An Unholy Alliance

13

Stanmore insisted that Bartholomew and Michael stop at Trumpington for breakfast.

Tulyet and his men, aided by Stanmore's new recruits, rode on to Cambridge. Tulyet had a busy day ahead of him. He would need to interview all his prisoners, round up any others who were implicated, and begin the documentation of the case. As they parted, Tulyet made arrangements to call at Michaelhouse later to go over the details once more. Cynric wanted to see Rachel Atkin to let her know he was safe, and said he would take word to de Wetherset.

'Shall I tell him that his clerk spent his spare time as a woman?' Cynric asked guilelessly.

'Not unless you want to spend the rest of the day in the custody of the Proctors,' said Bartholomew mildly. Cynric grinned and sped off after Tulyet's cavalcade.

Michael leaned back in one of Stanmore's best chairs and stretched his feet towards the fire Edith was stoking up. Stanmore sat opposite him, sipping some wine. Michael's habit was still splashed with the paint Bartholomew had flicked at him the night before.

Bartholomew wondered who would dye it now de Belem was gone.

They discussed details of the night's work. Edith sniffed dismissively when they told her how Gilbert had disguised himself, and claimed a woman would have been able to tell the difference.

'You are probably right,' said Bartholomew. 'Once I knew, it was very obvious. His walk was masculine and his cheeks were sometimes thickly coated in powders.'

'That would be to hide his whiskers,' said Edith. 'He would need to shave constantly, even though his beard was not adequate to hide the scars on his face.'

'No wonder Janetta was difficult to track down,' said Michael. 'And Gilbert fooled Tulyet, too. He went to interview "Janetta" when Froissart first claimed sanctuary, and she even told him she had witnessed the murder she had committed herself!'

'And then she denied ever meeting Tulyet to add to our growing concerns over Tulyet's involvement,' said Bartholomew. He thought for a moment, staring pensively at the wine in his cup. 'But I am still concerned about their claim that they did not kill the other women.'

'They are lying to confuse us,' said Stanmore. 'It was them. Gilbert confessed to killing Janetta and Frances.

How much more evidence do you need? Think about Sybilla's description, Frances's last words, and the circles on their feet'

'Sybilla gave no kind of description at all,' said Bartholomew impatiently. 'It could fit just about anyone.

And, as you pointed out, they will hang anyway, so why bother to lie?'

Because they have spent the last several months doing little else,' said Stanmore. 'They have perpetrated the most frightful fraud, terrifying people with false witchcraft, and pretending to be those they are not.

Their whole lives have been a lie.' He reached for the jug of wine. 'It is over. We should look to the future, and I must decide whether I should employ a dyer until another comes to take de Belem's place.'

'What will you do with your private army?' asked Michael, beginning to laugh.

Stanmore regarded him coolly. "I do not see why you find that prospect amusing,' he said. 'If there had been men like these with us tonight, we would not have been ambushed. We live in dangerous times, Brother. These men will guard my goods, and I will be able to trade much further afield.' He rubbed his hands. 'Ely is lacking in good drapers.'

Michael rubbed his eyes. "I will have nightmares about this for weeks,' he said. "I hate to confess this to you, Matt, but when I saw that shadow figure and heard that awful screech, I thought de Belem really had conjured something from hell. It was something to do with the atmosphere of that place, with the chanting and the torchlight. I can understand how de Belem was able to use people's imaginations to increase their fear.'

Bartholomew stretched, feeling his muscles stiffening from his unaccustomed ride. "I did not imagine de Belem would give it a second glance, but I was desperate. I certainly did not think you would be fooled by it, especially in view of the fright you gave me last week.'

'But mine was only a goat!' said Michael, his eyes round. 'Lord knows what yours was meant to be, but it looked like a demon from hell! It was horrible: all gnarled and twisted!'

'It was meant to be a goat. And I am sure you will appreciate there was little time for practice under the circumstances,' Bartholomew added drily.

Michael gave a reluctant smile. They took their leave of the Stanmores and walked back to Michaelhouse. De Wetherset had posted a clerk at the Trumpington Gate to bring them to him when they arrived. He was waiting in his office with Buckley and Harling at his side.

Bartholomew smiled at the grammar master, pleased to see that he had regained some colour in his face, and his eyes had lost the dull, witless look they had had the night before. De Wetherset, however, looked grey with shock.

