The sheet was not long enough to cover the dead girl's feet and Bartholomew saw that someone had taken her shoes. Her feet were relatively clean, so she had not been walking barefoot. He looked a little more closely and caught his breath as he saw the small red circle painted in blood on her foot.
'What is wrong?' asked Michael, his face white in the dark church.
Bartholomew pointed to the dead girl's foot. 'That mark,' he said. "I saw a circle like that on the foot of the last dead girl, Fritha. I thought it was just chance — there was so much blood — but Isobel has a mark that is identical.'
'Do you think it is the killer's personal signature?' asked Michael, with a shudder. "I assume all three women were killed by the same person.'
Bartholomew frowned. 'Perhaps, yes, if there were a similar mark on the foot of the first victim. I did not see her body.'
'God's teeth, Matt,' said Michael, his voice unsteady.
'What monster would do this?' He clutched at one of the pillars, unable to tear his eyes away from the body in the coffin. He began to reel, and Bartholomew, fearing that the monk might faint, took him firmly by the arm and led him outside.
They sat together on one of the ancient tombstones in the shade of a yew tree. A woman's anguished cries suggested that Cynric had already found Isobel's family and that they were nearing the church. Next to Bartholomew, Michael was still shaking.
'Why, Matt?' he asked, looking to where a man led his wailing wife into the church, escorted solicitously by the friar.
Bartholomew stared across the churchyard at a row of young oak trees, their slender branches waving in the breeze. 'That is the third girl to be killed,' he said.
'Hilde, Fritha, and Isobel, and all of them murdered in churchyards.'
The Fair had resulted in a temporary increase in prostitution. The town burgesses had called for the Sheriff to rid the town of the women, but Bartholomew believed the prostitutes were providing a greater service to the town than the burgesses appreciated: as long as they were available, scholars and itinerant traders from the Fair did not pester the townsmen's wives and daughters. Bartholomew suspected Michael felt much the same, although such a position was hardly tenable publicly for a Benedictine Master of Theology.
They sat for a while until Michael regained some of his colour, and watched the crowd in the churchyard. When the Sheriffs men arrived, it became ominously silent.
Bartholomew frowned. 'What is all that about?'
They watched as the soldiers tried to disperse the crowd. 'There are rumours in the town that the Sheriff is not doing all he might to investigate the murders of Hilde and Fritha,' said Michael. 'As Sheriff, his duty is to try to prevent prostitution, and it is said that he considers the murderer to be doing him a favour by killing these women.'
'Oh, surely not, Brother!' said Bartholomew in disbelief.
'What Sheriff would want a killer in his town? It will do nothing to make it peaceful.'
'True enough,' said Michael. 'But it is said that the killer fled to St Mary's Church and claimed sanctuary. The Sheriff set a watch on the church, but the killer escaped, and now it looks as though he has struck again.'
'How is it known that this man was the killer?' asked Bartholomew curiously.
'He is supposed to have killed his wife before fleeing,' said Michael. 'It is rumoured that the Sheriff deliberately set a lax watch on the church so that the killer could continue his extermination of the prostitutes.'
'Do you think there is any truth in these stories?' asked Bartholomew, watching the soldiers, frustrated with the sullen crowd, draw their swords to threaten the people away.
'It is true that a man killed his wife and claimed sanctuary at St Mary's, and it is true that he escaped during the night despite the Sheriff's guards. Whether he is also the killer of Hilde, Fritha, and now Isobel, is open to debate.'
The crowd, faced with naked steel, reluctantly began to disperse, although there were dark mutterings.
Bartholomew was surprised that the crowd was sympathetic to the prostitutes. There were those who claimed that the plague had come because of women like them, and they faced a constant and very real danger from attack.
'Come on, Brother,' Bartholomew said, rising to his feet. 'We must pay a visit to the ailing Master Buckley.
Perhaps he will explain everything, and this University chest business will be over and done with before more time is wasted.'
Michael assented and they walked in silence up the High Street, each wrapped in his own thoughts. Michael could not stop thinking about the face of the dead girl, while Bartholomew, more inured to violent death, was still angry that he was being dragged into the sordid world of University politics and intrigue.
