An Unholy Alliance

8

Dawn the next day was duel and grey, the hot weather of the past few weeks replaced by a chill dampness. It was the turn of the Franciscan Fellows, William and Aidan, to prepare the church, and Bartholomew was able to stay in bed longer than he had the previous week. He thought about Sybilla, hidden away in fear of her life, and the dead women, especially Frances de Belem, and he felt depressed by the fact that he even had a witness to one murder, but was still no further forward with uncovering the killer's identity. He considered de Wetherset too, concealing documents from Michael that might help them to reason out some of the jumble of information that they had accumulated.

When he heard the Benedictines moving about in the room above, he reluctantly climbed out of bed to wash and shave in the cold water left for him by Cynric the night before, hopping about on the stone floor in his bare feet. He groped around in the gloom for his shirt, shivering in the cool air. The bell was already ringing by the time he was ready, and he had to run to catch up with the others. Michael told him in an undertone that they had been asked to meet with the Chancellor that morning. Bartholomew groaned, his scanty morning humour evaporating.

Michael jangled some keys at him. 'We can try these, out,' he said. 'The Bishop gave them to me yesterday.'

Bartholomew took them from him. There were three large keys and three small ones, all on a rusting metal ring. 'Why are there six keys?' he asked. 'There are only three locks.'

Michael shrugged. 'The Bishop said they had been deposited with his predecessor. There is another University chest at the Carmelite Friar) containing duplicates of all documents. Did you know that? I thought not. I suspect that is a secret few other than de Wetherset know. Anyway, the scroll with the keys was dated November 1331. They have lain untouched at the bottom of one of the Abbey strong-boxes for almost twenty years! Can you believe that?'

Bartholomew wondered whether they were the right keys.

No such doubts assailed Michael, who cracked his knuckles cheerfully. 'Now we will get some answers. If they fit, it means that the lock was tampered with and the poison device installed recently; if they do not fit, it means the lock was changed completely.'

'And what does that tell us?' grumbled Bartholomew.

Michael shrugged. 'We will know whether someone planted that device deliberately to kill.'

'But if it were changed, it tells us only that it was done at some point between November 1331 and last Monday,' said Bartholomew, ignoring warning glowers from Alcote for talking in the procession.

'And that provides us with little information that will be of use/ 'It was your idea to check the Bishop's keys,' said Michael, crestfallen by Bartholomew's negative attitude.

'And if the lock has been changed, it must mean that de Wetherset's key must also have been changed — the key that only leaves the chain around his neck when it is given to the mysteriously absent Buckley.'

'So de Wetherset says,' said Bartholomew. 'But how do we prove that the poisoned blade was not put onto the lock only the day before the friar was killed?'

'Because Buckley locked the chest and the tower at dusk just a few minutes before the lay-brother locked the church. If the device was put there during the day, then Buckley would have been poisoned by it.'

'He wore gloves, remember?' said Bartholomew. He shook his head. 'Have you noticed that everyone we want to talk to, who might be able to help us, has disappeared?

The lay-brother, Janetta, Froissart's family, Master Buckley. Even Nicholas, and he is supposed to be dead!'

Michael studied him in the gloom. 'What is wrong, Matt?' he asked. 'You are not usually so morose. Are you worried about de Wetherset?'

'No. I expect he is merely trying to safeguard the University's secrets by deceiving you over the book. But I am fed up with all this. The more I try to fathom it all out, the less I understand. It is something to do with those damn covens, I am sure. One of them is meeting tonight, and Cynric thinks I am going with him to spy.

Meanwhile this killer is still free, and Tulyet seems to be doing nothing to catch him.'

Michael sighed. 'One thing at a time, Matt. We will go to see the Chancellor, and then we will try to reason all this out. We are supposed to have some of the finest minds in the country. We must be able to solve this riddle.'

Bartholomew was not so sure. He tried to put it out of his mind during Prime, but found he could not. He thought about Sybilla and wondered if she would be safe at Stanmore's premises. He found himself looking at the wall painting where the goat-devil tossed people into the burning pit, and wondered whether Wilson's tomb, when he finally had it built, would hide it.

Father William was noted for the speed of his masses, but he was not matched by Aidan, who stammered and stuttered, and lost his place as he read. At one point he knocked the paten off the altar and the pieces of bread intended for communion scattered over the floor.

Bartholomew saw Gray and Deynman start to laugh, making Alcote look at them sharply. As William and Aidan scrabbled to recover the bread, Bartholomew saw that Hesselwell was asleep. He watched, fascinated, as the lawyer slipped further and further down his seat until it tipped with a loud bang that echoed like thunder through the church.

Hesselwell looked startled, but returned the Master's deprecating look with a guileless smile that made it look as if the clatter had been caused by someone else. Gray and Deynman were having serious trouble in containing their laughter, and Bartholomew could see that if they did not control themselves, Alcote would fine them. Opposite, Harling watched in icy disapproval, making it clear that he regarded the students' behaviour as typical of Michaelhouse scholars. Kenyngham was blissfully oblivious to it all, his hands clasped in the sleeves of his monastic gown and his eyes fixed on the ceiling as he chanted. Jonstan, standing next to Harling, looked from the students to Kenyngham, and smothered a smile.

Finally, order was restored and mass continued, but it was late by the time they finished. Since it was Sunday, there were no lectures, and the scholars were expected to read or spend time in silent contemplation. Bartholomew saw no reason why his students should not read something medical. He hailed Gray and Bulbeck and told them to read specific sections of Galen's Prognostics until midday, at which point they were free to spend their time as they pleased. He gave Gray the keys so that he could unlock the valuable tome from where it was chained to a wall in Bartholomew's storeroom, and read it aloud to the others in a corner of the hall.

Boniface regarded him aghast. 'It is the Lord's day!' he exclaimed. 'We cannot work!'

'Reading is permitted,' said Bartholomew. 'But no one is obliged to attend if they feel themselves unable.'