"I am sorry,' he said. He must be shaken indeed, thought Bartholomew, to admit being wrong. 'When did you begin to suspect Gilbert?'

'Only yesterday,' said Michael, 'although the clues to Gilbert's other identity were there all along. It is ironic that Gilbert heard us discussing the probability that Master Buckley was the culprit, while all along, it was he.'

De Wetherset put his face in his hands, while Buckley patted him on the shoulder consolingly. Bartholomew wondered how he could ever have considered the possibility that this bumbling, gentle old man would have hidden bodies in chests and stolen from the University.

He stole a quick glance at Harling. He stood behind de Wetherset, his face impassive, although his fingers picked constantly at a loose thread on his gown. Now Buckley was back, he would have to relinquish his position as Vice-Chancellor.

Michael tried to encourage the dejected Chancellor.

'It is over now. No one stole the book, so the University's secrets are safe. Even from me,' he added guilelessly, making de Wetherset favour him with a guilty glance. 'I must say that it has caused me to wonder whether such a book should exist at all, given that it could become a powerful tool in the hands of wicked men.'

De Wetherset pointed at a pile of grey ashes in the hearth, twitching gently in the draught from the door.

'There is Nicholas's book. You are right, Brother. Master Buckley and I decided that if the book were gone, no one will be able to use it for evil ends. But I am afraid you are wrong when you say it is over. There was another murder last night. A woman was killed near the Barnwell Gate.'

Bartholomew looked sharply at Harling, but his face betrayed nothing.

'But that is not possible!' said Michael. 'We knew where de Belem and Gilbert were all of last night'

'De Belem and Gilbert do not know the identity of the killer,' said Buckley. "I heard them talking about it.'

'Well, who is it then?' exploded Michael.

Bartholomew watched Harling intently.

'And of which guild were you a member, Master Harling?' he asked quietly.

Harling gazed at him in shock before he was able to answer. 'Guild? Membership of such organisations is not permitted by the University!'

'No more lies, Richard,' said de Wetherset wearily.

'Brother Michael and Doctor Bartholomew have served me well in this business. I will not have them deceived any longer.'

Harling pursed his lips in a thin, white line and looked away, so de Wetherset answered.

'Master Harling became a member of the Guild of the Coming when he took over as my deputy. I am ashamed to say that a Physwick Hostel scholar was a member, and Richard persuaded him to take him to one of the meetings. He joined to gather information to help you.'

Bartholomew looked sceptical, and Harling's eyes glittered in anger. 'My motives were purely honourable,' he said in a tight voice. 'As Vice-Chancellor, it was only a question of time before I took over from Master de Wetherset. I did not want to inherit a University riddled with corruption and wickedness, so I undertook to join the coven so that any University involvement in this business could be stamped out.'

'Only I knew of Harling's membership,' said de Wetherset. "I considered it too dangerous even for Gilbert to know.'

'So what did you discover?' asked Bartholomew, looking at the still-angry Harling.

'Very little,' he said. 'Only that the high priest often had an enormous man with him, and there was the woman, whom I now understand was Gilbert.'

'Yes, I saw him at de Belem's house!' said Buckley.

'A great lumbering fellow that shuffled when he walked, and whose face was always covered by a mask.'

'There was something odd about him,' Harling continued.

'His movements were peculiar — uncoordinated — but at the same time immensely strong. Frankly, he frightened me.'

'Are you suggesting that this man might be the killer?' asked Michael.

Bartholomew's mind raced. He remembered the huge man whom he had struggled with in the orchard, and who had probably knocked him off his feet in St Mary's churchyard when Janetta had wanted to speak with him.

Hesselwell had mentioned a large man, too.

Harling shrugged. "I can think of no other, now that it appears that Gilbert and de Belem cannot be responsible.'

Bartholomew and Michael took their leave and walked to the Barnwell Gate.

'Damn!' said Michael, banging his fist into his palm.

'The high priest claimed that another victim would be taken-before new moon, and we were so convinced that it was de Belem that we did not consider the possibility of another.'

Bartholomew rubbed tiredly at his mud-splattered hair. 'We have been stupid,' he said. 'Logically, neither de Belem nor Gilbert could have killed Isobel. Gilbert was in the church waiting for the friar, and de Belem was off kidnapping Buckley. Of course this large man could be a ruse of Harling's to deflect suspicion from him.'

