Dawn was cool and clean as Matthew Bartholomew and Brother Michael walked together across the College yard to the great iron-studded doors that led to Foul Lane. As Michael removed the stout wooden bar from the wicket gate and chided the rumpled porter for sleeping when he should have been alert, Bartholomew looked up at the dark blue sky and savoured the freshness of the air. When the sun became hot, the small town would begin to stink from the refuse and sewage that were dumped in the myriad of waterways, ditches, and streams. But now the air was cool and smelt of the sea.
Michael opened the gate, and Bartholomew followed him into the lane. The large Benedictine tripped over a mangy dog that was lying in the street outside, and swore as it yelped and ran away towards the wharves on the river bank.
'There are far too many stray dogs in Cambridge,' he grumbled. 'Ever since the plague. Stray dogs and stray cats, with no one left to keep the wretched things off the streets.
Now the Fair is here, there are more than ever. And I am certain I saw a monkey in the High Street last night!'
Bartholomew smiled at the monk's litany of complaints and began to walk up the lane towards St Michael's Church. It was his and Michael's turn to open the church and prepare it for the first service of the day. Before the plague had swept through England, all the religious offices were recited in the church by the scholars of Michaelhouse, but the shortage of friars and priests to perform these duties meant that the College's religious practices were curtailed. Brother Michael would pray alone, while Bartholomew prepared the church for Prime, which all the scholars would attend.
After, they would go back to Michaelhouse for breakfast, and lectures would start at six.
The sky was beginning to lighten in the east, and although there were sounds — a dog barking, a bird singing in the distance, the clatter of an early cart to the market — the town was peaceful, and this was Bartholomew's favourite time of day. As Michael fumbled with the large church key, Bartholomew walked over the long grass of the churchyard to a small hump marked with a crude wooden cross. Bartholomew and Michael had buried Father Aelfrith here when, all over the city, others were being interred in huge pits at the height of the plague. He stared down at the cross, remembering the events of the winter of 1348, when the plague had raged and a murderer had struck at Michaelhouse.
Bartholomew had buried another colleague in the churchyard too. The smug Master Wilson lay in his temporary grave awaiting the day when Bartholomew fulfilled a deathbed promise and organised the construction of an extravagant tomb carve'd in black marble. Bartholomew felt a deep unease about the notion of removing Wilson's body from its grave in the churchyard to the church. Even after a year and a half of rethinking all he had learned, Bartholomew still did not understand how the plague spread, or why it struck some people and not others.
Some physicians believed the stories from the East, that the pestilence had come because an earthquake had opened the graves of the dead. Bartholomew saw no evidence to prove this was true, but the plague was never far from his thoughts, and he was loathe to risk exhuming Wilson.
He heard Brother Michael begin to chant and dragged himself from his thoughts to go about his duty. Faint light filtered through the clear glass of the east window, although the church was still shades of grey and black.
Later, when the sun rose, the light would fall on the vivid paintings on the walls that brought them alive with colour. Especially fine was the painting that depicted Judgement Day, showing souls being tossed into the pits of hell by a goat-devil. On the opposite side St Michael saved an occasional soul. Bartholomew often wondered what had driven the artist to clothe the Devil in a scholar's tabard.
As Michael continued to chant, Bartholomew opened the small sanctuary cupboard, took out chalice and.paten, and turned the pages of the huge Bible to the reading for the day. When he had finished, he walked around the church lighting candles and setting out stools for those of the small congregation who were unable to stand.
As he checked the level of holy water in the stoup, he grimaced with distaste at the film of scum that had accumulated. Glancing quickly down the aisle to make sure Michael was not watching, he siphoned the old water off into a jug, gave the stoup a quick wipe round, and refilled it. Keeping his back to Michael, Bartholomew poured the old water away in the piscina next to the altar, careful not to spill any. There were increasing rumours that witchcraft was on the increase in England because of the shortage of clergy after the plague, and there was a danger of holy water being stolen for use in black magic rituals. The piscina ensured that the water drained into the church foundations and could not be collected and sold. But Bartholomew, as a practising physician, as well as Michaelhouse's teacher of medicine, was more concerned that scholars would touch the filthy water to their lips and become ill.
Michael finished his prayers and Bartholomew saw him sneak a gulp of wine from the jug intended for the mass. The monk yawned hugely, and began to relate a tale of how a pardoner had tried to sell him some of the Archangel Gabriel's hair at the Fair the previous day. Michael, outraged, had demanded proof that the hair had indeed belonged to Gabriel and had been informed that the angel himself had presented it to the pardoner in a dream. Michael proudly announced that he had tipped the scoundrel and his fake hair into the King's Ditch. Bartholomew winced. The Ditch was a foul affair, running thick with all kinds of filth and waste, and Michael's righteous anger might well have caused the unfortunate pardoner to contract a veritable host of diseases.
Before he could respond, the doors were pushed open and sleepy-eyed scholars began to file silently into church. Michael and Bartholomew shot to the altar rail and knelt quickly in the hope that they had not been seen chattering when they should have been praying.
Bartholomew watched the Michaelhouse scholars take their places in the choir: the Fellows in a line to the right headed by the Master, and the students and commoners behind. Cynric ap Huwydd, Bartholomew's book-bearer, rang the bell to announce that the service was about to begin. The scholars of Physwick Hostel, who had begged use of St Michael's Church from Michaelhouse because their own church had been closed since the plague, processed in and stood in a neat line opposite the Michaelhouse scholars. The arrangement was an uneasy one: Physwick resented being forced to rely on Michaelhouse's good graces, and Michaelhouse was nervous at sharing the church after twenty-five years.
Bartholomew saw Physwick's Principal, Richard Harling, exchange a smile far from warm with Michaelhouse's Senior Fellow, Roger Alcote.
In the main body of the church a few parishioners drifted in, yawning and rubbing the sleep from their eyes, and Michael began the service, his rich baritone filling the church as he chanted. Out of the corner of his eye, Bartholomew saw something fly through the air towards the Michaelhouse students. It landed harmlessly, but a stain on the floor attested that it was a ball of mud.
