An Unholy Alliance

5

The Chancellor was not impressed with the information they had gleaned, and he agreed only reluctantly to send one of his clerks to bring the lay-brother to them so that he could be questioned. He was also unsympathetic about Bartholomew's experience in the alleyway behind the church and denied that there was a short cut there through the shrubs in the churchyard.

'Why would there be such a thing?' he snapped. 'None of those people would deign to set foot in a church.'

Bartholomew wanted to tell him that it might be a short cut to the river that just happened to be through the churchyard, but could see no advantage in antagonising the Chancellor.

'Gilbert stuck that blade on the poisoned lock into a rat,' said de Wetherset. 'It died in moments. I also sent him to the Dominican Friary, but you were correct in your assumption that the dead man was not one of them. "The Prior came to look at the body and said he had never seen the man before.'

Bartholomew felt guilty that the Chancellor had more to report to them than they had to him. He wished he would have a sudden insight to tie all the loose threads together, so that they could be done with it all and he could concentrate on his students' disputations.

'What do you plan to do next?' de Wetherset asked, picking up a piece of vellum covered with minute writing and studying it. Bartholomew rose to leave.

"The Chancellor clearly was not interested in how they went about getting the information, only in what they discovered. Michael remained seated.

"I would like to read Nicholas's book,' he said.

"The Chancellor was momentarily taken off-guard.

'What for?' he asked suspiciously.

'When we first saw the body of the friar, you were more concerned with the book than anything else in the chest. Therefore, it is likely that the friar wanted to read or steal it more than any other document. If I were to read it, I might gain a better notion of why someone might want to kill for it,' he said, folding his large arms across his chest.

'Very well,' said de Wetherset, after a moment's deliberation. 'You have until Sext. Then I have business at Barnwell Priory and I want the book locked in the chest before I leave.'

Michael inclined his head, and the Chancellor conducted them to the small chamber in the tower of the church, where he donned thick leather gloves and undid the locks on the chest. Bartholomew saw that the three locks gleamed bright and new: the Chancellor was taking no chances.

As the last lock sprang open, de Wetherset straightened, and Bartholomew saw his face was beaded with perspiration.

'Poisoned locks!' he muttered. 'Whatever next? A puff of poison in the rugs to kill those who trample on them?

Arsenic soaked into the documents themselves?'

Michael's hand had been half in the chest after the mysterious book, but now he withdrew it hastily. The Chancellor gave an unpleasant smile and tossed him his gloves.

"I will return before Sext. Please bar the door after I leave. I do not want anyone else in the chamber. Should anyone knock, tell them to go away.'

Bartholomew shot a sturdy bar across the door after he had gone and wandered around the small chamber restlessly. Michael took the book from the chest and placed it on the table. "The leaves of the text were thick and there was no problem turning them while wearing the gloves.

'Can you get the spare set of keys from the Bishop?'

Bartholomew asked suddenly.

Michael looked surprised.

"I could ask him. Why?'

'Because then we could try them on the old locks. If they do not fit the poisoned one, we would know that not only must a new lock have been put on the chest, but that someone had exchanged de Wetherset's keys.

Since de Wetherset said the keys are never out of his sight, it would mean that Buckley, the only other person with access to them, must have exchanged them by some sleight of hand when he undid the chest. If the key does fit, then we know that either the lock was tampered with and the poisonous blade fitted, or that it was there all the time.'

Michael nodded slowly. '"The keys will be of no use to the Bishop now there are new locks on the chest. I see no reason why he should not let me have them.'

Bartholomew went to the window and looked across the High Street. By leaning out, he could see Michaelhouse, and remembered his students. He left the window and went to a wall cupboard, opening the wooden doors to peer inside. Michael shot him an irritable glance as he closed the doors again noisily. Bartholomew bent down to look at the rug on which the friar must have knelt when he picked the locks, but there was nothing to see.

"I should be with my students. Some of them have already failed their disputations once,' he said. 'And I should visit Mistress Bocher's baby. It gets colic'

' I will never get through this if you keep distracting me,' said Michael, exasperated. 'Go and see your students.

Come back for me before Sext.'

Bartholomew was apprehensive about leaving Michael alone in a room where the friar had died by such sinister means, but could see no benefit in wasting the day in idleness. He waited until he was certain that Michael had barred the door from the inside and began to walk down the stairs. When he was almost at the bottom, he stopped as a thought occurred to him, and turned to climb them again.

