised who it was, and took to roaming the streets.'
'But what could be so terrifying that he was forced to such measures?' mused Michael. "It must be something to do with the book. Perhaps he was being threatened into revealing its contents.'
Bartholomew considered. 'You must be right,' he said. 'After Nicholas "died", whoever was terrifying him realised that alternative methods were needed to get at it. The friar was employed to steal the book, but was accidentally killed by the poisoned lock.'
'Which must mean that, as far as we know, whatever deadly secret led to all this is still there,' said Michael.
'Because de Wetherset seemed to have checked it all very carefully to ensure nothing was missing/ 'So did the person behind all this kill Nicholas?' asked Bartholomew.
Michael shrugged. "It must be the same person who killed Froissart because they were both garrotted. It must be Gilbert.'
'Of course it must!' said Bartholomew suddenly.
'Gilbert has the only key to the crypt. It can only have been him who took the woman's body away and put Nicholas there.' "It does not tell us why,' said Michael. 'But it does throw light on how the friar ended up inside the chest, dead, with the lid down. Gilbert must have used his keys to hide in the crypt, unbeknownst to the friar, before the lay-brother locked up, and emerged after the friar had gone to the tower to begin opening the chest. He probably had no intention other than to ensure his plan went smoothly. He must have become worried when the friar took so long, and went to see what had happened.
He found the friar dead, and, in a panic, he pushed him into the chest and closed the lid.'
'De Wetherset said no pages were missing,' said Bartholomew. 'If Gilbert had gone to all this trouble, surely he must have stolen the part he wanted?'
Michael scratched his head thoughtfully. "I am sure he did,' he said. 'When we lifted the friar from the chest, de Wetherset was only concerned about the book. He immediately went to check that certain sections were unmolested. The part Gilbert probably took must have been so unimportant to the Chancellor, he failed to notice it was missing. So there are at least two parts of this book that are important: the part that de Wetherset was so concerned with, and the part Gilbert took.'
Bartholomew thought again. 'Gilbert was not unduly worried about the friar's sudden death: after all, there was nothing to connect him with the dead man. He left the church, first removing the bar that the friar had put across the door for added security. One of the clerks mentioned to me later that the bar had been moved, proving that there had been two people in the church when the friar had died, not one.'
'Who was this Father Lucius who was allowed into the church by Froissart?' said Michael. 'Could that have been Gilbert?'
'No,' said Bartholomew. 'Froissart would have been a fool to allow anyone into the church. I suspect Gilbert, with his keys, hid himself in the crypt, and it was he who let this Father Lucius into the church, not Froissart. Froissart was probably already garrotted, and Father Lucius was necessary to help Gilbert haul his body into the belfry and secure it there.'
'Froissart garrotted, Nicholas garrotted,' said Michael.
'Gilbert must have killed them both. It almost fits, but we still do not know why all this happened.'
'And we never will so long as de Wetherset plays his own games and is less than honest with us about this book,' said Bartholomew.
Michael's shoulders sagged in defeat. 'Cynric is coming for you,' he said, seeing the small Welshman walking towards them. "I will go to try to placate the Chancellor, and persuade him to send the Proctors after Gilbert.'
Bartholomew went to meet Cynric, who had a request that he visit the wounded soldier at the Castle. Cynric accompanied him, shyly confiding that he had an hour to spare before he was expected to meet Rachel Atkin at Stanmore's business premises.
The sergeant Bartholomew had met the night before was waiting for him, and he was conducted across the bailey to the hall. The small chamber was flooded with light, the window shutters thrown open, and it was thronging with men. They parted to let him through.
The injured soldier sat up in bed and held up his arm where he had removed the bandage Bartholomew had tied, showing a neat wound with no trace of infection.