'Working on the Lord's day is a sin!' said Boniface, looking down his long nose at his teacher. 'It is because of evil men like you that the Death was visited upon us.'

'That is true, Doctor.' Bartholomew turned to see Father William standing behind him, tall, immovable, and with a fanatical gleam in his eye that forewarned Bartholomew he was spoiling for a good theological debate.

' Perhaps it is,' said Bartholomew.' But I do not consider listening to medical texts work.'

'But you hold a book, you turn its pages, and you use your voice to speak the words,' said William. 'That is work.'

' In which case you are working now,' said Bartholomew.

'You are trying to engage me in a theological debate — and theology is your trade, quite apart from your vocation, since you are paid to teach it — and you are using your voice to speak the words.'

William nodded, appreciating the logic. 'True,' he countered. 'Yet I do not consider it work.'

'And I do not consider reading medical texts work,' said Bartholomew. 'So we have reached a stalemate.'

Before William could respond, Bartholomew gave a small bow and began to walk away. Boniface ran after him and seized his sleeve.

'I will not read your heretical texts,' he hissed. 'And I will not commit the sin of working on the Sabbath. I will go to the conclave and listen to readings from the Bible with Father Aidan.'

'Do so, Brother,' said Bartholomew wearily. He had neither the energy nor the inclination to ask Boniface what he thought the difference was in listening to one text or another. He disengaged himself from his obnoxious student, and made for his room. This time he was accosted by C*ray and Bulbeck.

'All those potions we tested yesterday seemed to be what you said they should be,' said Gray. 'Except for the white arsenic. That was sugar.'

'Sugar? How did you know it was sugar?' asked Bartholomew, startled. "I gave you no tests to prove that!'

'Deynman ate it,' said Gray.

'He what?' cried Bartholomew, looking in horror at Deynman skulking nearby, waiting for his friends. He grinned nervously at Bartholomew.

'We thought the arsenic looked like that fine white sugar that we had at the feast last year. Deynman ate it, and said it was indeed sugar.'

Bartholomew put his hand over his eyes. He wondered what he had done to deserve students like Boniface and Deynman, one unable to see past the dogma of his vocation, and the other unable to see much of anything. 'Deynman!' he yelled suddenly, making the others jump and several scholars look over to see what was happening. He strode to where the student stood and grabbed him by the front of his tabard.

'What are you thinking of?' he said fiercely. Deynman shrugged and tried to wriggle free. Bartholomew held him tighter. 'You might have been poisoned — like Walter!'

'Sam and Thomas would have fetched eggs and vinegar to make me sick!' Deynman protested, struggling feebly.

'Like Walter.'

'The chances that eggs and vinegar would have saved you from arsenic poisoning are remote,' said Bartholomew. 'It would have been a horrible death, and I doubt I would have been able to help you.' He released Deynman, and stood looking down at him, torn between wonder and anger at the young man's ineptitude.

'But it was not arsenic, it was sugar,' protested Deynman. 'The poison that made Walter ill must have been stolen from your bag and replaced with sugar.'

'Oh, Rob!' exclaimed Bartholomew in despair. 'How can that be possible? I have just told you that arsenic produces a violent death, not a peaceful slipping away into sleep like Walter. Walter was poisoned with a strong opiate used for dulling pain. The arsenic missing from my bag was not the poison used on Walter.'

'But who would exchange arsenic for sugar?' cried Deynman, confused.

'I do not know,' said Bartholomew. 'And anyway,' he added severely, 'that is none of your concern. But if you ever taste any of my medicines again without asking me first, I will make sure that you are sent home the same day. Do I make myself clear?'

Deynman nodded, frightened by his teacher's rare display of anger. Bartholomew gave him a long hard look and sent him off before Alcote, hurrying across the courtyard towards them, could catch him. Alcote watched Deynman run to Bartholomew's storeroom to fetch the book with Gray and Bulbeck.

'What was all that about?' he asked.

'Alchemy!' snapped Bartholomew, still angry at Deynman's stupidity, but reluctant to tell the nosy Alcote anything that would get him into more trouble.

'Your students are a disgrace,' sniffed Alcote. 'When I catch them, I will fine them for laughing in church.'

He headed towards Bartholomew's store, head tilted to one side, looking more like a hen than ever. As he entered, Bartholomew saw the shutters fly open and the students clamber out of the window. Alcote emerged to see them running across to the hall with the book tucked under Gray's arm. Bartholomew laughed despite himself, and wondered how long they could keep a step ahead of the vindictive Senior Fellow.

He went to close the shutters, wondering whyJanetta's friends had exchanged sugar for white arsenic. Arsenic was an unusual item for a physician to carry, but Bartholomew found it useful for eliminating some of the vermin that he believed spread diseases to some of his poorer patients. Despite his words to Deynman, Bartholomew did not carry enough of the white powder to kill a person, and he was not unduly worried about the amount that was stolen.

Michael was waiting for him by the porter's lodge, and together they walked to see the Chancellor.

'Why were you yelling at Deynman?' Michael asked curiously. He had seldom seen the physician angry enough to shout.

Bartholomew did not want to think about it, and avoided Michael's question. Cynric had already been dispatched to ask de Wetherset if they could try the keys on the locks, and when they arrived at his office, the Chancellor and Hailing, recently promoted from Senior Proctor to Vice Chancellor to replace Buckley, were waiting for them. De Wetherset reported that his clerks had still been unable to trace Froissart's family, and suggested he be buried in St Mary's churchyard as soon as possible.

"I have made some enquiries,' said Hailing. 'One of the two covens in Cambridge, the Guild of the Coming, uses goats in its rituals. I can only conclude that members of this guild must have left the head on Brother Michael's bed, perhaps as a warning?'

'A warning of what?' demanded Bartholomew. 'We cannot be a danger to them. We have made little headway in our investigation: we do not know who the friar was, or what he wanted from the chest, and we do not know who killed Froissart.' He stood abruptly and began to pace.

'We know that the Guild of the Coming must be connected to the woman in Nicholas's grave,' said Harling, trying to be placatory.