Bartholomew scanned the congregation, and identified the culprits in the form of the blacksmith's sons. They stood, hands clasped in front of them, eyes raised to the carved wooden roof, as though nothing had happened.
Bartholomew frowned. The University had a stormy relationship with the town, and, although the University brought prosperity to a number of townsfolk, it also brought gangs of arrogant, noisy students who despised the people of the town and rioted at the least provocation.
Bartholomew saw one of the Physwick students bow his head in laughter at the mud-ball. The University was not even at peace with itself: students from the south loathed scholars from the north and from Scotland; they all hated students from Wales and Ireland; and there was even fierce rivalry between the different religious orders, the mendicant friars and priests at loggerheads with the rich Benedictines and the Austin Canons who ran the Hospital of St John.
Bartholomew turned his attention away from the blacksmith's loutish sons, and back to the service.
Michael had finished reading, and the scholars began to chant a Psalm. Bartholomew joined in the singing, relishing how the chanting echoed through the church.
As the Psalm finished, Bartholomew stepped forward to read the designated tract from the Old Testament.
He faltered as the door was flung open, and a man walked quickly down the aisle, gesturing urgently that he wanted to speak to the Master, Thomas Kenyngham.
Kenyngham was a gentle Gilbertine friar whose rule of the College was tolerant to the point of laxity. He smiled benignly and waved the messenger forward. The man whispered in his ear, and Bartholomew saw Roger Alcote surreptitiously lean to one side to try to overhear.
The Master favoured Alcote with a seraphic smile until Alcote had the grace to move away. Out of the corner of his eye, Bartholomew saw that one of the clerk's frenzied gestures was directed towards him, and wondered which of his patients needed him so urgently that mass could be interrupted.
Kenyngham left his place and walked towards the altar, laying a hand on Bartholomew's arm to stop his reading.
'Gentlemen,' he began in his soft voice, 'there has been an incident in St Mary's Church. The Chancellor has requested that Brother Michael and Doctor Bartholomew attend as soon as possible. Father William and I will continue the mass.' Without further ado, he took up the reading where Bartholomew had stopped, leaving William to scramble to take his own place. Michael dropped his prayerful attitude with a speed that verged on the sacrilegious and made his way down the aisle, eyes gleaming with anticipation. Cynric followed, and Bartholomew went after them, aware of the curious looks from the other scholars. The Master of Physwick plucked at his sleeve as he passed.
"I am the University's Senior Proctor,' he said in a low whisper. 'If there has been an incident in the University church, I should come.'
Bartholomew shrugged, glancing briefly at him as he walked briskly down the aisle. He did not like Richard Harling, who, as the University's Senior Proctor, patrolled the streets at night looking for scholars who should be safely locked in their College or hostel, and fined them for unseemly or rowdy behaviour.
Bartholomew sometimes needed to be out at night to see patients, and Harling had already fined him twice without even listening to his reasons. Harling had black hair that was always neatly slicked down with animal grease, and his scholar's tabard was immaculate.
The messenger was waiting for them outside. It was lighter than in the church, and Bartholomew recognised the neat, bearded features of the Chancellor's personal clerk, Gilbert.
'What has happened?' asked Michael, intrigued. 'What is so important that it could not wait until after mass?'
'A dead man has been found in the University chest,'
Gilbert replied. Ignoring their looks of disbelief, he continued, 'The Chancellor ordered me to fetch Brother Michael, the Bishop's man, and Matthew Bartholomew, the physician.'
'Not the plague!' whispered Bartholomew in horror.
He grabbed Gilbert's arm. 'How did this man die?'
Gilbert forced a smile. 'Not the plague. I do not know what killed him, but it was not the plague.'
Harling pursed his lips. 'This sounds like business for the Proctor.'
Gilbert raised his hands. 'The Junior Proctor is already there. He said you had been on duty last night, and you should not be disturbed until later.'
He turned, and set a lively pace towards St Mary's Church, so that the obese Michael was huffing and sweating within a few moments.
Bartholomew nudged the Benedictine monk in the ribs. ' "Brother Michael, the Bishop's man",' he repeated in an undertone. 'A fine reputation to have, my friend.'
Michael glowered at him. A year and a half before, he had agreed to become an agent of the Bishop of Ely, the churchman who had jurisdiction over the University since Cambridge had no cathedral of its own. Michael was to be alert to the interests of the Church in the town, and especially to the interests of the Benedictines, since Ely was a Benedictine monastery. There was a small hostel for Benedictines studying at the University, but the four monks that lived there were more concerned with their new-found freedom than the interests of their Order.
Bartholomew began to feel uncomfortable. The chest was where all the University's most important documents were stored, and the series of locks and bolts that protected it in the church tower was rumoured to be formidable. So who had broken through all that security?
What sinister plot had the University embroiled itself in this time? And perhaps more to the point, how could Bartholomew prevent it from sucking him in, too?
The Church of St Mary the Great was an imposing building of creamy-white stone that dominated the High Street. Next to its delicate window tracery and soaring tower, St Michael's looked squat and grey. Yet, Bartholomew had heard that there were plans to rebuild the chancel and replace it with something grander and finer still.
Bartholomew had barely caught up with the clerk when they reached St Mary's. Standing to one side, wringing his hands and throwing fearful glances at the tower was St Mary's priest, Father Cuthbert, an enormously fat man whom Bartholomew treated for swollen ankles. A small group of clerks huddled around the door talking in low voices. The Chancellor, Richard de Wetherset, stood in the middle of them, a stocky man with iron-grey hair, who exuded an aura of power. He stepped forward as Bartholomew and Michael approached, allowing himself a brief smile at Michael's breathlessness.
'Thank you for being prompt, gentlemen.' He turned to Harling. 'Master Jonstan is already here, Richard. I was loathe to disturb you when you had been up all night.'
Harling inclined his head. 'But I am Senior Proctor, and should be present at a matter that sounds so grave.'