'What?' said Michael. 'Do you think Harling is the killer?'

Bartholomew spread his hands. 'Why not? We have little enough evidence, but it can be made to fit to him. First, he is a self-confessed member of a coven, whatever his motive for joining. Second, he would have had a good deal to gain if Buckley had not returned to reclaim his position, so why should he not be in league with de Belem to keep Buckley out of the way? Third, I do not like him!'

'Oh, Matt!' said Michael, exasperated. 'That is no evidence at all! I do not like him either, but he says he joined the guild after Buckley's disappearance, and I hardly think de Belem would be so foolish as to trust him immediately with the information that he had the previous Vice-Chancellor as prisoner in his house!'

They walked in silence until Bartholomew saw the large figure of Father Cuthbert puffing towards them.

Although the day was not yet hot, Cuthbert's face was glistening with sweat and dark patches stained his gown from his exertions.

'Good morning,' said Cuthbert breathlessly, drawing up for a welcome pause. "I have been out visiting before the sun gets too hot. Have you heard the news? Another murder at the Barnwell Gate, the same as the others.'

'How do you know it was the same as the others?' asked Bartholomew. He saw Michael's glance of disbelief and tried to pull himself together. Now he was suspecting everyone! There was no way the cumbersome Father Cuthbert would be able to catch a nimble prostitute.

'Master Jonstan told me,' said Cuthbert. "I have been to visit him. He has not been himself since the death of his mother.'

'His mother died?' said Bartholomew. 'We had not heard. I am sorry to hear that. He talked about her a lot'

'Yes, they were close,' said Cuthbert. 'But it was as well she died. She was bed-ridden for many years.'

He ambled off, waving cheerily, and Bartholomew turned to watch him as he stopped to talk to a group of dirty children playing with an ancient hoop from a barrel.

'No,' said Michael, firmly taking his arm and pulling at him to resume walking. 'Not Father Cuthbert. He is too old and too fat, and you are clutching at straws.'

Bartholomew stopped abruptly and took a fistful of Michael's habit. 'Not Father Cuthbert,' he said, his mind whirling. 'Alric Jonstan.'

Michael stared at him, eyes narrowed, and pulled absently at a stray strand of hair. 'Jonstan told Cuthbert the murder was the same as the others, but how would he know?' he began slowly. He shook Bartholomew's hand from his robe impatiently. 'It does not fit, Matt!

Jonstan lives near the Barnwell Gate and probably heard the alarm when the body was found and went to see. As Proctor, he probably saw the other victims.'

'His mother!' exclaimed Bartholomew suddenly.

'When Jonstan sprained his ankle, he said his mother would look after him. Cuthbert just said she was bed-ridden.'

'He probably said that so you would not worry about him,' said Michael.

'Father?' yelled Bartholomew, running after the fat priest. 'When did Master Jonstan's mother die?'

Cuthbert turned, surprised at Bartholomew's tense face and the question out of the blue. He scratched one of his chins and thought. 'Mistress Jonstan passed away… four, perhaps five weeks ago Bartholomew sped back to Michael. 'Come on!' he cried.

Michael lunged at him. 'His mother died four weeks ago? So what?'

Bartholomew struggled to free his tabard from Michael's grip. 'He was talking about her as if she were still alive last week. The man is unhinged.'

'Grief does things to people other than make them into murderers,' said Michael, gently maintaining his hold on his friend's clothes. 'Matt, you cannot go charging into Jonstan's home and accuse him of committing these foul crimes with the evidence you have. It is all circumstantial.'

'Think!' said Bartholomew, exasperated. 'Tulyet'smen patrolled the streets and so did the Proctors and their beadles. Jonstan was out in the dark quite legitimately about University business. He would become familiar with others who regularly stole around in the night- the prostitutes, over whom he had no jurisdiction because they are not members of the University. I am willing to wager anything that the murders were committed on days when it was Jonstan's turn to do night patrol.

For heaven's sake, Michael!' he yelled, 'Sybilla saw the Proctor and his men the night of Isobel's murder.'

Michael began to waver. 'But what about the Guild of the Holy Trinity…?'