He passed the chest room and continued upwards.

As he climbed higher, the stairs became dirty and were covered in feathers and dry pigeon-droppings, and Bartholomew guessed they were seldom used. There was an unpleasant smell, too, and Bartholomew noted the decaying corpses of several birds that had flown in and had been unable to get out.

He reached the bell chamber and walked in. The bells stood silent among crooning pigeons and scraps of discarded rope and wood. "The spiral stair ended, but a vertical wooden ladder led from the bell chamber to a trap-door in the ceiling above. Bartholomew tested it carefully, not trusting the cracked wood, nor the way in which the ladder leaned away from the wall as he prepared to climb.

"The ladder was stronger than it looked, and he reached the trap-door without the rungs falling out or the ladder tearing away from the wall to deposit him on the bells below. He unbolted the trap-door and gingerly pushed it open, ducking as he disturbed a flurry of birds on the roof. "The sunlight streamed down on his head, making him blink after the darkness of the tower. He hauled himself up and stood on the roof.

He surveyed the view in awe. "The day was clear, not yet spoiled by the stinking mists that blew in from the Fens, and he thought he could see the distant towers of Ely Cathedral. He could certainly see the glitter of the maze of waterways snaking through the flat Fens, as they stretched off towards the sea. He leaned against one of the corner turrets and traced the silvery line of the river as far as he could, surprised that he could see a barge hauling in about two miles distant. He wondered that his brother-in-law did not post one of his informants on the roof permanently so he could have early warning of the arrival of trading vessels.

He peered directly down, intrigued at how the streets and buildings appeared from above. He saw the market stalls, looking brighter and prettier than they ever did in the market itself. Then he searched for the alley where he had been attacked the day before. He looked harder, leaning precariously over the edge as he screwed up his eyes to see. "There was a gap between the rows of shacks, and following the line of it towards the church he saw a very distinct thinning of the undergrowth running towards the churchyard. "There was his hidden pathway: he knew he would be able to see it from above!

He chose two prominent tombstones and a tree, quickly calculated angles and distances, and committed them to memory. He smiled grimly to himself. He would be able to find the entrance to it next time he looked, no matter how well hidden it was.

He stood for a few moments savouring the peace, and then made his way back down the ladder. As he was closing the trap-door, a tricky operation that involved wrapping one leg around the ladder and using both hands to heave the heavy wooden flap back into place, someone started to toll the bell for the friar's funeral. Bartholomew had heard that people were sent mad if they stayed too long in the chamber where bells were tolled, and that their ears would burst.

Another myth dispelled, he thought, as he climbed down the ladder. "The bell's ringing was loud, but he did not feel it would send him mad or that his ears would burst. When he reached the bottom of the ladder, he put his hands over his ears to muffle the sound and watched the bell swing back and forth. His hands dropped to his side when he saw what had been concealed behind the bell, but what was exposed as the bell moved. He started towards it, but then stopped. While he did not believe the bell would damage his hearing within a short time, he did not relish the idea of being hit by the great mass of metal as it swept ponderously back and forth.

He went outside the chamber, closed the door, and sat on the stairs until the tolling had stopped. When the last vibrations had died away, and he could hear the first notes of the requiem mass drifting up the stairs, he opened the door again and edged his way towards the bell. "There were four different-sized bells in the tower.

It was the biggest one that had tolled for the friar and that concealed the body behind it. Even so, all that was visible was a white and bloated hand that dangled just below the bell frame.

"The bells were supported in a wooden frame about three feet from the floor, and the easiest way to reach the body was to crawl on hands and knees beneath it.

Bartholomew ignored the accumulated filth of decades and made his way to the other side of the chamber. Even as he neared the big bell, the sack that evidently held the body was all but invisible, and it was only the dead white hand that betrayed its presence. He used the bell to pull himself up onto the frame, and inspected the sack.

It had been jammed between the frame and the wall, quite deliberately positioned to hide it from prying eyes.

Bartholomew, who had only spotted it when the bell was tolling, doubted if many people would choose to be in the chamber when the bells were ringing, and so the sack and its gruesome contents might have remained hidden for months or even years. He noted the debris that coated his clothes from his crawl across the filthy floor, and suspected that the cleaning of the bell chamber was not a high priority at St Mary's. He felt through the sack to the body inside. It was upside down: the legs were uppermost, while the head and torso were further down the bell frame.