De Wetherset nodded his thanks, and beckoned Bartholomew, Michael, and Harling out of earshot of the gathered clerks. "I am afraid someone has been murdered in the tower. Doctor, I would like you to tell me a little more about how and when he died, and you, Brother, must report this incident accurately to our Lord the Bishop.'
He began to walk through the churchyard, raising a hand to prevent the gaggle of clerks, and Cynric, from following them. Michael and Harling followed quickly, Father Cuthbert and Bartholomew a little more slowly. Bartholomew felt his stomach churn. At times, the University could be a seething pit of intrigue, and Bartholomew had no wish to become entangled in it. It would demand his time and his energies when he should be concentrating all his efforts on his teaching and his patients. The plague had left Cambridge depleted of physicians, and there was an urgent need to replace those who had died all over the country. Bartholomew considered the training of new physicians the most important duty in his life.
St Mary's was still dark inside, and the Chancellor took a torch from a sconce on the wall and led the way to the tower door at the back of the building.
They followed him up the winding stairs into a small chamber about half-way up the tower. Bartholomew glanced around quickly, looking for the fabled chest, but the chamber was empty. Michael emerged from the stair-well, wheezing unhealthily, and Cuthbert's ponderous footsteps echoed until he too stood sweating and gasping in the chamber.
De Wetherset beckoned them close and shut the small wooden door so that they would not be overheard.
"I do not want the details of this incident to become common knowledge,' he said, 'and what I am about to tell you mustremain a secret. You know that the University chest is kept in the tower here. To reach it, you must open three locked and bolted doors, and you must be able to open three locks on the chest itself. These locks were made in Italy and are, I am told, the finest locks in the world. Only I have the keys and either I, or my deputy, are always present when the chest is unlocked.'
He paused for a moment, and opened the door quickly to listen intently. He closed it again with a sigh and continued. 'You may consider all these precautions rather excessive to protect indentures and accounts, but the truth is that one of my best clerks, Nicholas of York, was writing a history of the University. He was quite frank, and recorded everything he uncovered, some of which could prove embarrassing if revealed in certain quarters.
This book, you understand, will not be randomly distributed, but is intended to be a reliable, factual report of our doings and dealings. One day, people may be interested to know these things.'
He looked hard first at Michael and then at Bartholomew. 'The events of last year, when members of the University committed murder to make their fortunes, are recorded, along with your roles in the affair. And there are other incidents too, which need not concern you. The point is, a month ago Nicholas died of a fever, quite unexpectedly. I was uneasy at the suddenness of his death, and in the light of what has been discovered this morning, I am even more concerned.'
'What exactly has happened this morning?' asked Michael. Bartholomew began to feel increasingly uncomfortable as the Chancellor's revelations sank in.
"I came at first light this morning, as usual, to collect the documents from the chest I would need for the day's business. I was accompanied by my personal clerk, Gilbert. That group of scribes and secretaries you saw outside waited in the church below. Even in the half-light, we could see there was something wrong.
The locks on the chest were askew and the lid was not closed properly. Gilbert opened the chest and inside was the body of a man.'
'Gilbert has already told us as much,' said Bartholomew.
'But how did the body come to be in the chest?'
The Chancellor gave the grimmest of smiles. 'That, gentlemen, is why I have asked you to come. I cannot imagine how anyone could have entered the tower, let alone open the locks on the chest. And I certainly have no idea how the corpse of a man could appear there.'
'Where is the chest?' asked Michael. 'Not up more stairs I hope.'
The Chancellor looked Michael up and down scathingly, and left the room. They heard his footsteps echoing further up the stairs, and Michael groaned.
The room on the next floor was more comfortable than the first. A table covered with writing equipment stood in the window, and several benches with cushions lined the walls. In the middle of the floor, standing on a once-splendid, but now shabby, woollen rug, was the University chest. It was a long box made of ancient black oak and strengthened with iron bands, darkened with age. It reminded Bartholomew of the elaborate coffin he had seen the Bishop of Peterborough buried in years before. Guarding the chest and the room was the Junior Proctor, Alric Jonstan, standing with his sword drawn and his saucer-like blue eyes round with horror. Bartholomew smiled at him as they waited for the others. Jonstan was far more popular than Harling, and was seemingly a kinder man who, although he took his duties seriously, did not enforce them with the same kind of inflexible rigour as did Harling.
De Wetherset stood to one side as Michael and Cuthbert finally arrived, and then indicated that Bartholomew should approach the chest. Bartholomew bent to inspect the wool rug, but there was nothing there, no blood or other marks. He walked around the chest looking for signs of tampering, but the stout leather hinges were pristine and well-oiled, and there was no indication that the lid had been prised open.
Taking a deep, but silent, breath, he lifted the lid. He looked down at the body of a man in a Dominican habit, lying face down on the University's precious documents and scrolls. Jonstan took a hissing breath and crossed himself.
'Poor man!' he muttered. 'It is a friar. Poor man!'
'Have you touched him?' asked Bartholomew of the Chancellor.
De Wetherset shook his head. 'We opened the chest, as I told you, but, when I saw what was inside, I lowered the lid and sent Gilbert to fetch you.'
Bartholomew knelt and put his hand on the man's neck. There was no life beat, and it was cold. He took the body by the shoulders while Michael grabbed the feet. Carefully, they lifted it out and laid it on the rug next to the chest. The Chancellor came to peer in at the documents. He heaved a sigh of relief.
'Well, at least they are not all covered in blood,' he announced fervently. He began searching among the papers and held up a sheaf triumphantly. 'The history!
I think it is all here, although I will check, of course.'
He began to rifle through the ream of parchments at the table in the window, muttering to himself.
Bartholomew turned his attention back to the body on the floor. It was a man in his fifties with a neatly cut tonsure. His friar's robe was threadbare and stained.
Bartholomew began to try to establish why he had died.
He could see no obvious signs, no blows to the head or stab wounds. He sat back perplexed. Had the man committed suicide somehow after lying in the chest? 'Do you know him?' he asked, looking around at the others.