'Why?' snapped Bartholomew. 'How do you know it was not one coven trying to desecrate the sacred symbol of its rivals, or trying to implicate it in a murder of which it is innocent? And what of the Guild of the Holy Trinity?

That may be leaving satanic symbols to bring the covens into disrepute.'

Harling spread his hands. 'The Guild of the Holy Trinity is dedicated to stamping out sin, not to committing murder and desecration. But regardless, how would anyone guess that Nicholas's grave would be exhumed and we would find the mask?'

'As I said to Master de Wetherset,' said Bartholomew, still pacing, "I suspect Nicholas's coffin was meant to be opened before his burial, not after.'

De Wetherset sighed. 'You are right-we know nothing to be a danger to anyone. Unless we know something that may seem unimportant to us that means a great deal to them.'

He had a point, and Bartholomew stopped wandering for a moment to consider it. After a few moments, he resumed his pacing, frustrated.

"I can think of nothing,' he said. 'The only way forward that I can see is to look into the murders of the town women. We know their deaths involve the University now that we have discovered the woman's body in Nicholas's coffin. There are no witnesses that can identify the killer.

Rumours are spreading that the murderer is Froissart, but we know that cannot be so.'

De Wetherset watched Bartholomew pace, and turned to Michael. "I understand you visited Ely,' he said. 'Do you have the keys?'

Michael produced them and de Wetherset fetched the old locks from a cupboard in the wall. He carried them carefully and placed them on the table on top of a piece of cloth. Michael selected a key, donned the heavy gloves, carefully inserted it into the lock, and waggled it about.

'It always was a bit sticky,' said the Chancellor, watching from a distance.

Michael jiggled the key a little more, and stepped back in alarm as the tiny blade popped further out, revealing jagged edges. Michael, his hands a little unsteady, took a grip on the key again and twisted it back and forth, but nothing happened. 'It does not fit,' he said. 'The lock must have been exchanged.'

'Wait!' said Bartholomew, moving towards the table from the window-seat where he had been watching.

The others looked at him. 'How do you know it was sticky?' he asked de Wetherset. 'You said Buckley usually opened it.' — . 'Well, he did, usually,' said de Wetherset. 'But he was sometimes ill, so I would open it. I always struggled with the damn thing, although Buckley never had a problem.'

'When was the last time you opened it personally?' asked Bartholomew.

De Wetherset blew out his cheeks. 'Heavens,' he said.

"I cannot recall… perhaps during spring. Why do you ask?'

Bartholomew's mind began to whirl. 'Open it now,' he demanded.

'Why?' said de Wetherset. 'Brother Michael has already shown the key does not fit.'

Bartholomew snatched the key from the table and handed it to de Wetherset. 'You try.'

The Chancellor looked puzzled, but donned the gloves and inserted the key in the lock gingerly. Unlike Michael, de Wetherset steadied the lock with his other hand, and after a few moments of jiggling, there was a loud snap and the lock sprung open.

De Wetherset and Harling stared at it, while Michael looked at Bartholomew, a sardonic smile tugging the corners of his mouth.

'Tell us what flash of inspiration suddenly occurred to make you suggest that,' he said.

Bartholomew sat on a stool next to the table and peered at the lock. 'It is old,' he said, 'and the tower is damp. I suspect that the lock's insides are rusty. Buckley opened it almost every day, and was probably used to the way it sticks; so familiar, in fact, that he did not need to fiddle like you did just now, Master de Wetherset. Similarly, you know better how to manipulate the thing than Michael, who was unable to open it at all. I think the small blade that killed the friar has been hidden in the lock for years.

Over time, the mechanism has become faulty and rusty.

I suspect it would have killed you, Master de Wetherset, had you opened it more recently.'

Harling looked puzzled. 'So you are saying that this nasty device has been in place since the locks were bought from Italy twenty years ago, and that it has become faulty over the last few months because it has become worn.'

De Wetherset looked at the lock in horror. 'Are you telling me that if Buckley had not been available to unlock the chest recently with his gloved hands and his familiarity with the thing, I might have suffered the same fate as the friar?'

Bartholomew nodded. 'That is exactly what I am telling you,' he said. 'And I think if you were to show a locksmith the other two locks, you would find similar mechanisms not far behind this one in terms of increasing unreliability.'

De Wetherset looked sick, but went to the door and called for Gilbert whom he dispatched to send for Haralda the Dane, the town's leading locksmith.

Harling tried to stop him. 'I must caution you to keep this matter a secret. Bartholomew's explanation seems a plausible one. Why can we not leave it at that? And anyway, it is Sunday, and you cannot encourage the locksmith to work on the Lord's day.' "I want to be certain,' said de Wetherset. 'If Matthew is wrong, we may draw the wrong conclusions from this wretched business and a murderer may walk free. I am quite sure the Lord will overlook Haralda's sin if it is to prevent the more heinous crime of murder.'

Harling opened his mouth to argue, but de Wetherset eyed him coldly, and nothing was said. Harling turned away in anger, and went to the window. Bartholomew was surprised at Harling's objections. So what if the town got to know the University had discovered three poisoned locks?

It might act as a deterrent to anyone considering burgling the chest a second time. It seemed to Bartholomew that Harling's other objection — that Haralda would be working on the Sabbath — was a second thought grasped at in desperation. After all, by his very presence in his office on a Sunday, it might be considered that Hailing was working, too. Perhaps he had other reasons for wanting the presence of the poisoned locks kept a secret.

While they waited for Haralda, Bartholomew sat on the damp cushions in the window-seat and watched Harling more closely. He was certainly agitated, and paced up and down as Bartholomew had done earlier.

Bartholomew saw Michael observing too, and knew that he was not the only one to note Harling's tension.

It was not long before Gilbert ushered the tall Dane into the Chancellor's office. Haralda's eyes immediately lit on the locks on the table, and he let out an exclamation of delight.

'Ah! Padua locks!' he said. "I have not seen one of these in many a year. May I?'