He took a firm hold of the sack and pulled hard but it was securely wedged. He climbed further down the frame and tried to dislodge it sideways, but it was stuck fast. He leaned over to see if something was holding it in place and became aware of a rubbing sound behind him.

For a moment, he could not imagine what it could be, and then he saw the great bell begin to tip. "The requiem mass!

Bartholomew could not believe his stupidity! When the mass was sung the bell ringer would chime the bell three times each for the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. The ringer was beginning to haul on the bell rope, pulling hard to make the bell swing higher and higher until the clapper sounded against its side.

"The bell swung upwards as Bartholomew flattened himself against the frame. It missed him by the merest fraction of an inch. "The next time it swung up it would hit him. As soon as it began to drop, Bartholomew let himself fall to the floor, knowing that he would not have sufficient time to climb. He landed with a thump and flattened himself in the muck and feathers as the great mouth of the bell swished over him. He heard Brother Michael exclaim in the room below just before the bell spoke for the first time.

Bartholomew pressed his hands over his ears again, and tried to spit dusty old feathers from his mouth. The bell rang a second time and a third, and paused. Then came three more tolls and a pause, and then a final three and silence. Bartholomew did not wait for the last vibrations to fade before crawling away as fast as he could. He pounded on the door of the chest chamber.

'Go away!' shouted Michael, true to the Chancellor's instructions.

'Michael, it is me! Open the door!'

He fretted impatiently while Michael huffed noisily across the floor and fumbled with the bar. Bartholomew shot inside, leaving a trail of feathers and dried bird-droppings behind him. Michael looked at him, aghast.

'Have you been to that alley again?' he said, concern wrinkling his fat face.

'"There is a body in a sack in the bell chamber,' said Bartholomew breathlessly. "I tried to move it, but it is stuck fast.' "I heard an almighty crash a minute ago. Was that you?' Michael stopped as the meaning of Bartholomew's words began to dawn on him. 'Who is the body?'

Bartholomew shook his head. "I could not tell, but I saw the hand and it is that of an older man.' He ran an unsteady hand through his hair, oblivious to the feathers and cobwebs it deposited there. He looked at Michael.

"I have a terrible feeling we have just discovered the whereabouts of the Vice-Chancellor.'

Out of respect for the dead friar, they waited until he had been lowered into his grave in the cemetery before Michael approached the Chancellor and imparted the news. "The Chancellor paled and gazed at Michael in shock.

'Another body in the tower? Do you know who it is?' he whispered.

'Not yet,' said Bartholomew. 'We will need help to get it out'

De Wetherset closed his eyes and muttered something.

When he opened them again, his eyes were hard and businesslike. He called for Gilbert and told him what had been discovered.

'What were you doing in the belfry to discover such a thing?' Gilbert asked, flashing the Chancellor a glance that indicated Bartholomew and Michael were not above suspicion themselves.

'Matt was looking to see if the friar had hidden his lock-picking tools there,' Michael lied easily.

Gilbert sighed. "I should have thought of that myself,' he said. 'Although I would not have gone when the bells were ringing, and from what you say, I would probably not have seen this corpse.'

'We will recover the body ourselves before we spread the news abroad,' said de Wetherset. 'Who knows what we might uncover? Gilbert, please arrange that we will not be disturbed while I fetch Father Cuthbert. Brother, Doctor, please wait for me in the tower.'

While Michael and Bartholomew waited, Bartholomew slit the sack and tied some pieces of discarded rope around the legs of the body inside. They tried a few preliminary hauls, but to no avail. De Wetherset arrived wearing an old gown, while Gilbert and Cuthbert hovered anxiously behind him. Bartholomew wondered whether the portly de Wetherset, the fat Cuthbert, and the slight Gilbert would make much difference to their efforts.

While Bartholomew lay on the floor and pushed, the others heaved on the legs from the bell frame. They began to despair of ever getting it out, and de Wetherset had started to talk ominously of the skills of some physicians with knives, when they felt the body budge.

'Once more,' cried de Wetherset. 'Pull!' "The body moved a little further, and Bartholomew joined Cuthbert to pull on one of the legs. With a puff of dust and a sharp crack from the bell frame, the body came loose, and Bartholomew and Michael hauled it across the bells and laid it on the floor by the door.

De Wetherset, his face red from exertion, knelt next to it and slit the sack open with a knife. He gasped as the smell of putrefaction rose from the bundle, and then leapt up as the great swollen face looked out at him.