Bartholomew bent to inspect it. "It is healing well,' he said, as he tied another cloth around it. 'But you must give it time, or it will break open again.' "It is a miracle!' proclaimed the soldier. 'Father Philius pronounced I would die, and Robin of Grantchester wanted to saw off my arm. But you came and I am healed!' "It is no miracle,' said Bartholomew nervously. One thing he dreaded were rumours of miraculous cures.
First,*he would have half the country coming to him pleading for help, and, second, his colleagues would believe none of it, and he would likely find himself proclaimed a heretic.
The soldier smiled at him. 'Well, miraculous then,' he said. 'You saved my life, and you saved my arm. I will yet be as good an archer as my father.' He smiled up at the sergeant. Bartholomew, pleased at the young man's rapid recovery, left, with instructions not to overtax his strength too quickly. The sergeant followed him out across the courtyard.
'You looked sorrowful last night,' he said, 'and I thought you might like some happy news.' He seized Bartholomew firmly on the shoulders. 'You saved my son. I wish we could do something for you, and catch this killer.'
'Do you know anything that might help?' asked Bartholomew.
The sergeant shook his head. 'Nothing. And believe me, I would tell you if I knew. The Sheriff had discovered virtually nothing before he stopped investigating. He is not even looking into these stolen carts now.'
'Oswald Stanmore's carts?' asked Bartholomew.
The soldier inclined his head. There is a strange business. Those were not random attacks, but carefully planned manoeuvres. I know the work of soldiers when I see it, and there were soldiers involved in those robberies right enough. Good ones too.'
Bartholomew was startled. Did that mean that Tulyet was using part of his garrison to strike at the traders and steal their goods? Was that why he was failing to investigate the crimes in his town?
As they left, Bartholomew almost collided with Tulyet himself.
'You!' the Sheriff snarled. 'What do you want here?' "I am just leaving, Master Tulyet,' Bartholomew replied politely, not wishing to become embroiled in an argument that might prompt Tulyet to arrest him.
Then leave!' Tulyet shouted. 'And do not return here without my permission.'
Bartholomew studied him. Tulyet was younger than Bartholomew, but looked ten years older at that momen t.
His face was sallow and there were dark smears under his eyes. His eyes held a wild look that made Bartholomew wonder whether the man was losing his faculties. Was he the murderer, knowing he would have to commit another crime because he had been so ordered at the ceremony at All Saints'? As a physician, Bartholomew could see signs that the man was losing his sanity and reason.
Without a word, Bartholomew left, Cynric following, When they were out of the Castle, Cynric heaved a sigh of relief.
"I have heard around town that he is losing his mind.
They say it is because he cannot catch Froissart. I thought he might order us locked up for some spurious reason.
He has arrested several others and accused them of being Froissart.'
Bartholomew reflected for a moment. Perhaps they should tell Tulyet that Froissart was dead after all, to save innocent people from being arrested. But then, Bartholomew reasoned, what good would that do? And if Tulyet were the real killer, Bartholomew might be signing his own death warrant by telling him that Froissart was dead.
Engrossed in his thoughts, he jumped when Cynric seized his arm in excitement. He looked around. They were near All Saints' Church, which stood half-hidden by the tangle of bushes and low trees that were un tended around it.
'Someone is in the church!' exclaimed Cynric, Before Bartholomew could stop him, Cynric had disappeared into the swathe of green. Bartholomew followed cautiously, making his way to the broken door and peering round it. Cynric was right. A person was there, bending to inspect the dark patches on the floor — a figure in a scholar's tabard like his own. Bartholomew looked around quickly. The man appeared to be alone, so he slipped through the door and made his way towards him, ducking from pillar to pillar up the aisle.
Was this the high priest, visiting the church to make certain he had left nothing, even after his careful removal of his accoutrements before he departed? He stopped as he trod on a piece of wood that had fallen from the roof, and a sharp crack echoed around the derelict church.
The man looked up, startled at the loud noise.
'Hesselwell!' Bartholomew exclaimed.