Bartholomew shook his head dismissively. 'That is irrelevant. All the other murders were committed in churchyards of the High Street, and now this one is committed at the Barnwell Gate, near Jonstan's home, from which he cannot move because he has a sprained ankle.'

Michael relinquished his hold of Bartholomew's gown with a flourish. 'Have it your way. I remain sceptical. We will visit Master Jonstan. You can say you came to look at his foot, and that way, if we find you are wrong, we will at least have an excuse for being there.'

They walked the short distance to the Barnwell Gate.

Tulyet was still there, looking exhausted. He indicated a sheeted body in despair.

"I thought we had it all worked out,' he said. 'And now this. Is there no bottom to this pit of wickedness?'

'Have you rounded up any more of de Belem's followers?' asked Michael.

'Oh, yes,' said Tulyet. 'My men started the moment we arrived. Primrose Alley had been used to garrison de Belem's mercenaries, and we discovered Gilbert's clothes and beard and a spare wig in one of the houses.

There were red masks, too, and more black cloaks than you would believe. We also found him.' They looked to where he pointed. Against the wall of a house, an enormous man sat smiling up at the sun with a vacant grin, guarded by one of Tulyet's soldiers. He saw a black cat slink past and gurgled at it. Bartholomew went over to him and knelt down. The man beamed at him with an open mouth of poorly-formed teeth and then began to prod at a spot of mud on Bartholomew's tabard.

'What's your name?' he asked.

The man continued to prod at Bartholomew's tabard.

'Be careful,' Tulyet warned. 'He is dangerous.'

Bartholomew snapped his fingers near the man's ear, but there was no reaction. He put a hand under his chin and gently tipped his head back so he could look at his face. It was flat, and his tongue was too large for his mouth and lolled out. Bartholomew looked at the faint marks still on his hand from when he had been bitten in the orchard, and saw that they matched the man's asymmetrical teeth. He had unquestionably found his attacker. The man gurgled in panic, and Bartholomew let him go.

"I think he is deaf, and I doubt he can speak. The poor man has the mind of a child. He was at Michaelhouse the night the gate burned, but I do not think he had the slightest idea what he was doing. Give him to the Austin Canons at the hospital, Master Tulyet. Perhaps they can find some simple tasks for him to do until he becomes too weak.'

'Weak?' said Tulyet. 'He is as strong as an ox, as my men can attest!'

'He is dying,' said Bartholomew. 'Listen to his breathing.

I have seen this before in these people. Their chests do not develop normally and they are prone to infections.

Perhaps he will recover this time, but I doubt he will the next. Let him go: he is a child.'

Tulyet grimaced, but gave a curt order to the guard to escort the man to St John's Hospital. 'When we found him, he was tethered to a door frame with a simple knot that any five-year-old could have untied. You are doubtless right in that he was unaware of what he was doing. But I hope he is not dangerous.'

Bartholomew shook his head. 'If he was violent to your men it was probably because they frightened him.

Mistress Starre had such a son, but I assumed he had died when she did during the plague. He was probably cared for in Primrose Alley by neighbours, until de Belem and Gilbert came and used him for their own purposes.'

'Who was the victim?' asked Michael, nodding at the sheeted figure being loaded onto a cart.

'Sybilla, the ditcher's daughter,' said Tulyet. 'She was identified by that woman over there.'

Bartholomew stared in disbelief, and felt the blood pound in his head. He looked to where Matilde sat on the grass at the side of the road with her back to him.

He walked over to her, feeling his legs turn weak from the shock, and sank down on the grass.

'Why?' he asked.

She turned a tear-stained face. 'She saw you ride off after de Belem and Janetta last night and heard Master Buckley telling the Sheriffs men that de Belem was the high priest. She thought she was safe. She said she was going to the Sheriffs house to tell him what she had seen so that she could be a witness for him. She was killed on her way there.'

Bartholomew rubbed a hand across his face and stared at the cart containing Sybilla's body. She had jumped to the same conclusions that he had done, but for her they had proved fatal. He suddenly felt sick, as the exertions of the previous night's activities caught up with him.

Matilde rested a hand on his arm. 'There was nothing you could do, Doctor. You were kind to her and I will never forget that.'

As he looked from Sybilla's body to Matilde's grieving face, Bartholomew's despair began to turn to anger. He stood slowly.