'God's teeth!' he whispered, staring at the face in horror. 'What is that? Is it a demon?'

'He has been hanging upside down for at least several days,' said Bartholomew gently. 'When that happens, the fluids of the body drain into the lowest part and cause the swelling you see here.'

'You were wrong, Matt. It is not Master Buckley,' said Michael, covering the lower half of his face with the sleeve of his gown.

Father Cuthbert coughed, his face pale. 'It is Marius Froissart,' he said. Bartholomew and Michael looked blankly at him and he explained. 'Froissart claimed sanctuary in the church about a week ago after he murdered his wife. You know it is the law that such criminals can claim sanctuary in a church, and he cannot be touched by officers of the law for forty days.

"The clerks locked him in that night, but by the next day he had escaped, despite the soldiers outside.'

'"The whore killer whom the Sheriff was seeking!' exclaimed Michael. 'But dead himself!'

'But who killed him and put him here? And why?' asked de Wetherset, looking down at the body.

'Whoever hid his body here intended it to stay concealed for a long time,' said Bartholomew. He stretched out his hand to show the others what he had found. '"There was a reason it was so difficult to pull him free. He was nailed to the bell frame.'

De Wetherset stumbled down the stairs with his hand over his mouth. Gilbert followed him solicitously, while Bartholomew and Michael stayed with the dead man.

Father Cuthbert hovered, uncertain whether to go or stay. When Bartholomew began to cut the sack to examine the body, Cuthbert looked away and gagged, and Bartholomew sent him with Michael to discover what de Wetherset wanted to do. He continued his examination alone. It looked as if Cuthbert's story of Marius Froissart's disappearance corresponded to the time that Bartholomew estimated him to have been dead.

Which meant that Marius Froissart could not have killed Isobel or Frances.

Froissart's clothes were old, but neatly patched and mended. His beard and hair were unkempt, but, after a week in a sack, that was hardly surprising. Bartholomew tipped the head back and looked at the neck. Underneath the beard was a thin red line that circled his throat and was caked with blood. Bartholomew eased Froissart onto his back and inspected the dark marks at the nape of his neck. Garrotted. He felt the scalp under the matted hair, but there were no signs of a blow to the head. He prised the eyes and mouth open to look for signs of poison, and then looked at the rest of the body. "There were no other injuries except for the marks on his shoulders and hips where he had been nailed to the bell frame.

Why would anyone go to such lengths? he wondered.

He looked closely at the marks the nails had made.

"There was very little bruising and no bleeding at all.

Some of the wounds were torn, but that had happened when he had been pulled out, and there was nothing to suggest that he had been alive when they were first made.

Bartholomew walked around the chamber and looked at the great bell from as many angles as possible. When the bell was stationary, there was no earthly chance that the body would be seen. Even if someone had come to tend the bells, the body might remain hidden as long as the bells were still. And the smell? Bartholomew looked at the dead birds he had noted earlier. Anyone noticing a strong odour would assume that it came from the dead birds, as he had done.

In the confines of the narrow spiral staircase, the stench of putrefaction became too much even for him.

He walked down to the chest chamber and took some deep breaths through the window. He winced. "The sun was beating down like a furnace, and the ditches that criss-crossed Cambridge stank. Even from the tower he could see a haze of insects over the river.

He turned as he heard footsteps and de Wetherset and Michael entered. De Wethersetwas as white as a sheet, and Michael was unusually sombre. De Wetherset listened at the door for a moment before closing it firmly.

'Gilbert and Cuthbert are downstairs to ensure that we are not disturbed,' he said. 'What can you tell me about this man's death?'

'Froissart was garrotted. If his hand had not slipped loose, I doubt he would have been found until someone decided to clean the bell chamber.'

De Wetherset pursed his lips. 'Father Cuthbert has problems getting anyone to ring the things, let alone to clean them,' he said. 'It appears that our murderer knew this, and the body was intended to remain undiscovered for a very long time indeed.'

Bartholomew walked to the window and rubbed his chin. 'Froissart's death must be connected to the dead friar,' he said.

'Logic dictates that is so,'said Michael. 'It is improbable that two sudden deaths in the same place within days of each other will be unrelated.'

'But Froissart must have been killed the night he claimed sanctuary,' Bartholomew pointed out. 'That was last Tuesday. "The clerks say the friar was here for about three days before he died. He was found dead the day before yesterday, and so he probably arrived here last Friday at the earliest, and Froissart had been dead for three days by then.' He picked up a quill from the table and examined it absently. '"The timing is such that Froissart and the friar could never have met.'