On hearing his name, Hesselwell turned and fled, without waiting to see who had spoken. Bartholomew raced after him, throwing caution to the wind. Hesselwell reached the altar and stumbled as he reached the steps.
Behind the altar was a large window and Hesselwell grabbed the sill with both hands to haul himself through.
Bartholomew lunged at him as he was about to drop down the other side, and pulled as hard as he could.
Both fell backwards, Hesselwell kicking and struggling like a madman.
Bartholomew gripped the flailing wrists and leaned down with all his weight. Pinned to the floor, Hesselwell was helpless.
'You!' he said to Bartholomew, his eyes wide with terror. "It was you!'
Bartholomew was taken aback. Hesselwell began to struggle again, his face white with terror, but stopped when he saw Cynric come to stand over them, and sagged in resignation.
'What are you talking about?' said Bartholomew. 'What was me?' "I should have guessed!'
'Guessed what?' Bartholomew was becoming exasperated.
He released Hesselwell and watched as Cynric pulled the terrified scholar to his feet, keeping a firm grip on his arm. Hesselwell stood with his shoulders bowed and his tabard covered in dirt and flakes of rotten wood from the floor.
'What were you doing here?' asked Bartholomew, brushing off his own tabard. 'What were you looking for?'
Hesselwell tried to pull himself together, his eyes flicking over Bartholomew as though assessing whether he was armed. "I wanted to know if the blood was real,'
Hesselwell said. 'Or if it was dye.'
'You are a member of the Guild of the Coming?' asked Bartholomew, Hesselwell's actions suddenly making sense to him.
Hesselwell looked at him askance. 'You know I am,' he said.
'Why would I know?' asked Bartholomew, confused again. His flash of illumination was to be short-lived, it seemed.
'Because you are the high priest!' Hesselwell said, taking a deep breath and meeting Bartholomew's eyes.
"It makes sense to me now. You are always out at night; you dabble with poisons and potions; and your students say you are a heretic. You are the high priest,' he repeated.
'You gave me this,' he said, holding up a small glass phial.
'And even then I did not guess.'
Speechless, Bartholomew tore his gaze away from Hesselwell to look at the phial. It was, without question, one of the ones he used to dispense medicines, and it even had a small scrap of parchment wrapped around it with instructions for its use in his handwriting. Trying to bring his whirling thoughts into order, he reached out for the bottle.
Hesselwell misunderstood Bartholomew's expression of bewilderment for one of indecision, and the hand with the phial whipped behind his back. "I could be of help to you,' he said slyly. 'No one else need know of this. After all, I have served you well, why should I not continue?'
'What are you talking about?' said Bartholomew, his skin beginning to crawl. If Hesselwell thought he was the high priest, did others too? Hesselwell leaned towards him and lowered his voice.
"I was successful in my warning of Brother Michael,' he said.
Bartholomew circled the altar to try to give himself time to bring his thoughts into order. So Hesselwell had put the goat's head on Michael's bed: it had been a Michaelhouse scholar all along. It explained how the intruder had known which room Michael slept in, and how he had known when the monk had returned from Ely. Michael was usually a light sleeper, but his long ride had probably tired him, which was why he had not woken when Hesselwell had entered his room.
He continued to edge around the altar as he tried to recall Hesselwell's reaction to Walter's poisoning. He had been standing with Father Aidan, and Bartholomew distinctly remembered their shocked faces. Unless he was possessed of an outstanding talent for deception, Hesselwell had been as horrified by Walter's brush with death as had the other Fellows.
'You almost killed the porter,' said Bartholomew carefully, watching him.
That was not my fault,' said Hesselwell, his eyes desperate in his pale face. 'You left me the bottle of wine with instructions to give it to Walter without drawing suspicion to myself. You did not tell me it contained a virulent poison, only that it would make Walter sleep.' "I am no high priest,' Bartholomew said to Hesselwell wearily. 'Your reasoning is flawed, Master Hesselwell. I am out at night usually because I am seeing patients; I dabble with poisons and potions because I am a physician and they are the tools of my trade; and some of my students think I am a heretic because they do not understand what I teach them. Not only that, but I know Walter sleeps on duty, and would have had no need to send him into a drugged slumber.'