Jonstan shook his head. 'No. We can check at the Friary, though. The poor devils were so decimated by the Death that one of their number missing will be very apparent'
Bartholomew frowned. "I do not think he was at the Friary,' he said. 'His appearance and robes are dirty, and the new Prior seems very particular about that. I think he may have been sleeping rough for a few days before he died.'
'Well, who is he then? And what did he want from the chest? And how did he die?' demanded the Chancellor from across the room.
Bartholomew shrugged. "I have no idea. I need more time. Do you want me to examine him here or in the chapel? I will need to remove his robes.'
The Chancellor looked at Bartholomew in disgust.
'Will it make a mess?'
'No,' Bartholomew replied, startled. "I do not believe so.'
'Then do it here, away from prying eyes. I will post Gilbert at the bottom of the stairs to make sure you are not disturbed. Father Cuthbert, perhaps you would assist him?' He turned to Bartholomew and Michael. 'If you have no objections, I will not stay to watch.' De Wetherset brandished the handful of documents. "I must put these in another secure place.'
'Another secure place?' quizzed Michael under his breath to Bartholomew.
De Wetherset narrowed his eyes, detecting Michael's tone, if not his words. 'Please report to me the moment you have finished,' he said. He beckoned for Harling and Jonstan to follow him, and left, closing the door firmly behind him.
Bartholomew ran a hand through his unruly hair.
'Not again!' he said to Michael. "I want to teach and to heal my patients. I do not want to become embroiled in University politics!'
Michael's face softened, and he patted his friend on the shoulder. 'You are the University's most senior physician since the Death. The fact that you have been asked here to help means no more than that. You are not being recruited into the University's secret service!' "I should hope not,' said Bartholomew with feeling.
'If I thought that were the case, I would leave Cambridge immediately, and set up practice somewhere I would never be found. Come on. Help me get this over with.
Then we can report to de Wetherset and that will be an end to it.'
He began to remove the dead man's robe. The stiffness meant that he was forced to cut it with a knife. Once the robe lay in a bundle on the floor, Bartholomew began to conduct a more rigorous examination of the body.
There was no sign of violence, no bruises or cuts, and no puncture marks except for a cut on the left hand that was so small that Bartholomew almost missed it. He inspected the fingernails to see if there were any fibres trapped there, but there was only a layer of black dirt. The hands were soft, which implied that the man had been unused to physical labour, and a small ink-stain on his right thumb suggested that he could write. Bartholomew turned the hand to catch the light from the window, and the small callus on the thumb confirmed that the man had been a habitual scribe.
Bartholomew leaned close to the man's mouth and carefully smelled it, ignoring Michael's snort of disgust.
There was nothing to suggest he had taken poison. He prised the man's mouth open and peered in, looking for discoloration of the tongue or gums, or other signs of damage. There was nothing. The man had several small ulcers on one side of his tongue, but Bartholomew thought that they were probably more likely caused by a period of poor nutrition than by any subtle poisons.
He turned his attention to the man's throat, but there was nothing to imply strangulation and no neck bones were broken. He looked at one of the man's hands again.
If he had died because his heart had seized up, his fingernails, nose and mouth should show some blueness.
The man's fingernails were an unhealthy waxy-white, but certainly not blue. His lips, too, were white.
Eventually, Bartholomew sat back on his heels. "I have no idea why he died,' he said, perplexed. 'Perhaps he came here to steal and the excitement burst some vital organ. Perhaps he was already ill when he came here.
Perhaps he was already dead.'
'What?' said Michael, his eyes wide with disbelief. 'Are you suggesting that someone brought a corpse up here in the middle of the night and left it?'
Bartholomew grinned at him. 'No. I am merely following the rules of the deceased Master Wilson and trying to solve the problem logically.'
'Well, that suggestion, my dear doctor, has less logic than Wilson's crumbling bones could present,' said Michael. 'How could someone smuggle a corpse into the church and leave it here? I can accept that someone might hide below and then sneak up here after all was secured for the night, but not someone carrying a corpse!'
'So, the friar hides in the church, picks three locks to reach this room, picks three locks to open the chest, lies face-down in it, and dies. Master Wilson would not have been impressed with your logic, either,' retorted Bartholomew.
'Perhaps the friar came up here as you suggested and died suddenly,' said Michael.
'And closed the lid afterwards?' asked Bartholomew, raising his eyebrows. 'De Wetherset said it was closed with the friar inside. I think it unlikely that he closed it himself.'
'You think another person was here?' asked Michael, gesturing round. 'What evidence do you have for such a claim?'
'None that I can see,' replied Bartholomew. He went to sit on one of the benches and Michael followed him, settling himself comfortably with his hands across his stomach.
'Let us think about what we do know,' the monk said.
'First. It is likely that this man hid in the church and then made his way up to the tower after the church had been secured. We can ask the sexton what his procedures are for locking up.'
'Second,' said Bartholomew, "I think this man was a clerk or a friar, as he appears, and that he has been sleeping rough for a few nights as attested by his dirty clothes. Perhaps he had undertaken a journey of several days' duration, or perhaps he had spent some time watching the church in preparation for his burglary.'
'Third,' Michael continued, 'you say he appears to have suffered no violence. He may have died of natural causes, perhaps brought on by the stress of his nocturnal activities.'
Bartholomew nodded slowly. 'And fourth,' he concluded, 'the locks seem to have been picked with great skill.'
'But there are no tools,' said Michael. 'He must have needed a piece of wire at the very least to pick a lock.'
Bartholomew went to the chest and rummaged around, but there was nothing. 'So either he hid the tools before he died, or someone took them.'
'If there was another person here with him to take the tools and close the lid, that person could have killed him,' said Michael.
'But there is no evidence he was murdered,' said Bartholomew.
They sat in silence for a while, mulling over what they had deduced.
'And there is the question of the Chancellor's scribe, Nicholas of York,' said Bartholomew. 'De Wetherset says he is now suspicious of his death — a death that appeared to be natural, but now seems too timely. Two deaths that seem natural, connected with the University chest?' He frowned and drummed on the bench with his fingers.
Michael looked at him hard. 'What do you mean?' he said.