Michael sat on one of the benches and stretched his legs out in front of him. 'But perhaps the friar was here before.

Perhaps he was in disguise and killed Froissart, and then came back to complete his business in the chest'

Bartholomew thought for a moment and then shook his head. 'No. It does not ring true.' He saw the Chancellor wince at the mention of bells and continued quickly. '"The clerks were very observant about the friar. Had there been another person loitering in the church before him, they would have mentioned it. But more importantly, if the friar had been in disguise and had murdered Froissart, I think he would have been most unlikely to have returned to the church as himself, and there was nothing on the friar's body to suggest he was in disguise when he died.'

'But if he were responsible, what would he have to fear when he knew the body was so well hidden?' asked Michael.

Bartholomew thought for a moment. 'Master de Wetherset, you said Father Cuthbert has trouble finding people to ring the bells. Whoever put Froissart behind the bell frame knew that the chances of anyone going to the bell chamber to tend to the bells were remote. Why would the friar, a stranger to Cambridge, know that?'

De Wetherset grew exasperated. 'You two do not agree with each other,' he said. 'You, Brother, maintain that logic dictates that the two deaths are connected, while you, Doctor Bartholomew, confound any ideas we suggest to link them.'

Bartholomew smiled. 'Just because we cannot find the link here and now does not mean that it is not there. The evidence we have at the moment is just not sufficient to support any firm conclusions.'

De Wetherset sat heavily on the bench next to Michael and put his head in his hands. 'Tell me what we do have,' he said wearily.

Bartholomew sat on the chest before thinking better of it and moved to the window-seat. He quickly sorted out his jumbled thoughts and began to put them together.

'Last Tuesday, Froissart killed his wife and claimed sanctuary in the church. He was locked in Tuesday night, but had gone by Wednesday morning. It is most likely he was killed in the church on Tuesday night, and his body hidden at the same time. Three days later, on Friday, the itinerant friar arrived. He spent time, ostensibly praying and preparing himself to continue his journey, but more probably learning the routine of the church. Now that suggests to me that he had not been here before, and so was not the murderer of Froissart.'

De Wetherset nodded slowly. 'That is logical,' he said.

'Pray continue.'

Michael took up the analysis. 'We do not know why the friar was here, but we know he was a careful man. He spent three days watching and learning, and obviously possessed some skill in opening locks without keys. On Sunday night, he hid in the church while the lay-brother locked up, and then made his way to the tower. He picked the locks on the chest and began to go through its contents. "The poison did not have an immediate effect, or he would not have been able to pick the third lock and open the lid. We do not know what happened next.

He may have had a seizure brought on by the poison and fallen into the chest, closing the lid at the same time. Or he may have been put in the box by another person.'

'Perhaps the same person who killed Froissart,' said Bartholomew. "I cannot imagine that the friar fell neatly into the chest and the lid closed of its own accord. I think it more likely that someone put him there.' He paused for a moment and continued. 'On the same night that the friar was preparing himself for his business in the tower, Evrard Buckley complained of stomach pains from a surfeit of eels, and retired early to bed. During the night, he removed the entire contents of his room through the window in King's Hall and loaded them onto a cart. At some point, he or another person, was wounded, perhaps fatally, as is attested by the blood on the ground outside his window.'

'We have forgotten Nicholas's book,' said Michael, gesturing to where the papers lay on the table near the window. 'He died a month ago, and no one thought much about it until the friar was found dead on top of his manuscript.'

'So, what we have left,' said de Wetherset somewhat testily, 'is a large number of unanswered questions. Who was the friar? What was he doing in the tower? Who put the poisoned lock on the chest? Was it intended to kill the friar or another? Who killed Froissart and why? Are the two deaths linked? Was Nicholas also murdered?

Where is my Vice-Chancellor? And did he kill Nicholas, Froissart, and the friar?'

He stood with a sigh. "I will have Froissart moved to the crypt. Gilbert will see to that. It might be most imprudent to let the murderer know his careful concealment has been uncovered, so I suggest we tell no one of this,' he said.

'But the Sheriff has a right to know,' said Bartholomew, startled. 'If Froissart is supposed to have murdered his wife, the Sheriff will be looking for him. We cannot keep such a matter to ourselves.' "I said it would be most unwise to let the murderer know that we have discovered the body,' snapped de Wetherset.