Hesselwell gazed at him, nonplussed. 'Well, what are you then? Are you from the Guild of Purification?'
Bartholomew shook his head and Hesselwell sagged in Gynric's grip.
'What are you going to do? Who will you tell?' His eyes were pleading.
"I will tell the Master about your unholy alliance, and it will be up to him to decide what to do,' said Bartholomew.
'They will kill me!' cried Hesselwell. 'Please! You do not know their strength!' He looked so frightened that Bartholomew almost felt sorry for him. 'Will you tell him after sunset?' Hesselwell pleaded, wringing his hands together. Bartholomew squinted at the sky.
Sunset was perhaps two hours away. "It will give me a chance to collect my belongings, and hire a fast horse.'
He looked desperately from Bartholomew to Cynric.
Bartholomew recalled the scholar's fright when he had first been apprehended in the church, and judged that he probably had very real grounds for his fear.
Bartholomew nodded after a moment's thought. 'But you must tell me all you know.'
Hesselwell looked wretched. 'They will kill me if I do.'
'They will kill you if I tell,' said Bartholomew. The choice is yours.'
Hesselwell glanced around him with furtive movements of his eyes. 'All right then,' he conceded wearily.
'But you will give me until sunset?'
Bartholomew nodded.
'How do I know I can trust you?' asked Hesselwell.
'You do not,' said Bartholomew. 'But you are not in a position to bargain.'
Hesselwell thought again, and then started to speak.
"I joined the Guild of the Coming when I first arrived in Cambridge. I was in a similar organisation in London because it brought me business — members of guilds tend to use the services of other members. I made enquiries, and was invited to join the Guild of the Coming.'
So that explained the lawyer's rich clothes, thought Bartholomew, when everyone else's gowns were either cheap, torn, old, or all three.
Hesselwell continued. 'All was well at first. There were occasional ceremonies and midnight meetings. Then, a month ago, our high priest disappeared, and another came to take his place. Things changed. There were more ceremonies, and they became frightening.'
'What can you tell me about this new high priest?'
Hesselwell shrugged. 'He, or one of his assistants, instructed me to perform certain duties for him, but I never saw his face. On one occasion, the smaller of his assistants told me to rub some mixture on the back gate of Michaelhouse so that it would burn. Another time, the high priest himself ordered me to keep watch for him while he went into our College the night after the de Belem girl died.'
He hit his head suddenly with an open palm. 'Of course you could not be the high priest. It was you he fought in the orchard, and who almost unmasked him!
He told us not to intervene, no matter what happened, but when I saw he was about to be unmasked, I shot one of the fire arrows at the gate to allow him to escape. If he were unmasked, I felt certain he would betray me, and so it was imperative I helped him, regardless of his order.'
'Who was the other?' asked Cynric. 'The Devil?'
Hesselwell shrugged again. "I have never seen him or any of the high priest's assistants — without a mask, and I do not know who any of them are, or where they come from.'
'What else?' asked Bartholomew as Hesselwell lapsed into silence.
'I almost killed Walter, and it was me who left the goat's head on Michael's bed.'
'Why did he ask you to do that?' asked Cynric.
'I do not know. He merely gave orders, and I followed without question. He terrifies me. And I do not know what he had in mind with the back gate either, and that black sticky solution. I wish to God I had not become embroiled in all this evil!'
'What else did you do?' asked Bartholomew.
'Just two things,' said Hesselwell. 'He wanted me to prowl the streets at night to look for the whore killer.
I thought the high priest was the killer because he predicted their deaths: I can only assume he was taking precautions to protect himself, so that he could say he was not the killer by virtue of the fact that he sent members of the coven to look for the real murderer.'