'Although I can find nothing that caused the death of this man, I am reluctant to say it was natural. I suppose it is possible he could have suffered a fatal seizure, fell in the chest, and the lid slammed shut. But what of the missing tools? And anyway, people who have such seizures usually show some evidence of it, and I can see no such evidence here.'
'So what you are saying,' said Michael, beginning to be frustrated, 'is that the friar does not seem to have been killed, but he did not die naturally. Marvellous!
Where does that leave us?'
Bartholomew shrugged. "I have just never seen a man die of natural causes and his body look like the friar's.'
'So what do we tell the Chancellor?' said Michael.
Bartholomew leaned his head back against the whitewashed wall and studied the ceiling. 'What we know,' he said. 'That the man was probably an itinerant friar, that he probably had some considerable skill as a picker of locks, that he died from causes unknown, and that there was probably another person here.'
'That will not satisfy de Wetherset,' said Michael, 'nor will it satisfy the Bishop.'
'Well, what would you have us do, Michael? Lie?' asked Bartholomew, also beginning to be frustrated. He closed his eyes and racked his brain for causes of death that would turn a man's skin waxy white.
'Of course we should not lie!' said Michael crossly.
'But the explanation we have now is inadequate.'
'Then what do you suggest we do?' demanded Bartholomew. He watched Michael gnaw at his thumbnail as he turned the problem over in his mind. It gave him an idea, and he went to look at the tiny cut on the friar's thumb. He sat cross-legged on the floor and inspected it closely. It was little more than a scratch, but it broke the skin nevertheless. He let the hand fall and sat pondering the chest. It suddenly took on a sinister air as his attention was drawn to the locks.
He reached across the body to the middle lock.
Protruding from the top of it was a minuscule blade, less than the length of his little fingernail. He took one of his surgical knives and pressed gently on it. under the pressure, it began to slide back into the lock. When he moved his knife, the small blade sprang back up again.
Michael watched him curiously, and stretched out a hand to touch it.
'No!' Bartholomew slapped Michael's hand away. "I think the lock has its own precaution against intruders,' he said, looking down at the dead friar. "I think it bears a poison.'
The Chancellor looked in horror at the lock that lay on his table, the little blade coated with its deadly poison protruding from the top.
'A true Italian lock,' he said in hushed tones. He picked up a quill and poked the lock further away from him, as though he was afraid that it might poison him from where he sat, and exchanged a look of revulsion with his clerk, who stood behind him.
'Did you know that the lock had the capacity to kill?' asked Bartholomew. Michael gave him a warning elbow in the ribs. The head of the University was not a man of whom to ask such a question.
De Wetherset looked aghast. "I most certainly did not!' he said, standing and walking to the opposite side of the room, still eyeing the lock with deep suspicion. "I unlocked it myself many times!' The thought of a possible narrow escape suddenly dawned on him and he turned paler still.
'Are you sure that the lock has not been changed since you last saw it?' said Michael.
The Chancellor thought for a moment, his eyes involuntarily swinging back to the lock on the table.
'Not really,' he said. 'It is the same size, the same colour, and has the same general appearance, but in a court of law I could not swear that this lock was the one that was there yesterday. It probably was, but I could not be certain. What would you say, Gilbert?'
'It looks the same to me,' said his clerk, leaning down and examining it minutely.
'Father Cuthbert?' asked Bartholomew of the fat priest.
Cuthbert put up his hands defensively. "I am priest only of the church. The tower is beyond my jurisdiction and belongs to the University. I know nothing of poisoned locks.'
'Who else might know?' said Bartholomew.
'My deputy, Evrard Buckley, is the only person other than me who is permitted access to the chest. Even Gilbert does not touch it,' said de Wetherset. 'And the only person other than me to have keys is the Bishop.
He keeps a spare set in Ely Cathedral, but we have had no cause to use those for years.'
'Are you the only person actually to use the keys?' asked Bartholomew. 'Do you ever give them to a clerk or your deputy to open the locks?'
De Wetherset pulled on a cord tied around his neck.
"I keep my keys here and I only remove them when I hand them to Buckley to lock or unlock the chest. The keys are never out of my sight, and, outside the chamber where the chest is kept, I never remove them from round my neck.'
'Not even when you bathe?' pressed Bartholomew.
'Bathe? You mean swim in the river?' said the Chancellor with a look of horror.
'No, I mean take a bath,' said Bartholomew.
'A bath would mean that I had to remove all my clothes,' said the Chancellor distastefully, 'and I do not consider such an action healthy for a man in his fifties.' He held up a hand as if to quell any objection Bartholomew might make. "I am aware of your odd beliefs in this area, Doctor,' he said, referring to Bartholomew's well-known insistence on cleanliness.
"I cannot think why Master Kenyngham allows you to entertain such peculiar notions, and while I suppose they may have a measure of success on the labourers you physic, I do not believe they will apply equally to me.'
'All men are equal before God, Chancellor,' said Bartholomew, taken aback by de Wetherset's statement.
He ignored Michael's smirk. 'And all men are more likely to contract certain sicknesses if they do not keep themselves clean.'
De Wetherset looked sharply at him. 'Do not try to lure me into a debate on physic,' he said. 'The Bible does not say those who do not bathe will become ill.
And it also does not recommend against drinking from God's rivers as I have heard you do. Now, we have more important matters to discuss.'
Bartholomew was startled into silence, wondering whether his teaching and practice were really as outlandish as many of his colleagues seemed to feel.
Bartholomew had learned medicine at the University in Paris from an Arab doctor who had taught him that incidence of disease could be lessened by simple hygiene. Bartholomew fervently believed Ibn Ibrahim was right, a notion that brought him into conflict with many of his patients and colleagues. De Wetherset's arguments had tripped very lightly off his tongue, suggesting that he had debated this issue before. Michael, hiding his amusement, resumed the questioning of de Wetherset.
'So there is no time ever when you might remove the keys?'
'Never,' said de Wetherset. "I even sleep with them.'
'What about Master Buckley?' said Michael. 'Where is he? We should really ask him the same questions.'