'Do you know which house belongs to Master Jonstan, the Proctor?' he asked softly.

Matilde stood with him. 'Yes. It is a two-storey house with a green door on Shoemaker Row. Why do you want to see him? He will not help you for our sakes. He was always calling us whores and bawds. Each morning, he would prop his bed-ridden mother near the window so that she could yell abuse at us as we walked past her house.'

'They did not like prostitutes?' asked Bartholomew.

He thought of when they had drunk ale with Jonstan at the Fair and he had told them his belief that the plague would return if people did not amend their sinful ways.

'Few people do,' said Matilde. 'At least not openly.

But Master Jonstan is perhaps one of our most hostile opponents.'

Bartholomew waited to hear no more. Leaving Matilde staring after him, startled, he raced across the road and made for Shoemaker Row. He ignored the shouts of Michael and Tulyet behind him and ran harder, almost falling as he collided with a cart carrying vegetables to the Fair. He leapt over the fence surrounding Holy Trinity Church and tore across the churchyard, bounding over tombstones and knocking over a pardoner selling his wares on the church steps. When he emerged in Shoemaker Row, he pulled up, shaking off the angry hands of the pardoner who had followed him.

Then he saw the house, near the lower end of the street. He set off again at a run and pounded on the door of Jonstan's house. There was no answer and the shutters were firmly closed. Bartholomew grabbed one and shook it as hard as he could, drawing the attention of several passers-by, who stopped to watch what he was doing.

'Try the back door, love,' said an elderly woman kindly. 'He never uses the front door now his mother has gone.'

Bartholomew muttered his thanks and shot around the side of the house to where a wooden gate led into a small yard. Finding the gate locked, Bartholomew stood back and gave it a solid kick that almost took it off its hinges. He heard shouting in the lane and guessed that Michael and Tulyet had followed him.

The yard was deserted so Bartholomew went to the door at the back of the house. He grabbed the handle and pushed hard with his shoulder, expecting that to be locked too, and was surprised to find himself hurtle through it into Jonstan's kitchen. The Proctor was there, sitting at the table eating some oatmeal, his injured foot propped in front of him. He looked taken aback at Bartholomew's sudden entry, his blue eyes even more saueer-like than usual.

Behind Bartholomew, Michael elbowed his way in, his large face red with exertion and his breath coming in great gasps.

'Matt has come to see to your foot,' he said, his chest heaving.

"I have not!' retorted Bartholomew. He was across the kitchen in a single stride. 'So, you could not walk to the High Street last night!' he said, seizing the front of Jonstan's tabard and wrenching him from the chair. 'And you had to kill Sybilla here, where it was not so far for you to go. You were lucky, were you not, Jonstan? Most of the prostitutes have been off the streets for the past two days, but then Sybilla appeared.' "I have no idea what you are talking about,' said Jonstan. He appealed to Michael with Tulyet behind him. 'He has gone insane!'

Bartholomew dropped Jonstan back into his chair.

'Where are your bloodstained clothes, Jonstan?' he said. He began to look around the kitchen. 'I have seen the bodies of your victims. You must have been covered in blood when you came home. What were you wearing?' He grabbed a bucket and upended its contents onto the floor, and then began to open the doors to the cupboards.

Jonstan rose unsteadily to his feet, favouring his injured ankle. 'Stop him!' he said to Tulyet. 'He cannot barge into my home and start going through my possessions!

Arrest him! Brother, he is your friend. Stop him before I decide to press charges!'

Tulyet took hold of Bartholomew's shoulder, but was shaken off angrily. Michael made a half-hearted attempt to stop his friend as he went towards the small scullery.

Jonstan limped across the floor after Bartholomew.

'Stop!' he almost screamed. 'You have no right!'

Bartholomew grabbed something and pushed it into Jonstan's face. It was a bloodstained hose. 'What is this?' he snarled.

Jonstan's face was an unhealthy colour. "I cut myself,' he said. "I was going to wash that this afternoon.'

'Show me where you cut yourself, Master Jonstan,' said Bartholomew, clenching his fists to stop them from grabbing the Proctor by the throat.

"I will do no such thing. I am a Proctor of the University and you are under my jurisdiction. Brother, take your colleague back to his College and lock him away where he can do no more harm,' said Jonstan, pushing Michael towards Bartholomew.