'And the second thing?' asked Bartholomew, recalling vividly how Hesselwell had almost fallen asleep in the church. He was not surprised Hesselwell was sleepy, if he were teaching all day, and out in the streets at night.
'With one of his assistants, I hid in the roof of the church and helped throw birds and bats down at the congregation. I had begun to be suspicious of some of the devices, and I think he decided to take me into his trust. He would know that once I was involved, I could never tell, for this makes me as guilty of the crimes as he is. And if I became a risk, he would simply kill me.'
'But why do you go along with all this if you know it is a hoax?' asked Bartholomew.
'Because I am afraid,' said Hesselwell. 'One member did question him, and was found a week later in the King's Ditch with his throat cut. And I believe the covens are not the ends in all this, but the means. They are aiming towards something bigger and more terrifying than I can imagine.'
Bartholomew was inclined to believe he was right, and that the elaborate hoax of the covens was simply a front for something infinitely more sinister. Some aspects of the affair had been made clearer by Hesselwell's information, and others less so. Bartholomew understood now what had happened on the night that Walter was poisoned:
Hesselwell had merely been following orders, and had not known why the bottle was to be given to Walter.
Bartholomew's reasoning that the poisoning had been carried out by an outsider was, in effect, true, since it had come from the high priest.
Hesselwell glanced up at the sun nervously.
'One last question,' said Bartholomew. 'Why did the high priest give you that phial of medicine?'
'I was nervous about opening the gate to him after Frances de Belem's death. I knew there were Proctors and beadles prowling. I was so nervous that he gave me the phial and said it would calm me and allow me to carry out his instructions. I was to give it back to him the same night, but in all the excitement, I forgot to give it, and he forgot to ask.' He smiled ruefully. 'And he was right to have given it to me, because I would not have had the presence of mind to shoot the fire arrow without its calming effects.'
'Is that all?' asked Bartholomew.
Hesselwell nodded. 'He asked about College gossip, but that is all. May I go?' Bartholomew nodded, and Hesselwell looked so relieved he reeled slightly.
'One more thing,' he said as he followed them out of the church. Bartholomew looked at him. 'When I first came, I heard there were two guilds which were covens. No matter how hard I tried, I have never been able to find out about the Guild of Purification. People told me rumours about it — how it was powerful, and a rival to the Guild of the Coming — but I have never met a member of it, and to be honest, I am uncertain that it exists at all.'
Cynric was disapproving that Bartholomew had allowed Hesselwell to make good his escape, and so was Michael when they told him.
'He might come back and wreak all manner of havoc,' said the monk crossly. 'A self-confessed satanist and you let him go!'
'He was terrified, Brother, and his escape will make no difference. What if he had been right and he was murdered? How would you feel then?'
'He might have been able to tell us more about this high priest,' said Michael. 'He might have known what he was looking for in the orchard!'
'He told us all he knew,' said Bartholomew wearily, scrubbing at his face. 'He was used by the high priest, and told virtually nothing in return.'
'But he left that thing on my bed and you allowed him to go just like that!' said Michael, bristling with the injustice of the situation. 'He tried to murder Walter!'
'He did not know the bottle was poisoned. He was told it contained a sleeping draught,' said Bartholomew.
He held up the phial Hesselwell had given him. 'This is perhaps the most important clue we have. When we know what it is, I will know to which of my patients I gave it, and we will know the high priest.'
Michael eyed it dubiously. 'But what if it is one of those common concoctions you give out to dozens of people, like betony and ginger oil?'
Bartholomew shook his head. 'I use these phials for more powerful potions.' He took out the stopper and sniffed cautiously. He recognised the compound immediately: there was only one patient to whom he had recently prescribed this medicine! Stunned, he turned to Michael.
'Master Buckley!' he exclaimed. 'He needs this strong draught when the hot weather makes his skin condition unbearable!'