They are poisoned!' cried Michael, springing forward to stop him from touching them.

Haralda looked at him pityingly. 'Of course they are poisoned/ he said. 'They are Padua locks. Clever devices. I assume these are the reasons you have invited me here?'

De Wetherset nodded, while Hailing began to gnaw on his fingernails. Bartholomew was impressed at the Dane's command of English. When he had arrived six or seven years ago, he had conducted his business almost exclusively in French. Now, he not only spoke perfect English, but had acquired a gentleman's accent, not a local one. Bartholomew commented on it as he watched the locksmith work.

'I was taught by a lady,' he said proudly.

Bartholomew was puzzled, unable to imagine what kind of lady would be willing to coach a rough man like Haralda the Dane. Then the answer came to him.

The Lady Matilde?' he asked.

The Dane grinned at him conspiratorially. The very same,' he said.

Cambridge was indeed a small town, thought Bartholomew. De Wetherset apparently did not agree.

'Lady Matilde?' he said, frowning as he thought. 'I do not believe I know her. Is she the wife of one of the knights at the Castle?'

'She does not live at the Castle,' said Bartholomew, and changed the subject before it got him into trouble.' What can you tell us about the locks, Master Haralda?'

'They are old,' said the Dane. He slipped on a pair of thin but strong gloves and unrolled a piece of cloth containing some tiny tools. He carefully picked up one of the locks in his paw-like hands. 'Yes, this one is broken, see?' He pointed to the blade and waggled it with his finger, laughing at the exclamations of horror from Gilbert and de Wetherset.

He selected a minute pair of tweezers and removed the blade completely. It was a third of the length of Bartholomew's little finger and yet it had already killed one man. Haralda deftly unscrewed the lock to reveal its innards. Bartholomew peered over his shoulder.

Haralda tutted and shook his head. 'You do not know how to treat a lock, my lords,' he said reprovingly. This poor thing has not seen a drop of oil since the day it was made. You are lucky it has not killed someone/ Harling glared at Bartholomew and Michael in turn, daring them to say anything. Haralda did not notice.

This is an especially fine model,' he said. 'It became popular in Italy about twenty or thirty years ago, although few are made these days. It was one of the best locks ever to be produced. They are expensive, but worth the cost if you have something worth protecting/ He looked up, and Harling eyed him coldly. 'Just documents,' he said. 'Nothing that would interest a thief/ Haralda picked up the second lock and poked at it.

'Yes. This one is different. The blade comes through the back, not the top. It is in better condition than the other one, but not by much/ He turned his attention to the third one, and wagged its finger at it as it gave a sharp click when he started prodding. 'Look at that! You are lucky, my lords. If any of you had tried to open this, you would be dead. The mechanism is so worn, it is almost smooth. I would say it would have released its blade within three attempts at opening it at most. You were right to have called me/ "I do not understand why they have suddenly become so unreliable,' said de Wetherset. 'We have been using them for years without trouble/ 'But you have not cared for them as you should have done. They are rusty, and they have become dangerous.

You could have had many years' service from them if you had treated them properly, but now I would recommend that you dispense with them/ 'How has the poison stayed for so long in so potent a form?' asked Bartholomew.

Haralda beamed at him, pleased that someone was expressing an interest, rather than disgust, at the locks.

'The blade has its own chamber here, see? It is sealed with lead, so no poison can leak and cause damage. If I were to open this chamber, which I would only do under the special conditions at my workshop, you would find the poison mixed with various mixtures, including quicksilver, to keep it fluid. Thus the poison is always ready. I saw a lock like this kill a dog in under ten minutes in Rome, although I would think perhaps, judging from the age of this lock, that the poison may have lost some of its potency. If you meant business, you would need to change the poison regularly to ensure its continued efficacy.'

Bartholomew nodded, staring down at the rusting insides of the three locks on the table. He picked up Michael's keys and played with them idly. Haralda took them from him.

These smaller keys,' he said, holding them up, 'are to turn the poison mechanism on and off. In this way, the lock can be used normally.'

He inserted the smaller key into one of the parallel vertical slits on the back of one of the locks to show them.

Bartholomew studied it closely and admired its ingenuity.

The slit did not look like another keyhole, and anyone who did not know what it was, would never guess.

"I would assume,' said Haralda, 'that whoever last knew about this left the mechanism turned off. Once again, I say yeu are very lucky none of them slipped on while you were using them.'

'Which is why Buckley was safe, even without his gloves,' murmured Michael to Bartholomew. 'It must have broken as the friar poked about with it in a way that Buckley never had.'

Haralda stood up. 'Dispense with these, my lords.

They are no longer safe.'

'Will you take them?' asked de Wetherset. "I would feel more secure knowing that a professional man had disposed of them in a proper manner.'

Haralda bowed to him, flattered, and collected the pieces of the locks in the cloth. De Wetherset went to see him out of the church. Harling paced restlessly.

'It was a mistake bringing in another,' he said. 'He told us nothing we did not know or could not guess.'

'But now we are certain,' said Michael. 'We know the lock was not changed by Buckley, or by someone wanting to kill members of the University. We know that the locks are just old and worn, and that the friar was notmurdered.

I suppose it could be called accidental death.'

'But we still do not know what he wanted in the chest,' said Bartholomew. 'In fact, we are not much further forward at all.'

'Yes, we are,' said Michael. 'We are no longer looking for the murderer of the friar.'

'But we still want the murderer of Froissart,' said Harling. He chewed nervously at his fingers. 'If you will excuse me, gentlemen, I have much to be doing.'

He bowed and left the room. Bartholomew leaned out of the window, and saw de Wetherset still talking to Haralda below.

'Harling was unaccountably nervous,' said Michael, opening one of de Wetherset's wall cupboards and peering inside. 'Even if it is a Sunday, I feel he had another reason why he did not want us to fetch the locksmith.'

Bartholomew sighed and made for the door. 'Come on, Brother. Harling is not the only one with much to be doing,' he said.