Bartholomew wrenched the doors open on another cupboard and rummaged inside. He held up an assortment of women's shoes. The victims Bartholomew had seen had their shoes removed so that the little circle could be painted on their feet.

'Where did you get these?' he demanded, hurling one at Jonstan.

'They belong to my mother, not that it is any of your business,' said Jonstan.

Bartholomew continued his prowling and bent to retrieve another article of clothing from where it had been hurled into a corner. He held it up so that Michael and Tulyet could see the huge dark blotches that stained Jonstan's tabard.

"I told you I cut myself,' said Jonstan. 'You go too far, Doctor. Leave my house at once!'

'Show me the cut that produced this much blood, and I will leave,' said Bartholomew.

Tulyet looked from the bloodstained tabard to Jonstan and began to move towards him. Jonstan made a sudden dive into the scullery, slamming the door closed, locking Michael and Tulyet in the kitchen. He turned to Bartholomew and brandished a knife coated thickly with clotting blood. He lunged towards Bartholomew, who countered his blow with a small stool he had grabbed.

One of the legs bounced to the floor and Bartholomew began to back away.

'Harlot-lover! 'Jonstan hissed. "I knowhowyou visit that filthy Matilde, and I know how you secreted the ditcher's daughter away, thinking to keep her from me!'

A great crash shook the kitchen door as Michael and Tulyet began to batter it down. Jonstan ignored it.

'My mother warned me about men who go with whores,' he said, limping closer to Bartholomew. 'And she told me the Death would come again as long as we did not learn from our sins and continued to allow the whores to roam.'

There was another crash from the kitchen door.

Jonstan darted forward and made a feint to his right with the knife. Bartholomew swung wildly with the stool, and remembered that Jonstan was well trained in hand-to-hand fighting. He was not a Proctor, prowling the streets at night for miscreant scholars, for nothing.

He had doubtless wrestled many a reluctant student back to his lodgings. Before he realised what was happening, Bartholomew felt one arm bent painfully behind him and saw the knife flash at the same time that there was a third crash from the locked door. He saw the hinges begin to give, as he squirmed sideways using every ounce of his strength. Jonstan's knife stabbed harmlessly into his bag. Jonstan wrenched it free but did not relinquish his hold on Bartholomew's arm.

As the door flung open, Jonstan calmly held the knife to Bartholomew's throat and smiled at Michael and Tulyet. They stopped dead. Bartholomew began to struggle, but Jonstan merely pressed the knife more firmly to his throat.

'This is a sharp knife, gentlemen,' he said. "I have reason to know.'

'Let him go, Alric,' said Michael softly. 'You cannot escape now.'

'He is a lover of whores,' said Jonstan again. 'And that is not appropriate behaviour for a scholar. I am a Proctor and it is my duty to see that he does not do it again. My mother would not be pleased to hear that I had let him escape.'

'Your mother is dead,' said Michael, He began to move towards Jonstan, but stopped as he lifted the knife, preparing to strike.

'Stay back! My mother is upstairs. She will come down soon to see what all this noise is about. She will not be pleased to see what you have done to her door.'

Bartholomew felt Jonstan grip him tighter still. He saw that Jonstan was sufficiently unbalanced that if Michael or Tulyet made a move towards him, he would not hesitate to kill. Gritting his teeth against the ache in his arm, Bartholomew began to undo the strap on his medical bag. -.'Why did you kill all those women?' asked Tulyet, seeing what Bartholomew was doing and trying to buy him time.

'My mother told me to,'Jonstan replied.

'That is not possible,' said Tulyet. 'Your mother died before the first of your victims was killed.' "I told you, she is upstairs,' said Jonstan with exaggerated patience.

Bartholomew had his hand inside the bag and began to feel around.

'Were you a member of one of the guilds?' asked Michael, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on Jonstan's face so he would not betray what Bartholomew was doing.

"It is against the University regulations to be in a guild,' said Jonstan. 'And I most certainly was not a member of a coven.'

'But what about the Guild of the Holy Trinity?' asked Michael. Then like Richard Harling believe as you do that continued sin will bring about a return of the Death.'

Bartholomew had what he wanted and was struggling to open the packet with out making it rustle. Jonstan made a dismissive gesture at Michael, who licked dry lips.