'He is unwell,' said de Wetherset. 'Did you not know that, Doctor? He is your patient.'
Master Buckley, the Vice-Chancellor, was a Fellow of King's Hall. He taught grammar, and, many years before, Bartholomew's older sister Edith had hired Master Buckley to coach him when the school at Peterborough Abbey broke for holidays. Bartholomew's knowledge of grammar had not improved, and Buckley's dull company had done a great deal to convince him that this subject made a very poor showing after arithmetic, geometry, and natural philosophy. Bartholomew had met Buckley again when he had been made Master of Medicine at Michaelhouse six years before, and had treated Buckley frequently for a skin complaint.
'Who usually opens the chest?' Bartholomew asked.
'Well, Master Buckley, actually,' said de Wetherset.
'Gilbert usually kindles the lamps, and I like to set out the table, ready to work on the documents locked in the chest.'
Bartholomew looked at Gilbert, who hastened to explain. 'Master de Wetherset hands Master Buckley his keys, he unlocks the chest and removes any documents we require, and then he locks it again immediately.' He looked down at the lock in renewed horror. 'You mean poor Master Buckley could have been killed like that poor friar just by unlocking the chest?'
Michael shrugged. 'Yes. Assuming the lock has not been changed.'
Bartholomew stood to leave. 'That is all we can tell you,' he said. "I am sorry it is not more, but perhaps Masters Harling andjonstan will uncover the truth when they begin to investigate.'
The Chancellor shook his head slowly, and indicated he should sit again. 'My Proctors cannot investigate this,' he said. 'They have their hands full trying to keep peace between students and the gangs of people gathered for the Stourbridge Fair. Also, there are scores of entertainers, mercenaries, and the Lord knows what manner of people wandering through the town gawking at our buildings and assessing our wealth. An increase in non-University folk around the town has always been a danger, but has been especially so since the Death, with lordless labourers strolling free.'
Bartholomew knew all this: the Fair was the largest in England, and merchants from all over England, France, and even Flanders came to trade. The Fair also attracted entertainers — singers, dancers, actors, fire-eaters, jongleurs, acrobats, and many more — and with the entertainers came pickpockets, thieves, rabble rousers, and tricksters. The Proctors always struggled to keep the scholars out of trouble, but this year the situation was far more serious. The plague had taken landowners as well as those who worked for them, and many previously bonded men had found themselves free.
A shortage of labour had forced wages up, and groups of people wandered the country selling their services to those that could pay the most. Compounding all this, the soldiers who had been fighting the King's wars in France had begun to return. It was easier to steal than to work, and robbers on the roads were increasingly common, especially given the number of carts that trundled along taking goods to and from the Fair.
The Fair was only in its second week, but already there had been three deaths, and a riot had been only narrowly averted when a local tinker had stolen a student's purse.
'Because my Proctors are busy with the Fair,' the Chancellor continued, "I will need to crave your indulgence a little longer, and ask that you might make some preliminary enquiries on my behalf. Of course, Harling and Jonstan will help wherever they can, but…'
'If you will forgive me, Master de Wetherset,' interrupted Bartholomew, "I would rather not be a party to an extended investigation. I am a physician, and I think the events of two Christmases ago show clearly that I am not adept at this kind of thing. You would be better asking one of your clerks to do it. Perhaps Gilbert?' "I require a physician to examine the body of my scribe Nicholas to see if he, too, was killed by this foul device,' said de Wetherset, gesturing to the lock on the table. 'Gilbert cannot tell me whether a man has been poisoned or not.'
'But Nicholas is buried!' said Michael, shocked. 'You said he died a month ago.'
'You mean to dig him up?' gasped Gilbert, his face white under his beard.
Cuthbert joined in. 'Nicholas has been laid to rest in hallowed ground! You cannot disturb him! It is contrary to the will of God!'
De Wetherset looked disapprovingly at them before addressing Michael and Bartholomew. 'Nicholas lies in the churchyard here. I will obtain the necessary permits from the Bishop and you will exhume the body this week.
You will also report back to me regularly. I will speak with Master Kenyngham and ask that you be excused lectures if they interfere with your investigation.'
Bartholomew felt a flash of anger at de Wetherset's presumption, followed by a feeling of sick dread. He had no wish to investigate murders or delve into the University's sordid affairs.
'But my students have their disputations soon,' he protested. "I cannot abandon them!' "I need a physician to examine the corpse,' repeated the Chancellor. 'You underestimate your abilities, Doctor.
You are honest and discreet, and for these reasons alone I trust you more than most of my clerks. I think you both of you,' he added, looking at Michael, 'are perfectly equipped to get to the bottom of this matter. I know you would both rather teach than investigate University affairs, but I must ask you to indulge me for a day or so, and do my bidding. I know the Bishop will support me in this.'
'But if your clerk has been dead for a month, I will be able to tell you nothing about his death,' Bartholomew protested. 'Even if there were once a small cut on his hand, like the one on the friar, the flesh will be corrupted, and I doubt I will be able to see it.'
De Wetherset winced in distaste. 'Perhaps. But you will not know until you look, and I require that you try.'
He leaned towards Bartholomew, his expression earnest.
'This is important. I must know whether Nicholas came to harm because of the book I ordered he write about the University.'
Bartholomew held his gaze. 'You must be aware of the stories that say the plague came from the graves of the dead,' he said. 'It is a risk 'Nonsense,' snapped de Wetherset. 'You do not believe that story, Doctor, any more than I do. The plague is over.
It will not come again.'
'How do you know that?' demanded Bartholomew, irritated at the man's complacency. 'How do you know someone at the Fair is not sickening from the plague at this very moment?'
'It has passed us over,' said de Wetherset, his voice rising in reply. 'It has gone north.'
'There are people at the Fair who have come from the north,' countered Bartholomew, becoming exasperated.
'How do you know they have not brought it back with them, in their clothes, or in the goods they hope to sell?'
'Well, which is it, Doctor?' said de Wetherset triumphantly, detecting a flaw in Bartholomew's argument.
'Is it carried by the living, or in the graves with the dead?