They stepped outside and began to walk home. There was a flicker in the sky, followed by a low rumble, and then rain began to fall heavily. Bartholomew and Michael joined several others who ran to St Mary's Church to wait the thunderstorm out. Inside, the church was dark from the grey clouds that hung low overhead, lit brilliantly by occasional flashes of lightning. Bartholomew had never been in a church during a thunderstorm before, and the way the wall-paintings suddenly lit up reminded him of passages from Revelations about the end of the world.

He wandered around aimlessly, listening to the rain drumming on the roof. The tombs in the choir reminded him of his promise to Master Wilson to attend to the building of his sepulchre. Some tombs were plain, while others were vulgar. A plain one in black marble would not be too bad, thought Bartholomew, but, in his heart of hearts, he knew that Wilson would have wanted a vulgar one. Not for the first time, Bartholomew was disgusted. Wilson should have arranged to be buried in a fairground with the kind of tomb he had had in mind, not a church!

A sharp tug on his sleeve pulled him from his thoughts.

One of the clerks was there, hiding behind a pillar. He looked frightened, and Bartholomew pretended to be reading an inscription on a nearby tomb, so that no one watching him would know he was speaking with a man in the shadows.

The lightning flickered again, making the man wince and press further back, but the storm was moving away.

'The day after the friar's death,' said the clerk, glancing furtively around him, "I saw that the bar on the front door had been moved.'

'What does that imply?' asked Bartholomew softly, rubbing the brass on the tomb with his sleeve and pretending to look closer.

'Everyone here thinks that the friar hid in the church before it was locked up. He then went upstairs and died.

But the bar on the door was in a different place in the morning than it was the night before,' whispered the clerk hoarsely. 'What I am saying is that I think the friar barred the door after the church was locked, which means that someone must have unbarred it from the inside, or we would not have been able to get in the next morning.'

Bartholomew's heart sank. He had just proved, rather ingeniously he thought, that the poisoned lock had been a cruel twist of fate that had killed the friar, and now this clerk was telling him the friar had not been alone in the church on the night of his death, which threw the whole thing back under suspicion.

'Are you certain?' he asked heavily, still careful not to look at the man and give him away.

The clerk nodded quickly. "I think I may be putting myself at risk by talking to you, but if I do not tell you what I know, how will you be able to solve this mystery and let us get back to normal?'

Bartholomew was taken aback by the man's confidence in his abilities as a detective, and not particularly pleased at the pressure he felt it put on him to draw this matter to an acceptable conclusion. 'Do you know anything else?' he asked. 'Like the whereabouts of the man who locked the church that night?'

The man huddled further back behind his pillar. 'He has not been seen since you chased him. He has not been home, and his family have had no word from him.'

'Did you know Nicholas of York?' Bartholomew whispered, watching as a second clerk walked past him, carrying a pile of dirty-white tallow candles.

He felt the man's confusion. 'Yes. He died more than a month ago,' he said.

'Did you see his body or attend his funeral? Did you notice anything untoward?'

The clerk looked at him as though he were insane.

"I saw his body in his coffin the night before we buried him, but I fail to see why you ask.' He sank back into the shadows as the other clerk returned from depositing his candles. 'The friar died a few days ago, and Nicholas has been in his grave for weeks.'

Bartholomew sighed. 'Then do you know anything about the Guild of the Coming or the Guild of the Purification?'

The man crossed himself so violently that Bartholomew could hear his hand thumping hollowly against his ribs.

'You should not speak those names in this holy church!' he hissed. 'And do not try to find out about them. They are powerful and would kill you like a fly if they thought you were asking questions/ 'But they are small organisations with only a few members,' said Bartholomew, quoting Stanmore's information, and trying to allay the clerk's fears.

'But they have the power of the Devil behind them!

They do his work as we do God's.'

Bartholomew already knew the two guilds might harm him or Michael if they thought they were coming too close to their secrets. When he glanced up again, the man had melted away into the shadows. He thought about what the clerk had said. Either two people were locked in the church that night, or the friar had let someone else in. But what was even more apparent was that the second person must have had a set of keys to the church, or how would the doors have been locked the following morning?

Bartholomew rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Buckley had to be involved. Perhaps he had not murdered the friar, as Bartholomew had considered possible, but did he lock the doors to the tower after the friar had died and he had put him in the chest? And then did he leave the church, lock it behind him, and flee the town with all his property? And was he also responsible for putting the murdered woman in Nicholas of York's coffin? In which case, he might also be the killer of the other women.

Even stranger was the case of Nicholas of York. The clerk and de Wetherset claimed they had seen Nicholas dead, which implied that someone must have made off with his body, first replacing it with the woman's. But what reason might anyone, even a coven, have for such an action? Bartholomew closed his eyes and leaned back against the tomb. But what if Nicholas were not dead?

Perhaps he had feigned death, spending the day lying in his coffin while his colleagues kept vigil, and then broke out during the night. Perhaps the woman had helped him. Had Nicholas then repaid her by killing her and putting her in his place? Had she come to snatch his body away for some diabolical purpose and been foiled in the attempt? Perhaps Nicholas was the killer, a man assumed to be dead, and so not an obvious suspect.

And what of Tulyet's role in all this? The townspeople believed Froissart was the killer, but deaths had occurred after he was murdered and hidden in the belfry. Perhaps Tulyet was the murderer. He had reacted oddly to the mention of goats, and was doing nothing to catch the killer, although he could not know Froissart was dead.

Perhaps it had been Tulyet who had snatched Nicholas's body for some satanic ritual.

Bartholomew opened his eyes and saw that the rain had eased. Michael was singing a Kyrie with another monk, their voices echoing through the church, Michael's rich baritone a complement to the monk's tenor.

Bartholomew let their music wash over him, savouring the way their voices rose and fell together, growing louder and then softer in perfect harmony with each other. The faint smell of wet earth began to drift in through the open windows, momentarily masking the all-pervasive aroma of river. All was peace and stillness until a cart broke a wheel outside, and angry voices began to intrude.