Towards King's Hall the houses were larger than those near St Botolph's, some with small walled gardens.
Many homes had been abandoned after the plague, and the whitewash was dirty and grey. Others were well maintained, and had been given new coats of whitewash in honour of the Fair, some tinged with pigs' blood or ochre to make them pleasing shades of pink, yellow, and orange. But all were in use now that the Fair had arrived.
The street itself was hard-packed mud, dangerously pot-holed and rutted. Parallel drains ran down each side of it, intended to act as sewers to take waste from homes. By leaning out of the upper storeys of the houses, residents could throw their waste directly into the drains, but not everyone's aim was accurate, and accidents were inevitable. Scholars especially needed to take care when walking past townspeople's houses in the early mornings. On one side of the street, Bartholomew saw a group of ragged children prodding at a blockage with sticks, paddling barefoot in the filth. One splashed another, and screams of delight followed as the spray flew. The physician in him longed to tell them to play elsewhere; the pragmatist told him that they would find somewhere equally, if not more, unwholesome.
King's Hall was an elegant establishment that had been founded by Edward II more than thirty years before.
The present King had continued the royal patronage, and it was now the largest of the Cambridge Colleges.
The centre of King's Hall was a substantial house with gardens that swept down to the river. Bartholomew and Michael asked for the Warden, who listened gravely to Michael's news, and took them to Master Buckley's room himself.
'Many of the masters have a room to themselves now,' the Warden said as they walked. 'Before the Death, we were cramped, but since that terrible pestilence claimed more than half our number, we rattle around in this draughty building. I suppose time will heal and we will have more scholars in due course. Master Kenyngham tells me that Michaelhouse has just been sent six Franciscans from Lincoln, which must be a welcome boost to your numbers.'
Bartholomew smiled politely, although he was not so certain that the arrival of the Franciscans was welcome.
So far, all they had done was to try to get the other scholars into debates about heresy and to criticise the Master's tolerant rule.
The Warden led them up some stairs at the rear of the Hall and knocked on a door on the upper floor.
There was no answer.
'Poor Master Buckley was most unwell last night,' said the Warden in a whisper. "I thought it might be wise to allow him to sleep this morning and recover his strength.'
'What was wrong with him?' asked Bartholomew, exchanging a quick glance of concern with Michael.
The Warden shrugged. 'You know him, Doctor. He is never very healthy and the summer heat has made him worse. Last night, we had eels for supper, and he always eats far more than his share, despite your warnings about his diet. None of us were surprised when he said he felt ill.' He knocked on the door again, a little louder.
With a growing fear of what he might find, Bartholomew grasped the handle of the door and pushed it open. The three men stood staring in astonishment. The room was completely bare. Not a stick of furniture, a wall hanging, or a scrap of parchment remained. And there was certainly no sign of Master Buckley.
2
After they took their leave of the bewildered warden, Bartholomew and Michael walked back to Michaelhouse together.
'We still need to talk to the man who locked up the church,' said Bartholomew.
Michael pulled a face. 'Not until I have had something to eat,' he said. 'What a morning! We are dragged out of mass to look at a corpse in the University chest, we discover a nasty poisoning device, we see a murdered harlot, and we find that the Vice-Chancellor has run away carrying all his worldly goods and some of King's Hall's. And all before breakfast.' "I am supposed to be teaching now,' said Bartholomew, glancing up at the sun, already high in the sky. 'These students will face their disputations soon and need all the teaching they can get, especially Robert Deynman/ 'They will have to wait a little longer,' said Michael, pointing across the yard to where the porter stood talking with a young woman. 'You have a patient.'