You cannot have it both ways.'
'My point is that I do not know,' said Bartholomew, ignoring Michael's warning looks for arguing with the Chancellor. 'No one knows! How can we take such a risk by exhuming your clerk? Will you endanger the lives of the people of Cambridge, of England, over this?'
De Wetherset snorted impatiently. 'There is no risk!
Nicholas died of a summer ague, not the plague. I saw his body in his coffin before he was buried. Your peculiar ideas about cleanliness are making you over-cautious.
You will exhume the body in two or three days' time when I have the necessary licences. Now, what do you plan to do about this friar?'
Michael pulled thoughtfully at the thin whiskers on his flabby cheek, while Bartholomew threw up his hands in exasperation, and went to stand near the window to bring his anger under control.
'Can you test the lock to make certain it is poisoned?'
Michael asked Bartholomew.
Bartholomew looked at him distastefully and stifled a sigh. 'Will one of your clerks do that?' he asked de Wetherset.
'How?' asked de Wetherset, looking at the lock in renewed revulsion.
'Test it on a rat or a bird. If the poison killed the friar through that tiny cut, then the poor animal, being considerably smaller, should die fairly quickly.'
Bartholomew felt a sudden, unreasonable anger towards the friar whose death was about to cause such upheaval in his life. What was the man doing in the tower anyway? He could only have been there to steal or to spy. Bartholomew watched de Wetherset issue instructions to Gilbert to test the lock on a rat, and gestured to Michael that they should go.
'Wait!' the Chancellor commanded, standing as they made to leave. "I must ask that you observe utmost discretion over this business. That a man has died in the University chest cannot be denied, but I do not wish anyone to know about the University history that was being written.'
Michael nodded acquiescence, bowed, and walked out, while Bartholomew trailed after him, feeling dejected. He was going to become entangled in the unsavoury world of University politics a second time, and be forced to question the motives of his friends and family.
Outside, Michael rubbed his hands together and beamed. 'What shall we do first?' he asked, and Bartholomew realised that the fat monk was relishing their enforced duties. Michael had always loved University affairs, and thrived on the petty politics and plots that were a part of College life. He saw Bartholomew's doleful expression and clapped him on the shoulder.
'Come, Matt,' he said reassuringly. 'This is not like the other business. There are no threats to those we love, and your Philippa is safely away visiting her brother. This has nothing to do with Michaelhouse. It is just some minor intrigue that has gone wrong.'
Bartholomew was unconvinced. "I should have gone with Philippa,' he said bitterly, 'or followed her brother's lead and moved away from this vile pit of lies and deception to London.'
'You would hate London,' Michael laughed. 'You make enough fuss about the filth and dirt here. In London it would be ten times worse, and they say that the River Thames is the dirtiest river in England. You would hate it,' he said again, drawing his morose friend away from the shadows of the church and into the bright sunlight to where Cynric waited for them.
They began to walk down the High Street towards King's Hall to visit Master Buckley. The streets were busier than usual because of the Fair, and houses that had stood empty since the plague were bursting at the seams with travellers. A baker passed them, his tray brimming with pies and pastries, while two beggars watched him with hungry eyes.
With an effort, Bartholomew brought his mind back to what Michael was saying about the dead friar. Michael, strolling next to him, began to run through the possibilities surrounding the friar's death, for Cynric's benefit. They turned suddenly as they heard a wail. A woman tore towards them, her long, fair hair streaming behind her like a banner. Bartholomew recognised her as Sybilla, the ditcher's daughter, and one of the town's prostitutes. Her mother, brothers, and sisters had died in the plague, and her father had allowed her to follow any path she chose, while he took his own comfort from the bottles of wine she brought him. Bartholomew caught her as she made to run past.
'What has happened?' he said, alarmed by her tear streaked face and wild, frightened eyes.
Tsobel!' she sobbed. Tsobel!'
'Where?' asked Bartholomew, looking down the street.
'Has she been hurt?'
He exchanged glances with Brother Michael. They were both aware of the murder of two of the town's prostitutes during the last few weeks. Bartholomew had seen the body of one of them, her eyes staring sightlessly at the sky and her throat cut.
Sybilla was unable to answer and Bartholomew let her go, watching as she fled up the High Street, her wailing drawing people from their houses to see what was happening. Bartholomew and Michael, concerned for Isobel, continued in the direction from which Sybilla had come, until they saw people gathering in St Botolph's churchyard.
Two women bent over someone lying on the ground, and Bartholomew and Michael approached, the monk stifling a cry of horror as he saw the blood-splattered figure. Bartholomew knelt next to Isobel's body and gently eased her onto her back. Her throat was a mess of congealed blood, dark and sticky where it had flooded down her chest.
Michael squatted down next to him, his eyes tightly closed so he would not have to look. He began to mutter prayers for the dead, while Bartholomew wrapped her in her cloak. Cynric disappeared to report the news to the Sheriff and to locate the dead woman's family.
When Michael had finished, Bartholomew picked up the body and carried it into the church. A friar, who had been in the crowd outside, helped put her into the parish coffin and cover her with a sheet. While the friar went to clear the churchyard of ghoulish onlookers and to await Isobel's family, Bartholomew looked again at the body, while Michael peered over his shoulder.
The sheet was not long enough to cover the dead girl's feet and Bartholomew saw that someone had taken her shoes. Her feet were relatively clean, so she had not been walking barefoot. He looked a little more closely and caught his breath as he saw the small red circle painted in blood on her foot.
'What is wrong?' asked Michael, his face white in the dark church.
Bartholomew pointed to the dead girl's foot. 'That mark,' he said. "I saw a circle like that on the foot of the last dead girl, Fritha. I thought it was just chance — there was so much blood — but Isobel has a mark that is identical.'
'Do you think it is the killer's personal signature?' asked Michael, with a shudder. "I assume all three women were killed by the same person.'
Bartholomew frowned. 'Perhaps, yes, if there were a similar mark on the foot of the first victim. I did not see her body.'
'God's teeth, Matt,' said Michael, his voice unsteady.