"I am hungry,' announced Michael as they walked back to College in the light rain following the thunderstorm.

'Cynric foolishly told Agatha about that trick we played on you with the shadows, and she is refusing to allow me into the kitchen. We could sit in the garden behind the Brazen George and have something to eat while we talk.'

Bartholomew looked askance. 'What are you thinking of, monk? First, it is a Sunday, and second, you are well aware that scholars are not permitted in the town taverns.'

'What better day than a Sunday to celebrate the Lord's gift of excellent wine?' asked Michael cheerily. 'And I did not suggest entering a tavern, physician, merely the garden.'

'Michael, it is raining,' said Bartholomew, laughing.

'We cannot sit in a tavern garden in the rain. People would think we had had too much to drink! And the Brazen George will be closed because it is Sunday.'

'Not true,' said Michael. The town has given a special dispensation for the taverns to open on Sundays during the Fair. Otherwise what do you think all these visiting merchants, traders, and itinerants will do, wandering the streets with nowhere to go? If the taverns were closed, they would form gangs and roam the streets looking for trouble. The town council was wise when it ignored the pious whinings of the clerics and granted licences for the taverns to open on Sundays until the Fair is over.'

Bartholomew glanced up and saw a figure coming towards them, his head bowed against the spitting rain.

Michael saw him too, and hailed him.

'Master de Belem!'

The merchant looked up, his eyes glazed and his face sallow. His thick, dark hair was straggly and he looked thinner and older than when Bartholomew had last seen him. He glanced up and down the street carefully, and then back at the scholars.

"I must talk to you, but not here. Where can we meet?'

The garden at the rear of the Brazen George,' said Michael before Bartholomew could stop him. 'It is secluded and the landlord will respect our privacy/ The merchant nodded quickly. 'Go there now and I will follow in a few minutes. I do not want anyone to know that we have been together.'

Michael gave Bartholomew a triumphant look and led the way to the tavern. He stopped at the small stable next door to it, pretending to admire the horses.

When he was certain no beadles were watching, he shot down a small passageway and let himself into a tiny garden. The bower would be pleasant on a sunny day: it had high lime-washed walls over which vines crept, and two or three small tables were set among rambling roses. But it was raining, and as the wind blew, great drops of water splattered down from the leaves.

Bartholomew sighed and pulled his hood further over his head, looking for a spot that might be more sheltered.

Within moments, the landlord came out, wiping his hands on a stained apron, and not at all surprised to see them.

'Brother Michael! Welcome! What can I fetch for you?'

Two goblets of your excellent French wine, some chicken, some of that fine white bread, cinnamon toast, and the use of your garden for some private business.'

The landlord spread his hands. 'If only I could, Brother, but white flour is not to be had at any cost, and we have no bread. But there is chicken and wine, and you are welcome to the garden for your private business.'

Michael looked disappointed, but nodded his agreement.

The landlord hurried away to do his bidding.

Bartholomew was surprised that the monk would break the University's rules so flagrantly. 'From that, I assume this is not your first visit?'

Michael beamed and led him over to a table under some trees where they were at least sheltered from the wind, if not the rain. De Belem slipped through the door, latching it carefully behind him.

"I am sorry for the secrecy, but it is for your own safety.

I am a marked man, and it would do you no good to be seen with me,' he said, as he came to join them at the wet table.

'Marked by whom?' asked Bartholomew.

"I do not know,' he said, putting his elbows on the table and resting his face in his hands. 'But they have already killed my daughter.'

' How do you know that?' asked Bartholomew curiously.

De Belem raised his head. 'Allow me to explain. After my wife was taken by the Death, I lost my faith. Half the monks and priests in the land were taken, and I thought if God would not protect His own, why would He bother with me? I said as much to one of my colleagues, and a few days later I received an invitation to attend a meeting of the Guild of Purification. I did not know what it entailed, but I went because I was disillusioned and lonely. The Honourable Guild of Dyers was full of bickering because of a shift in the balance of power after the plague, and I felt I would have nothing to lose by joining another organisation.'

He paused and looked up into the swaying branches above. Bartholomew said nothing. Stanmore had already told him that de Belem was a member of the Guild of Purification.

The guild pays allegiance to Satan,' de Belem continued. 'You are scholars, so you know Lucifer's story. He was an angel and was cast out of Heaven.

His halo fell to his feet, and so our symbol is a circle — his fallen halo.'

Michael pursed his lips, and the three men were silent while the landlord brought the chicken and wine. De Belem huddled inside his hood. Discreetly, the landlord kept his eyes fixed on the food, and did not attempt to look at de Belem, leaving Bartholomew to wonder how many other such meetings Michael had conducted on his premises.

De Belem continued when the landlord had left. The religious, or,' he said, casting a rueful glance at Michael, ' the irreligious side of it held little appeal for me. But these people were united in a common bond of friendship and belief. It is difficult to explain, but I felt a fellowship with them that I had not felt since before the Death. I was even made the Grand Master.'

'You are the Grand Master of the Guild of Purification?' said Bartholomew, stunned. Michael looked at him with round, doleful eyes, as though he found the mere mention of satanic dealings offensive to his vocation.

"I was,' continued de Belem. 'Not now. In fact, I am no longer even a member, although it is too late to make a difference.'

He paused before continuing.

'I imagine you might think that someone from the Guild of Purification might have killed Frances, but I know that it is not so. Whatever you might believe about us, we do not kill or make sacrifices of living things. Like any other guilds, we join together for fellowship. The difference, perhaps, is that we speak as we feel, and have no priests to warn us of the fires of hell and to look ever for heresy.'

Bartholomew thought about the Franciscans at Michaelhouse, and their obsession with heresy, and did not wonder that some people were attracted to such an organisation. Michael appeared shocked.

De Belem continued. 'We met in disused churches, but did them no harm. The Guild of the Coming is perhaps a little more ritualistic than the Guild of Purification, but we do not kill: the deaths of those women and Frances were nothing to do with us. Someone else is responsible.'