Seeing Bartholomew and Michael walk through the gate, the woman began to walk towards them, the porter's attentions forgotten. Bartholomew recognised her as Frances de Belem, the daughter of one of the wealthy merchants on Milne Street, who owned a house next to that of his brother-in-law Sir Oswald Stanmore. Years before, Stanmore and de Belem had started negotiations to marry Frances to Bartholomew, so that Stanmore's cloth trade could be linked to de Belem's dyeing business. At fourteen years of age, Bartholomew had no intentions of being married to a baby, nor of becoming a tradesman, and he had fled to study at Oxford. De Belem had promptly found another merchant's son, and Stanmore, fortunately for Bartholomew, was not a man to bear grudges when his errant kinsman returned fifteen years later to take up a position as Fellow of Medicine at Michaelhouse.
The rift between Stanmore and de Belem caused by Bartholomew's flight, however, had never completely healed, and Bartholomew was still occasionally subjected to doleful looks from his brother-in-law when de Belem overcharged him for dyes. But Frances bore Bartholomew no ill will and always seemed pleased to see him. Her marriage ended, as did many, when the plague took her husband the previous year.
As Bartholomew walked towards her, he noticed that her face was white and stained with tears. She almost broke into a run as he drew close, and was unable to prevent a huge sob as she clutched at his arm.
'Frances?' said Bartholomew gently. 'Whatever is the matter? Is your father ill?'
She shook her head miserably. "I must talk to you, Doctor,' she said. "I need help, and I do not know who else to ask.'
Bartholomew thought quickly. He could not take a woman back to his room, especially with the Franciscans undoubtedly already watching with disapproval the presence of a woman on Michaelhouse soil. He could not take her to the hall or the conclave because they would be in use for teaching, and he was reluctant to send her away when she obviously needed his help. The only possible place for a consultation was the kitchen, where the hefty laundress Agatha could act as chaperon and preserve Frances's reputation and his own.
He ushered her across the yard towards the main building. Michaelhouse comprised several buildings, joined in a three-sided structure around a courtyard.
The south and north wings, where the scholars lived, were two-storeyed buildings. The hall linked the two wings and was a handsome house built by a merchant.
The house had been bought in 1324 by Hervey de Stanton, Edward II's Chancellor of the Exchequer, when he founded Michaelhouse, and was dominated by the elegant porch topped with de Stanton's coat of arms. A spiral staircase led from the porch to the hall on the upper floor, while a door below led to the kitchen.
Frances in tow, Bartholomew made his way through the servants scurrying to prepare the main meal of the day, to the small room where Agatha kept her linen. She sat in a chair, legs splayed in front of her, snoring loudly in the sunlight that flooded the room. Agatha was a huge woman, almost as big as Brother Michael. Women were not usually allowed to work in the University's Colleges and hostels, but Agatha was exempted since she was unlikely to attract the amorous attentions of even the most desperate scholar. As Bartholomew entered, she awoke, and looked balefully at him, and then at Frances behind. It was not the first time Bartholomew had used her services when female patients had arrived unannounced, and she said nothing as she scrubbed at her eyes and heaved her bulk into a less inelegant position.
'You can trust Agatha to be discreet with anything you might say,' he said, as Frances looked nervously at Agatha's formidable form.
Agatha smiled, revealing an array of strong yellow teeth. 'Never mind me,' she said to Frances. "I have things to be doing, and nothing you can say to the Doctor will shock me.' "I am with child!' Frances blurted out. Agatha's jaw immediately dropped, and the hand that was reaching for some sewing was arrested in mid air. Bartholomew was startled. Her father, who had allowed Frances a free rein since the death of her husband, would be furious; especially so since Stanmore had told Bartholomew that arrangements were already in hand to remarry Frances to a landowner in Saffron Walden, a village south-east of Cambridge.
Bartholomew collected his tumbling thoughts when he saw Frances was waiting for an answer with desperate eyes. "I cannot help you,' he said gently. 'You must seek out a midwife to advise you about the birth. Physicians do not become involved in childbirth unless there is danger to the child or the mother.' He smiled at her reassuringly.
'And I am sure that you need have no worries on that score. You are young and healthy.'
'But I do not want it!' cried Frances. 'It will ruin me!'
Agatha, seeing the girl's tears, gave her a motherly hug.