'If you were not a member of the covens, why did you kill Sybilla before new moon as the high priest demanded?' he asked.

"I did nothing of the kind,' said Jonstan. "It was time for another whore to die — one every ten days so they will all be gone before Christmas — and that is why she died, not because that raving maniac in the mask told me to do it.' He took the knife away from Bartholomew's throat but put it back again when Tulyet made a move forward.

Jonstan continued matter-of-factly. "I killed them because my mother did not like whores patrolling the streets outside her home. You must appreciate that the Death will return if we do not take steps to eradicate evil from our land. We have been warned, and God will send another plague to destroy us if we continue to sin.'

'Why did you draw a circle on the feet of the victims?' asked Tulyet, seeing beads of sweat breaking out on Jonstan's face, and desperately trying to keep him talking.

'Because that was the sign one of the guilds used: a fallen halo. A sign that represented evil seemed an appropriate mark for evil women,' said Jonstan. He gave a short chuckle and began to move the knife.

'Matt!' yelled Michael, leaping forward. Bartholomew hurled the contents of his hand backwards into Jonstan's face, and struggled free as the Proctor fell back, choking and flailing wildly. As the powder began to burn jonstan's eyes, he dropped the knife and began to cry out, covering his face with his hands. Bartholomew staggered back, while Tulyet kicked the knife out of reach and pushed Jonstan up against the wall.

"I cannot see!'Jonstan cried, struggling to wrench his arms from Tulyet to rub at his eyes.

'Neither can Sybilla!' said Bartholomew quietly, as he left the house.

Later that day, after they had spoken again to de Wetherset and had made formal statements to Tulyet, Bartholomew and Michael sat on the fallen tree next to the wall of the orchard, watching the sun sink down behind the trees. There was a haze of insects in the air, but it was quiet in the orchard, and Bartholomew did not want to answer any more questions that day.

He stretched his legs out in front of him and folded his arms across his chest. Next to him Michael fidgeted to get comfortable as he leaned back.

'So,' Michael said. 'Jonstan acted alone in the murder of the women. He claimed his first victim the day that his mother died, selected a prostitute randomly every ten days or so, and intended to continue so that the town would be free of them by Christmas. He was wholly unconnected with the guilds and selected one of their symbols only because it represented evil to him, in much the same way that the poor prostitutes did.'

Bartholomew was silent. Jonstan's mad claims had so unsettled him that he had asked Michael to return to Jonstan's house, just to make certain that there were no ancient mother still living upstairs as Jonstan had maintained. Michael had found no mother, but had found her room laid out as though she would return at any moment to use it.

He watched a blackbird hopping through the grass, eyeing them cautiously with beady, yellow-rimmed eyes.

Michael cracked his knuckles and stretched his arms.

'So, we were called to investigate the possible death of a friar in the University chest, and we discover that the friar died because the Chancellor did not maintain his locks; that a man was killed and hidden in the bell tower because he saw the Chancellor's clerk changing his identity; that one of the town's best-known merchants was using witchcraft and kidnapping to terrify people into helping him gain a monopoly over the dyeing trade; and that the Senior Proctor was insane and was killing the town's prostitutes. Quite a feat of investigation considering how little we had to go on,' he said.

They sat for a while longer, watching the red fade from the sky as it grew dark and silent; black bats flitted between the trees. Bartholomew was tired, but did not want to move. The air was cool and pleasant after the long, hot day. His students' disputations were the next morning, and he did not want them pestering him trying to find out what questions they might be asked.

'What did you throw at Jonstan?' asked Michael after a while.

'Pepper,' said Bartholomew. He smiled suddenly. "It is not a usual component of my medical supplies, but I was rash enough to ask Deynman to refill some of the bottles and packets that I wanted to replace after my bag was stolen in Primrose Alley. It is not a difficult task, and they are all clearly marked. I use ground mustard seeds for some treatments, but Deynman could not find any because it had all been used to make Walter sick. He gave me pepper instead. I meant to take it out and get the mustard, but never got around to it.'

'Would mustard have worked?'

Bartholomew shook his head. 'Not nearly as well as pepper.'

A shadow fell across them and Bartholomew looked up to see Boniface. In place of his habit he wore baggy homespun leggings and a dark green tunic. He sat next to them on the fallen tree and looked up to where the bats were feasting on the thousands of insects that hovered in the air.