'Like who?' asked Michael.

'Like the fanatics in the Guild of the Holy Trinity,' said de Belem. 'They are always railing about how the Death was brought by sinners like prostitutes and greedy merchants.'

'What makes you think they killed Frances?' asked Bartholomew.

' Because I was sent a note telling me that Frances would be murdered because I was a member of a coven,' said de Belem in a whisper.

'Do you still have it?' asked Michael.

De Belem shook his head. 'It so distressed me, I threw it in the fire. I was foolish. If I had kept it, we might have been able to glean clues as to the identity of her killer.'

'But why did you not tell me of this note before?' asked Bartholomew. 'Such as when you asked me to investigate Frances's murder.'

De Belem closed his eyes. "I simply did not think of it until after you left. You must recall you had brought devastating news, and I was not thinking clearly/ 'Do you think notes were sent to the families of the other women?' asked Bartholomew. He had been assuming that the murders of the women were random killings, but de Belem's information suggested there might be a pattern to them. If there were a pattern, they might yet be able to solve the mystery.

"I do not know. Frances and Isobel were the only ones who meant something to me.'

Isobel?' said Michael, through a mouthful of chicken.

The whore?'

Bartholomew kicked him under the table. De Belem turned sad eyes on Michael. 'A whore, yes, if you would.

She came to my house twice every week and left before first light so Frances would not know. I should have insisted that she stayed until it was light that day.

Isobel's life should have been worth more to me than my reputation with a wild daughter.'

Bartholomew leaned his folded arms on the table and studied the wet wood, thinking about what de Belem had told them. He was saying that at least two of the murders had been attacks against the satanists, deliberate assassinations intended to strike at specific people. He thought back to what Stanmore had told him the night he had gone to Trumpington: that he thought Richard Tulyet the elder might be a member of the Guild of the Coming.

'Did you tell the Sheriff about the note you received?' he asked.

De Belem nodded. 'He said he would look into it, but of course he found nothing.'

'Will you tell us the names of the other members of the guild so we might question them?'

A faint smile crossed de Belem's face. "I cannot. It might put them at risk. The two guilds are innocent of the murders, and this maniac must be brought to justice. Tulyet is worthless, and you are my only hope of seeing Frances and Isobel avenged. If the guilds were the murderers, Frances and Isobel would be here now, and we would not be talking.'

The rain became heavier, and de Belem glanced up at the iron-grey clouds.

"I must go. I have been here too long already.' He stood slowly, rain dripping from his hair where it was not covered by his hood. He knelt quickly and awkwardly for Michael's benediction, slipped across the tiny garden, unlatched the gate, and was gone.

'Oh, Lord, Michael,' said Bartholomew, when the door had been closed again. 'Now what? Do you believe him?'

Michael, who had been sufficiently interested by de Belem's words to stop eating, wiped the grease from his mouth with his sleeve. 'His claims are possible,' he answered. "I am inclined to believe de Belem that his guild is not responsible. After all, he lost his daughter and his woman.'

'But who was in the orchard the night after Frances's murder?' asked Bartholomew.

Michael scratched his head. "It all makes little sense,' he said.

'Unless,' said Bartholomew, watching a bird swoop onto the table to peck up crumbs from Michael's food, 'de Belem speaks only for the Guild of Purification, of which he was a member. Oswald told me the two guilds were rivals. I think de Belem is underestimating the power of the Guild of the Coming, especially if the Tulyets are involved. I also think his grief might be influencing his reasoning. Perhaps he feels guilty that his loved ones have died because he is a satanist, and is trying to convince himself it is not his fault. If the Guild of the Holy Trinity is antagonistic enough towards satanism to murder, they would not be leaving satanic regalia on people's beds. I still believe the Guild of the Coming left the goat mask in Nicholas's coffin and the head for you.'

Michael rubbed some crumbs across the table idly as he thought. 'You could be right,' he said. "It would be too easy to dismiss the covens from our enquiries. And de Belem can only have knowledge of his own guild, not that of his rivals. I suggest we treat Master de Belem's information with scepticism.'

He turned back to the remains of his meal, and Bartholomew, chewing on a bacon rind that flavoured the chicken, began to mull over the evidence yet again.

If Isobel made regular visits to de Belem at night, it would have been simple for the murderer to lie in wait for her. Did Frances also have a regular time when she slipped out of the house to meet her lover? But why Michaelhouse? Was she meeting her lover there, the scholar, as Brother Alban had claimed? Perhaps it was her lover who had killed her.

And what had Frances meant when she had said her killer was not a man? He drew circles on the wet table with his finger, lost in thought. She must have glimpsed her killer wearing a mask — either a red hood like the man in the orchard, or one of a goat's head like the dead woman in Nicholas's coffin. He wondered whether the killer was from Michaelhouse, but reasoned that was unlikely. The three people he had seen in the orchard were leaving after their search, not returning to their rooms, and he and Michael had already established that an insider would not have needed to drug Walter to go about his business at night because he would have known Walter slept on duty. What had the murderer lost in the orchard? If it were the Guild of the Coming who were committing the murders, then it must have been they who had attacked him and set the College gate afire.

But Sybilla was certain that one man had killed Isobel.

And was Nicholas of York still alive somewhere as the mastermind behind all this? It was odd that the first murder coincided with his death. Was it he who left the goat's head in Michael's room to warn him away?

And what of the friar? Was he a member of the Guild of Purification killed by the Guild of the Coming, or perhaps a member of the fanatic Guild of the Holy Trinity rifling through the University history seeking out details of the covens? But Bartholomew and Michael had already shown that he was a stranger to the town and was unfamiliar with the daily rituals of St Mary's Church.

Perhaps they should go back to the chest, and see whether there were any other documents there that related to these guilds which might explain why the deaths in St Mary's Church seemed to be connected to the murders of the women.