'Supposing news of our discovery makes him kill again?

"The next victim might be one of us. "The townspeople complain bitterly that the Sheriff is dragging his feet in tracking down the killer of the town prostitutes. There is little point in revealing this matter to such a man.'

'What if it were ever discovered that we kept such a matter secret?' said Bartholomew, unconvinced. 'The townspeople would have every right to be angry with the University, and relations between us and the town are strained as it is. There would be a riot!'

'The only way they would find out would be if you were to reveal it to them,' said de Wetherset coldly. 'And I am sure I need not worry on that score. Anyway, I imagine the killer would be more likely to strike at those who are seen to be investigating his crime if it were to become common knowledge Froissart has been found: you and Brother Michael.'

'Not if we turn the whole matter over to the Sheriff.'

Bartholomew looked at Michael for support, but the monk looked studiously out of the window and would not meet his eye.

De Wetherset continued. "I want you to question Froissart's family to see if they know anything, and I want you to examine Nicholas's body before dawn tomorrow.

I have already obtained the necessary licences.'

He opened the door and left without another word.

His footsteps were heavy and, despite his belligerence to Bartholomew, attested to his growing despondency about the events of the past few days. Bartholomew and Michael followed him, Bartholomew still angry, and they saw him giving instructions to Gilbert about the removal of Froissart.

'More lies and deceit,' said Bartholomew bitterly, watching de Wetherset walking away with an arm across Gilbert's shoulders. 'Why did you not come to my defence?'

'Because you were wrong,' said Michael. 'De Wetherset said that the Sheriff is conducting a less than competent investigation into the deaths of the women, and that is true. The townspeople are talking of little else. Why should we alert the murderer of Froissart that we have uncovered his carefully concealed victim by revealing it to the Sheriff? I do not see that it would do any good, and it might do a great deal of harm.'

'But perhaps one of the reasons the investigation is slow is because half the Sheriffs men are hunting Froissart, whom we know is dead. If we tell him that he need not look for Froissart, he will have more resources with which to hunt the killer of the prostitutes,' argued Bartholomew.

Michael shook his head.'The Sheriff s problem is more deeply seated than manpower,' he said. He shook himself suddenly. 'Come, Matt! It is cold in here. You cannot reveal what you know to the Sheriff without contravening de Wetherset's orders, so do not even think about it. Let us put it from our minds and concentrate on the matter in hand.'

'So, what shall we do first?' said Bartholomew, walking with relief out of the cold church and into the hot sunshine outside. He brushed feathers from his gown and stretched stiffly.

'Back to College,' said Michael. 'You stink of that dead man, and it would not be tactful to question his family until you have changed. And anyway, I am hungry and you have students waiting for you.'

At Michaelhouse, Bartholomew washed and changed, giving his dirty clothes to the disapproving laundress.

"I cannot imagine what you have been up to these last few days,' Agatha grumbled. 'Filthy clothes, ripped shirts. You should know better at your age, Matthew.'

Bartholomew grinned at her as she pushed him out of the door. She watched him cross the yard towards the hall and allowed herself a rare smile. Agatha was fond of the physician, who had cured her of a painful foot that had been the bane of her life for years. She looked down at the dirty clothes and her smile faded: she hoped he was not doing anything dangerous.

She saw Gray and Deynman strolling across the yard and yelled at them in stentorian tones. 'Your master is waiting for you! He is a busy man and cannot be waiting around all day for you to wander into his lectures when you please!'

Gray and Deynman broke into a run and made for the conclave, where Bartholomew had already begun his lecture. He glanced at them, but said nothing as they hurriedly found seats and tried to bring their breathing under control. Bartholomew noted with satisfaction that the whole class was attentive, and when he sprung questions on them, they at least did not seem startled.

Some even gave him the correct answers.

The time passed quickly, and soon the bell was ringing to announce lectures were over for the day.

Bartholomew was surprised that the students listened to his final comments and did not immediately try to leave for the meal in the hall as they usually did. He stopped his pacing across the fireplace to address them.

'Tomorrow we must look again at diseases of the mouth. You may consider toothache to be an unimportant affliction, but it can make the patient's life a living hell. A toothache might be indicative of abscesses in the jaws, which can occasionally prove fatal to some people, by poisoning the blood. If I am late, I want you to consider dosages of different compounds that you might give to children who have painful swellings of the face, and what the possible causes of such swellings might be.'