'Buckley the high priest?' said Michael, frowning in concentration. 'It is beginning to come together. But it is well past sunset. Go and tell the Master about Hesselwell and his evil doings. Do not give him more time than you have already promised to make good his escape.'
Bartholomew began to walk across the courtyard to the Master's room when a man walked through the gate.
He stopped dead in his tracks as Richard Tulyet the elder strode purposefully towards him. Bartholomew glanced up at the darkening sky as he did so. It seemed Hesselwell was to have more time still.
'Doctor,' said Tulyet quietly. 'Is there somewhere I can talk with you and Brother Michael alone?'
Cynric led the way to the conclave, and lit some candles, stolen from Alcole's personal supply that was secreted behind one of the wall hangings. Tulyet would say nothing until the Welshman had left, closing the door behind him.
"I should have come to see you before now,' said Tulyet, facing Bartholomew and Michael in the flickering light, 'but I did not know whom I could trust.'
Bartholomew knew exactly how he felt, but said nothing.
'You were right when you said I was a member of the Guild of the Coming, and you were right when you said I had been at All Saints' Church two nights ago.'
He shuddered. "I joined the Guild because the Death took my three daughters and all my grandchildren. The Church said that only those who sinned would die, but I lived and the children died. I realised the Church had lied to me, and I wanted nothing more to do with it. The Guild of the Coming offered answers that made much more sense than the mumblings of drunken priests safe in their pulpits. Sorry, Brother, but that is how it seemed.'
His story was similar to de Belem's, and it seemed that the fears the Bishop had voiced to Bartholomew before the plague were realised: that the people would turn from the Church after the Death struck, and there would be insufficient priests and friars to prevent it.
Tulyet continued.
'All was well at first, and I even introduced my family to the guild. But a month ago things began to change. A new high priest came to us, very different from Nicholas.'
'Nicholas?' said Michael in astonishment. 'Nicholas of York, the clerk at St Mary's?'
Tulyet nodded. 'Only I knew his identity, but he died this last month, and it cannot matter that I tell you now.
After he died, we thought to elect one of our members as our leader, but even as we raised our hands to vote, the new high priest arrived in a puff of thick black smoke.
He said he had been sent by the Devil to lead us.'
Thick black smoke, thought Bartholomew. Smouldering grass mixed with tar, perhaps, and blown around the high priest by bellows operated by his accomplices? 'Then the guild changed. Our ceremonies became frightening, full of blood and evil conjurings. I wanted to take my family away, but I was told that if I did, they would die. The high priest said the murders in the town were the Devil claiming his own. My wife is old, and I sometimes visited a certain young lady. Fritha. She was the second girl to die.'
He put his head in his hands while Michael and Bartholomew exchanged glances.
'The new high priest asked questions, too,' Tulyet continued. 'He wanted to know about town politics, my business as a tailor, and with whom I traded.'
The high priest had questioned Hesselwell too, thought Bartholomew, about Michaelhouse.
'Do you know who the high priest is?' asked Bartholomew gently.
Tulyet raised his head, his eyes haunted. 'No. None of us do. But I have a terrible fear of who it might be.'
'Is that why you have come?' asked Bartholomew. 'To tell us who you think it is?'
Tulyet nodded. "I do not know who else I can tell, and I must do something. He is going to claim another victim!' He took a deep breath. 'The high priest is Sir Reginald de Belem.'
'De Belem!' exclaimed Michael. 'But that cannot be.
Frances was his daughter. He would not have killed his own daughter!' Or Isobel, the woman who visited him on certain nights, was his clearly unspoken thought.
And de Belem was the high priest of the Guild of Purification anyway, Bartholomew thought, or so he claimed. Hesselwell had said he did not believe the Guild of Purification existed — but it would have been an easy matter to put about rumours of meetings, and to splash blood on the altar of St John Zachary's Church occasionally. And Stanmore had said there were only five people at the last meeting- perhaps the high priest of the Guild of the Coming and a few trusted helpers attending a meeting, the only purpose of which was to maintain the illusion that the Guild of Purification existed.