And where was Buckley? And why had Janetta and Froissart's family gone to ground? Bartholomew felt his head begin to reel. As soon as he felt he was beginning to make some progress, he merely raised more questions. He wondered suddenly how his students were proceeding. He should be with them, helping to train them to be good physicians, not sitting in beer gardens in the rain being warned against becoming involved in something that seemed to grow more sinister with each passing moment. He stood abruptly.

' I can see only one way forward,' said Michael, following him out. 'We must spy on the Guild of the Coming at All Saints' tonight and see what we can discover.'

Bartholomew turned his face to the falling rain, feeling it cool his face. "I am tempted to go to the Chancellor and turn everything over to him. We are scholars, not witch hunters. And anyway,' he added wryly, 'it is Sunday.'

Michael looked sharply at him. 'Are you giving up?

Are you going to let evil men tell us what we can and cannot do in our own town?'

Bartholomew closed his eyes. 'How did we become embroiled in all this, Michael?' he asked softly. "I can make no sense at all of the information we have, and the more we learn, the less clear everything becomes.

I do not mind telling you that I find the whole business frightening.' "I share your fears, but I also think that we will be in danger whether we continue to investigate or not.

Everything we do will be held suspect from now on, and whoever left the head for me knows what we are doing. I believe the only way we will ever be safe is to unravel this mystery and unmask its villains. And you owe it to Frances de Belem, who might have been your wife had you not chosen another path/ Michael saw his friend's hesitation and added firmly, Tonight we will go to watch this coven meet at All Saints'.'

'Is there no other way?' groaned Bartholomew, shifting uncomfortably in his sopping cloak. 'Perhaps we should just go straight to Tulyet/ 'And say what?' demanded Michael. 'Ask him which member of his guild is murdering the town's whores? Is it his father or just one of his friends? Come on, Matt!

We would get nowhere there, and the last time we took him on, I ended up in bed with a dead animal, and you were threatened with imprisonment in the Castle dungeons.'

'Will you tell de Wetherset what we intend to do?' said Bartholomew. Then at least someone will know the truth if we are caught and disappear, like Buckley and Nicholas. And ask him if Master Jonstan will come too. This is more in his line of duty than ours.'

'We will not be caught,' said Michael. 'Not with Cynric with us. Asking for Jonstan is a good idea, although I think I will request that the Chancellor does not reveal his plans to Harling. I do not trust that man.'

As Bartholomew and Michael walked home together, the rain became harder, the wind blowing it horizontally in hazy sheets. Bartholomew shivered and pulled his cloak closer round him. The High Street became a river of mud, and water oozed out of the drains and collected in the pot-holes and ruts. The streets were deserted, everyone either at home or in the noisy taverns. Passing St Mary's churchyard, Bartholomew saw something move out of the corner of his eye. He stopped and peered forward, clutching at Michael's sleeve.

There is someone at Nicholas's grave,' he whispered.

Michael stiffened, and together they crept forward.

'Who is it?' breathed Michael. Bartholomew peered through the rain. It was a man of medium height dressed in a priest's robe that was too large. As they inched forward, the man spun round, and seeing them coming, turned and fled. Bartholomew tore after him, leaping over the tombstones and mounds of grass. The man skidded in the mud and almost fell. Bartholomew lunged forward and grabbed a handful of his gown, but lost his balance as the man knocked his hand away. As he scrabbled to regain his footing, the man rushed past him, heading diagonally away from where Michael stood.

As Bartholomew scrambled to his feet, he saw Michael dive full-length towards the fleeing man and gain a hold on the hem of his gown. The man was stopped dead in mid-stride. In an effort made great by terror, he tried to run again, tearing free from Michael. Bartholomew saw him reach the High Street and turn left towards the Trumpington Gate.

Robes billowing, the man began to gain speed down the empty street, Bartholomew in hot pursuit. Bartholomew began to gain on him. And then disaster struck. A heavy cart carrying kegs of beer pulled ponderously out of Bene't Street. The man skipped to one side, skidded in the mud, regained his balance and ran on. But Bartholomew collided heavily with the cart. The horse, panicked by the sudden movement, reared and kicked.

One of the kegs fell from the cart and smashed, and Bartholomew went sprawling into the mud.

He covered his head with his hands, hearing the horse's hooves thudding into the ground next to him, and tried to scramble away, but the mud was too slippery. Just as he was certain his head would be smashed by the horse's flailing hooves, one of his arms was seized, and he was hauled away with such force that he thought it had been yanked from its socket. Hooves pounded the spot where he had been moments earlier.

Next to him, Michael leaned up against the wall of a house and gasped for breath, while the carter began to regain control of his horse. Bartholomew sat shakily on the ground and watched the man he had been chasing disappear up the High Street.

'Why don't you watch where you are going!' the carter shouted furiously at Bartholomew.

Michael raised himself up to his full height and pointed a meaty finger at the carter. 'You should not be trading on a Sunday!' he admonished severely. 'You are committing a grave sin.'

The carter was sheepish but unrepentant. 'Well, why was he in such a hurry on a Sunday?' he countered, pointing at Bartholomew.

'He is a physician,' said Michael. 'Physicians attend patients all days of the week.'

'But they do not usually chase them!' the carter retorted, tossing his head in the direction the man had fled. Michael took a step towards him, and the carter, wary of the formidable strength he had witnessed when the monk hauled his colleague from under the horse, backed down. He raised his hand in a rude gesture and urged his horse to move on, yelling abuse when he felt he was far enough away to be safe.

Thank you,' said Bartholomew, climbing unsteadily to his feet and rubbing his shoulder. He looked at the fat monk and wondered where his strength came from. He seldom took exercise and ate far more than was healthy, but the fat monk's strength of arm was prodigious.

Michael nodded absently. 'A pity you did not catch him,' he said. 'You would have done had that wretched carter not been in the way.'

Bartholomew flexed his arm to ensure it was still attached. "I had him in my grasp in the churchyard, and so did you.'

Michael shook his head slowly. 'A great pity,' he said again. That man could have answered many questions.

That was Nicholas of York.