He gave them an absent smile, his mind already busy making up such a list, and left. His students heaved a corporate sigh of relief.

'Another day survived!' said Gray, blowing out his cheeks and looking at the others.

'He is only trying to help us learn,' said Bulbeck defensively. 'He wants us to pass our disputations, and he wants us to become good physicians.'

Brother Boniface spat. 'He is teaching us contrary to the will of God. Why does he not teach us how to bleed patients? Why does he insist that we must always have a diagnosis? Some things are not meant to be known by man.'

'He does not believe that bleeding is beneficial,' said Gray. 'He told me that charlatans bleed patients when they do not know what else to do.'

Boniface snorted in derision. 'His teaching is heretical, and I do not like it. Give me a bottle of leeches and I could cure anything!'

Bulbeck laughed. 'Then tell Doctor Bartholomew that leeching is a cure for toothache in his lecture tomorrow,' he said.

Because Bartholomew had to see a patient, Michael went alone to hunt down the family of Marius Froissart. He asked the clerks in the church, but none of them knew where Froissart had lived. Somewhat irritably, he began to walk up Cambridge's only hill to the Castle to ask the Sheriff. The Sheriff had been called when Froissart had claimed sanctuary. Froissart could not, of course, be taken from the sanctuary of the church, but he had been questioned.

By the time Michael arrived, puffing and swearing at his enforced exercise, he was hot and crabby. He marched up to the Castle gate-house and pounded on the door. A lantern-jawed sergeant asked him his business, and Michael demanded an audience with the Sheriff. He was led across the bailey towards the round keep that stood on the motte. It was a grey, forbidding structure, and Michael felt hemmed in by the towering curtain walls and crenellated towers.

In the bailey a few soldiers practised sword-play in a half-hearted manner, while a larger group were gathered in the shade of the gate-house to play dice. Before the plague, the bailey had always seemed full of soldiers, but there were distinctly fewer now. Michael followed the-sergeant up wide spiral stairs to the second floor. As he took a seat in an antechamber, raised voices drifted from the Sheriffs office.

'But when?' roared a voice that Michael recognised as Stanmore's. The sergeant glanced uneasily at Michael but said nothing. There was a mumble from within as the Sheriff answered.

'But that is simply unacceptable!' responded Stanmore.

Michael stood and ambled closer to the door in an attempt to overhear the Sheriff s part of the conversation, but was almost knocked off his feet as the door was flung open and Stanmore stormed out. He saw Michael but was too furious to speak as he left. Before the sergeant could stop him, Michael strolled nonchalantly through the door Stanmore had left open.

The Sheriff stood behind a table, breathing heavily and clenching his fists. He glared at Michael, who smiled back benevolently.

'Master Tulyet,' said Michael, sitting down. 'How is your father, the Mayor?'

'My father is no longer Mayor,' growled Tulyet. He was a small man with wispy fair hair and a beard that was so blond it was all but invisible.

'Then how are you? How is your investigation of the whore murders?' asked Michael, knowing instinctively he would touch a raw nerve.

'That is the King's business and none of yours,' Tulyet snapped. Michael saw the Sheriffs hands tremble when he picked up his cup to drink, and when he put it back down again, there were clammy fingerprints smeared on the pewter.

'Have you traced that other murderer yet? What was his name? Froissart,' probed Michael, leaning back in the creaking chair.

Tulyet glared at him. 'He escaped sanctuary,' he said through gritted teeth. "I warned the guards that he might try, but they said they did not see him. I suppose they would not when they were asleep.'

'Who was it that he had killed?' asked Michael. 'A woman? And now a woman-killer stalks the night streets of Cambridge?'

'Marius Froissart is not the killer of the whores!' said Tulyet, exasperated. 'You believe that Froissart is the killer and that I lost him. Well, he is not the killer!

Froissart did not even have the sense to confess to the murder of his wife, even though a witness saw him commit the crime! He could not have the intelligence to outwit me over the whore murders.'

'Oh? Who saw him commit the crime?' asked Michael with interest.

'His neighbour, a MistressJanetta,' Tulyet said bitterly, 'although I am uncertain that her testimony is worth a great deal.'

Michael rose to leave. 'Thank you,' he said. 'You have been most helpful.'

Tulyet gaped at him. "I have?' he said. 'You have not told me what you want.'

Michael beamed and clapped him on the shoulder.