Bartholomew rubbed a hand through his hair. But they had already surmised that it was Gilbert who had killed Nicholas, so how did all this tie together? And the medicine the high priest gave to Hesselwell belonged to Buckley. Was there more than one high priest in all this business, just as there might be more than one killer of the women? Was it Buckley, Gilbert, or de Belem in the orchard with Hesselwell and the big man? Who was in the roof with Hesselwell, throwing birds and bats down at the coven? And why had de Belem told Bartholomew he was grand master of the Guild of Purification if no such organisation existed?
Tulyet gnawed at his lip. "I have been over this again and again, but all the evidence points to de Belem. I am certain he is the high priest'
'We thought it might be your son,' said Michael bluntly.
'Richard?' said Tulyet, aghast. 'Why would you think that?'
'Because he has made no attempt to catch the killer of these women, and because he has thwarted the efforts of others to do so,' said Michael.
Tulyet leaned back in his chair wearily. 'My son is not in a position to do anything,' he said.
'Why not?' said Michael. 'He is the Sheriff.'
'Because de Belem has Richard's son,' said Tulyet, putting his head in his hands. 'If he makes any moves against the guild, de Belem will kill him.'
'You mean his baby?' asked Bartholomew, horrified.
'The one born last year?'
Tulyet nodded. 'My only grandchild born after the Death. The only child Richard will ever have, as you told him yourself, Doctor.'
'But how do you know it is de Belem?' insisted Michael.
Tulyet took a deep breath, and composed himself before starting. 'Shortly after Richard's baby was snatched, he had a note warning him that his son would be killed if his investigations into the guilds did not cease immediately. Because Richard thought the guilds were connected with the killer of the women, he had to stop looking into that too. Richard is the only member of my family who refused to join the Guild of the Coming, because he did not want to be put in a position where his loyalty to members of the guild might conflict with his office as Sheriff.'
So that explained Tulyet's behaviour, thought Bartholomew, and why he was so vocal in threatening him and Michael. He was not threatening them so much as telling the spies of the high priest that he was not co-operating. It also explained his increasing agitation.
'Does Richard believe de Belem is committing these murders?' asked Bartholomew.
Tulyet nodded. 'He told me that the victims had circles on the soles of their feet. He assumed it was the killer claiming that the murders were committed by members of the Guild of Purification. When he began to investigate, his baby was snatched.'
Bartholomew frowned. But if de Belem were the killer, why did he encourage Bartholomew to investigate the death of Frances? He shook his head impatiently. It made no sense.
'The only clue Richard had as to his son's kidnappers was the note,' continued Tulyet. 'He noticed there were traces of yellow dye on the parchment.'
'And because de Belem is a dyer, you think he wrote it?' asked Michael incredulously. 'There are other dyers in the town, too!'
'No, there are not,' said Bartholomew. Stanmore had become tedious on the subject since the plague: de Belem held a monopoly on dyes. He was not only the sole dyer in the town, he was the only one for miles.
'But that is not sufficient evidence,' said Michael, shrugging his shoulders.
"I have not finished,' said Tulyet, tiredness in his voice. 'The day before her death, Isobel Watkins came to see Richard. She was de Belem's whore, and she told Richard that she had wandered where she should not have in de Belem's house and had discovered a dead goat and caged birds and bats. But what frightened her most was that she thought she had heard the cry of a baby.'
'Birds and bats?' said Bartholomew, thinking about the ceremony in All Saints'.
Tulyet met his eyes. 'Crows and big black bats, she said.
And a dead goat. As you know, the goat is the symbol of our guild. Two nights ago at the ceremony you appear to have observed, birds, bats, and a dead goat made their appearance. I did not connect the contents of de Belem's house with the horrible ceremony in All Saints' until yesterday. It terrified me to the point where I simply forced it from my mind, and I did not think properly.'