"I assume you have decided what you wish to do,' said Bartholomew.

Boniface nodded. 'I made my confession to Master Kenyngham, and he agreed that I should go home. He said I need time to consider, and that I will be a better friar if I return than if I stay.'

'Wise advice,' said Bartholomew. 'And I imagine you do not wish to be a physician either?'

Boniface grimaced. 'Never!' he said. "I only agreed to study medicine to follow in my father's footsteps.'

'Your father is a physician?' said Bartholomew in disbelief. How had a physician managed to sire the surly Boniface, with his rigid ideas about bleeding and treatments?

Boniface nodded. 'We seldom see eye to eye,' he added with a wry grin at Bartholomew. 'Perhaps we might do better now.'

'You live in Durham, I recall?' said Bartholomew.

Boniface nodded. 'Do you have enough money to travel?'

Boniface shook his head. "I gave it all to Master Kenyngham for my College bill, but I will manage.'

'Take this,' said Bartholomew, rummaging in his bag and handing Boniface a package.

'What is it?' he asked, taking it warily.

'Saffron,' said Bartholomew. 'Friar Lucius gave it to me. You should be able to sell it for a high price, since it is apparently almost impossible to obtain these days.

It should give you enough to get home.'

'Saffron!' exclaimed Boniface, turning the package over in his hands. "I have not seen saffron since before the Death.' He thrust it back. "I cannot take this from you.'

'You can,' said Bartholomew. 'And if you will not take a gift, you can send the money later. Go, Boniface, before Father William realises you are missing.'

The student turned to leave, and then came back.

'The Master was right,' he said, with a sudden smile that made him look young. 'You are a good man for a heretic!'

He sped off through the trees and they heard the gate slam behind him as he left.

'Father Lucius gave me some saffron too,' said Michael, standing stiffly and stretching.

'And what did you do with yours, Brother?' asked Bartholomew, rising and looping his battered bag over his shoulder.

"I gave half to Agatha and half to Lady Matilde,' said Michael. 'Agatha will now let me into the kitchen again, while Matilde has promised me a fine meal.'

Since it was a pleasant evening to be out, they decided to walk along the river and then cut back to Michaelhouse along the High Street. The paths and streets were full of people returning home after a day at the Fair. Bartholomew saw Stanmore's apprentices pulling a cart, and realised that his brother-in-law's already considerable fortune was still being made even when he was away chasing murderers and tricksters.

Bartholomew stopped to buy some over-ripe pears from a scruffy child, and shared them with Michael as they walked. As they turned down St Michael's Lane, they met Master Kenyngham going in the opposite direction.

'The Chancellor told me he is very grateful for your help over these last few days,' he said, beaming benignly at them. 'He has asked me to read over his account of it to ensure that it is accurate.'

'His account? Why would he write an account?' said Bartholomew.

'For the book of the University history,' said the Master, surprised at his question.

'But de Wetherset burned the book,' said Michael.

'He showed us.'

'He burned the one in the University chest,' said Kenyngham, 'but there is a complete copy in the chest at the Carmelite Friary — one that is not missing the pages that Gilbert stole. Of course, there are duplicates of most documents there.'

'And he is keeping that book up to date?' asked Michael incredulously.

'Well, of course,' said Kenyngham. "It would be of no use to anyone incomplete.' He suddenly stood back, putting his hands over his mouth like a child. "I do hope I have not been indiscreet. The Chancellor told me to keep its presence secret, but I assumed you would know, since you have been involved with the affair during the last two weeks. Oh, dear!'

'The Bishop told me there was a second chest,' said Michael. 'You have not told us anything we did not already guess.'

Kenyngham looked relieved, and his habitual gentle smile returned. He patted Michael on the arm and went on his way. When he had turned the corner, Bartholomew started to laugh.

'What is so funny?' said Michael. 'We have just learned that the Chancellor has deceived us yet again. He withheld important facts from us about members of the University; he hid vital pages when I was trying to discover a motive for the friar's death; and now he has claimed to have burned the book while all the time there is another!'

'Yes,' said Bartholomew. 'But how can you fail to admire his guile? He not only misleads us into believing that he had burned the only copy of the book, but he is using our own Master to check his facts!'

Michael laughed too, and took his arm. 'Come on, Matt. Let's go home.'