'Keep up the good work,' he said, his comment designed to antagonise, and he swept out of the room and into the Castle bailey. He sauntered over to the soldiers playing dice.

'Gambling is a device of the Devil, my children,' he said cheerfully. 'Were you playing dice when you should have been watching St Mary's Church?'

The soldiers exchanged furtive glances. 'No,' one lied easily. 'Froissart did not leave. The only person to go in or out was the friar.'

'What friar?' asked Michael, feeling his interest quicken.

'The friar that visited Froissart in the church,' said the soldier with exaggerated patience.

'What time was this?' Michael asked.

The soldier squinted up at him. 'About an hour after the church was locked. It was dark by then, and we did not see him until he was almost on top of us.' He turned back to his game and threw his dice.

'Did you know him?'

The soldier shook his head, handing over a few pennies to one of his comrades, who laughed triumphantly. 'He said his name was Father Lucius, and when he shouted his name, Froissart opened the door and let him in.'

'What did he look like?'

The soldier shrugged. 'Like a friar! Mean-looking with a big nose, and a dirty grey robe with the cowl pulled up over his head.'

Michael nodded. If he were wearing a grey robe, he must have been a Franciscan. 'Did you see him leave?'

'Yes. After about an hour. He warned us about gambling, and left' The soldier took the dice from his neighbour and threw them again. There was a series of catcalls as he lost a second time.

Michael sketched a quick benediction over them and strolled away. He had enjoyed making Tulyet give him the information he wanted by needling him into indiscretion.

Michael had discovered not only where Froissart lived, but the identity of the neighbour who had witnessed his crime. From Tulyet's men, Michael had also discovered the identity of Froissart's murderer: the mysterious friar.

He hummed a song from the taverns that he should not have known, and walked back down the hill a lot more happily than he had walked up it.

He saw Bartholomew talking to two Austin Canons outside the Hospital of St John the Evangelist as he turned from Bridge Street into the High Street. In fine humour he strolled across and greeted them.

Bartholomew looked at him suspiciously and quickly concluded his conversation with the Canons.

'What have you been up to?' Bartholomew asked suspiciously. 'You are not usually so cheery after climbing Castle Hill/ Michael toldhim, while Bartholomew listened thoughtfully.

"I know Richard Tulyet. He is not a bad man and, until recently, has been a good Sheriff. I hope you did not offend him. We might need his goodwill at some point'

Michael hastily changed the subject to the Franciscan friar. 'How many do you know that are mean-looking and have big noses?' he said.

'Just about all of them,' said Bartholomew drily. 'We have at least five in Michaelhouse who match that description.'

Michael laughed. 'Shall we go and visit your Janetta, and Froissart's family?' he asked.

'We shall not!' said Bartholomew feelingly. 'It will be dark soon, and I have no desire to be there after curfew. De Wetherset's men can bring them to us tomorrow. I have had enough for today, and we have a very early start tomorrow when we exhume Nicholas.'

They began to walk back to Michaelhouse, stopping on the way for Michael to buy a large apple pie from a baker hastening to sell the last of his produce before trading ceased for the day. The sun was beginning to set, and weary tradesmen and apprentices were trailing in from the Fair.

'So Froissart knew his murderer,' said Michael, his mouth full.

'Possibly,' said Bartholomew. 'It is not absolutely certain that the Franciscan killed him. If Froissart allowed the Franciscan into the church, he may have let others in too while the soldiers were busy with their dice. And would one mean-looking friar have the strength to carry Froissart up to the tower and nail him to the bell frame?' "I wonder whether Froissart fled up your path between the bushes from the scene of his crime to the church?' mused Michael. "I wonder why Janetta of Lincoln went to such pains to hide it? Knowing what we do, I suspect that the only reason she intervened when the mob attacked you was because she is intelligent enough to know that two murders — yours and Froissart's wife — within a few days of each other might bring the unwanted attention of Tulyet's officers into her small domain. The death of Froissart's wife may have saved you, Matt'

Bartholomew sighed. "I want to read some Hippocrates tonight before the light fades completely. You could go to the Franciscan Friary and see if anyone there attended Froissart on the night of his death. The Franciscan's visit might be entirely innocent, and we should at least try to find out'

Michael rubbed his hands. 'It is turning chilly,' he said, 'and not a red cloud to be seen. It will be raining when you dig up poor Nicholas tomorrow morning, Matt. You mark my words.'