'But why did Richard not demand to search de Belem's house for his baby?' asked Bartholomew. 'Once he had his son back, de Belem would be powerless to blackmail him, and Richard could pursue his investigation of the murderer and the guilds.' "I said he should, but his wife was against it. She was afraid the baby would be killed as soon as Richard entered the house,' said Tulyet. 'Richard delayed, Isobel died, and, despite the fact that Richard has been watching the house, no baby has been heard since.'
Bartholomew leaned back against the wall and rubbed his chin. De Belem was a dyer, which meant that he would have ready access to certain chemicals, and would know which ones would explode, burn, or give off smoke.
Added to the bats and birds, the evidence was powerful.
He thought of the high priest's performance in All Saints'. He had been of a height and build similar to de Belem's. It could have been a good many other people too* however. But what about Frances? Bartholomew recalled his grief when he had broken the news of her death. Surely he had not killed her himself? What had she said on the night she died? That it was 'not a man'.
Was it because de Belem had been wearing his red mask as he had in the church, perhaps the same red mask that Bartholomew had seen in the Michaelhouse orchard? 'So what do we do now?' Michael asked Tulyet.
Tulyet's face fell. "I hoped you would know,' he said.
He looked out of the window. 'It is getting dark and the high priest promised another murder. Richard's anguish has made him increasingly unstable over the last few days.
I cannot allow him to be involved any further until he has the baby back. You are my last hope,' he said with sudden despair.
'How long has the baby been gone?' asked Bartholomew.
'Almost four weeks,' said Tulyet. 'He is a bonny babe, strong and healthy. Not like the yellow weakling you saw when he was born. But he still needs his mother.'
Bartholomew mused. About a month. The same time that Nicholas feigned his death, and the woman had been placed in his coffin; the same time that de Belem had made himself the new high priest of the Guild of the Coming; and about the same time that Janetta had been in town.
'We should question de Belem,' said Michael.
'Discreetly.'
'But if you go to de Belem, and he has even the slightest inkling of what you know, he might harm my grandchild,' said Tulyet.
'He asked us if we would investigate the death of his daughter,' said Bartholomew reasonably. 'He cannot be suspicious of us. We will go to him tonight. The longer we wait, the more likely it is that the child will come to harm.'
'But what of the risk?' cried Tulyet. 'What if you make a mistake?'
'What if the child dies because he is in the care of a man who does not know about children?' asked Bartholomew.
'Do you think he might die from neglect?' asked Tulyet anxiously.
Bartholomew raised his hands. 'It is in de Belem's interest to keep the child alive, but he will not be as well cared for as if he were at home.'
Tulyet sat in an agony of indecision, looking from Michael to Bartholomew with a stricken expression.
'This cannot go on,' said Michael gently. 'A child needs its mother. And we cannot allow another murder to happen when we know what we do. Think of Fritha.'
Tulyet nodded miserably. 'But please be careful for the child,' he said. 'Many people are guilty of vile crimes in this business, but he is wholly innocent.'
Tulyet stood, white faced, and Michael clapped him reassuringly on the shoulder. 'Do not go home. Your anxiety might alert your son, and he may interfere and do harm. Wait with Master Kenyngham until we return.
Tell him what you have told us, and we will inform you of what we have learned as soon as we can.'
Tulyet nodded again. Bartholomew called for Cynric to escort the merchant to Kenyngham's room.
'What made you come to us now?' asked Michael as he left.
Tulyet gave a weak smile. 'The town has failed since the Sheriff is helpless, and my own information has revealed nothing. The Church will not help me now I have sold my soul to the Devil. What else is there but the University? I came close to telling you the other day.
Now I feel you are our only hope.'
They watched him walk across the yard, his shoulders stooped.
'What shall we do first?' asked Michael.
"I have an idea,' said Bartholomew.