'What monster would do this?' He clutched at one of the pillars, unable to tear his eyes away from the body in the coffin. He began to reel, and Bartholomew, fearing that the monk might faint, took him firmly by the arm and led him outside.
They sat together on one of the ancient tombstones in the shade of a yew tree. A woman's anguished cries suggested that Cynric had already found Isobel's family and that they were nearing the church. Next to Bartholomew, Michael was still shaking.
'Why, Matt?' he asked, looking to where a man led his wailing wife into the church, escorted solicitously by the friar.
Bartholomew stared across the churchyard at a row of young oak trees, their slender branches waving in the breeze. 'That is the third girl to be killed,' he said.
'Hilde, Fritha, and Isobel, and all of them murdered in churchyards.'
The Fair had resulted in a temporary increase in prostitution. The town burgesses had called for the Sheriff to rid the town of the women, but Bartholomew believed the prostitutes were providing a greater service to the town than the burgesses appreciated: as long as they were available, scholars and itinerant traders from the Fair did not pester the townsmen's wives and daughters. Bartholomew suspected Michael felt much the same, although such a position was hardly tenable publicly for a Benedictine Master of Theology.
They sat for a while until Michael regained some of his colour, and watched the crowd in the churchyard. When the Sheriffs men arrived, it became ominously silent.
Bartholomew frowned. 'What is all that about?'
They watched as the soldiers tried to disperse the crowd. 'There are rumours in the town that the Sheriff is not doing all he might to investigate the murders of Hilde and Fritha,' said Michael. 'As Sheriff, his duty is to try to prevent prostitution, and it is said that he considers the murderer to be doing him a favour by killing these women.'
'Oh, surely not, Brother!' said Bartholomew in disbelief.
'What Sheriff would want a killer in his town? It will do nothing to make it peaceful.'
'True enough,' said Michael. 'But it is said that the killer fled to St Mary's Church and claimed sanctuary. The Sheriff set a watch on the church, but the killer escaped, and now it looks as though he has struck again.'
'How is it known that this man was the killer?' asked Bartholomew curiously.
'He is supposed to have killed his wife before fleeing,' said Michael. 'It is rumoured that the Sheriff deliberately set a lax watch on the church so that the killer could continue his extermination of the prostitutes.'
'Do you think there is any truth in these stories?' asked Bartholomew, watching the soldiers, frustrated with the sullen crowd, draw their swords to threaten the people away.
'It is true that a man killed his wife and claimed sanctuary at St Mary's, and it is true that he escaped during the night despite the Sheriff's guards. Whether he is also the killer of Hilde, Fritha, and now Isobel, is open to debate.'
The crowd, faced with naked steel, reluctantly began to disperse, although there were dark mutterings.
Bartholomew was surprised that the crowd was sympathetic to the prostitutes. There were those who claimed that the plague had come because of women like them, and they faced a constant and very real danger from attack.
'Come on, Brother,' Bartholomew said, rising to his feet. 'We must pay a visit to the ailing Master Buckley.
Perhaps he will explain everything, and this University chest business will be over and done with before more time is wasted.'
Michael assented and they walked in silence up the High Street, each wrapped in his own thoughts. Michael could not stop thinking about the face of the dead girl, while Bartholomew, more inured to violent death, was still angry that he was being dragged into the sordid world of University politics and intrigue.
Towards King's Hall the houses were larger than those near St Botolph's, some with small walled gardens.
Many homes had been abandoned after the plague, and the whitewash was dirty and grey. Others were well maintained, and had been given new coats of whitewash in honour of the Fair, some tinged with pigs' blood or ochre to make them pleasing shades of pink, yellow, and orange. But all were in use now that the Fair had arrived.
The street itself was hard-packed mud, dangerously pot-holed and rutted. Parallel drains ran down each side of it, intended to act as sewers to take waste from homes. By leaning out of the upper storeys of the houses, residents could throw their waste directly into the drains, but not everyone's aim was accurate, and accidents were inevitable. Scholars especially needed to take care when walking past townspeople's houses in the early mornings. On one side of the street, Bartholomew saw a group of ragged children prodding at a blockage with sticks, paddling barefoot in the filth. One splashed another, and screams of delight followed as the spray flew. The physician in him longed to tell them to play elsewhere; the pragmatist told him that they would find somewhere equally, if not more, unwholesome.
King's Hall was an elegant establishment that had been founded by Edward II more than thirty years before.
The present King had continued the royal patronage, and it was now the largest of the Cambridge Colleges.
The centre of King's Hall was a substantial house with gardens that swept down to the river. Bartholomew and Michael asked for the Warden, who listened gravely to Michael's news, and took them to Master Buckley's room himself.
'Many of the masters have a room to themselves now,' the Warden said as they walked. 'Before the Death, we were cramped, but since that terrible pestilence claimed more than half our number, we rattle around in this draughty building. I suppose time will heal and we will have more scholars in due course. Master Kenyngham tells me that Michaelhouse has just been sent six Franciscans from Lincoln, which must be a welcome boost to your numbers.'
Bartholomew smiled politely, although he was not so certain that the arrival of the Franciscans was welcome.
So far, all they had done was to try to get the other scholars into debates about heresy and to criticise the Master's tolerant rule.
The Warden led them up some stairs at the rear of the Hall and knocked on a door on the upper floor.
There was no answer.
'Poor Master Buckley was most unwell last night,' said the Warden in a whisper. "I thought it might be wise to allow him to sleep this morning and recover his strength.'
'What was wrong with him?' asked Bartholomew, exchanging a quick glance of concern with Michael.
The Warden shrugged. 'You know him, Doctor. He is never very healthy and the summer heat has made him worse. Last night, we had eels for supper, and he always eats far more than his share, despite your warnings about his diet. None of us were surprised when he said he felt ill.' He knocked on the door again, a little louder.
With a growing fear of what he might find, Bartholomew grasped the handle of the door and pushed it open. The three men stood staring in astonishment. The room was completely bare. Not a stick of furniture, a wall hanging, or a scrap of parchment remained. And there was certainly no sign of Master Buckley.