Bartholomew looked at them helplessly. "I can do nothing to help,' he said again. "I can only advise you to see a midwife to secure the safe delivery of the child.' "I want you to get rid of it for me,' said Frances, turning a tear-streaked face to Bartholomew. "I do not want it.' "I cannot do that,' said Bartholomew. 'Quite apart from the fact that I do not know how, it would be a terrible crime, and dangerous for you.' "I care nothing for the danger,' cried Frances. 'My life will be worth nothing if I have it, so I have nothing to lose. You must be able to help me! I know there are medicines that can rid a woman of an unwanted child.
Of all the physicians in the town, you are the one most likely to know them, since you learned your medicine in dark and distant lands from foreign teachers.'
Bartholomew wondered if that was how all his patients saw him, endowed with knowledge of mysterious cures alien to physicians who had studied in England. "I do not know how to make potions for such purposes,' he said, looking away from Frances and out of the window, hoping that she would not see he was lying. He did know of such a potion, and it was indeed Ibn Ibrahim who had shown him writings by a woman physician called Trotula where such remedies could be found: equal portions of wormwood, betony, and pennyroyal, if taken early, might sometimes cause the foetus to abort. He had seen it used once, but that was because the mother was too exhausted from her last birthing to manage another. Even then, Bartholomew had been confused by the ethics of the case.
'You do know!' said Frances, desperation making her voice crack. 'You must.'
'Go to a midwife,' said Bartholomew gently. 'They understand, and will help with your baby.'
'Mistress Woodman killed Hilde's younger sister,' said Frances bitterly, meeting his eyes. 'Did you know that?'
'Hilde the prostitute?' asked Bartholomew. 'The one who was killed?'
Frances nodded. 'Her sister was three months with child, and she went to Mistress Woodman, the midwife, to rid herself of it. Mistress Woodman tried to pluck the child out with a piece of wire. Hilde's sister bled to death.'
Bartholomew knew such practices occurred — many dangerous poisons were used, and if these failed, operations were attempted that invariably left the mother either dead or suffering from infection. He turned away and looked out of the window. There was no disputing that it was wrong to kill, but what if Frances went to Mistress Woodman and died of her ministrations? 'What of the baby's father?' he asked. 'Will he marry
you?'
Frances gave a short bark of laughter. 'He cannot,' she said, and would elaborate no further. Bartholomew assumed the father must already be married.
'Do you have money?' he asked. Frances nodded, hope flaring in her eyes, and she showed him a heavy purse.
'You have relatives in Lincoln. Tell your father you are going to stay with them. If you can trust them, have the baby there. If not, there are convents that will help you.'
The hope in Frances's eyes faded. 'You will not help?' she said.
Bartholomew swallowed. 'Think about going away to have the child. Come to talk to me again tomorrow, but do not go to Mistress Woodman for a solution.'
Frances sighed heavily, and turned to leave. "I will give it thought,' she said, 'and I will come tomorrow. But my mind is already made up.'
As she left, Agatha sank down in her chair. 'Poor child,' she said. 'One rash act will cost her everything, while her paramour lives on to sully another.'
'That is not fair, Agatha,' said Bartholomew. 'Frances is twenty-four years old, and has been married. She is no green maiden taken unawares.'
'But the outcome is the same,' growled Agatha. 'The woman suffers, and may even die, while the man merely selects another for his attentions. Perhaps I will tell her how to rid herself of the baby.'
'How?' demanded Bartholomew disbelievingly. Agatha never ceased to amaze him with her assertions.
'You take two parts of wormwood to one part of crushed snails, add a generous pinch of red arsenic, and grind it into a poultice. You then insert the paste into the private regions, and the babe will sicken and die.'
'And so might the mother,' said Bartholomew, cringing.
'Where did you learn such a dangerous recipe?'
Agatha grinned suddenly and tapped the side of her nose. Bartholomew wondered whether she might have made it up, but the use of wormwood was common to effect cures of women' s ailments, and crushed snails were also popular. The thought of medicines reminded him that he was supposed to be teaching. Thanking Agatha for her help, he walked quickly back through the kitchen, and up the wide spiral staircase that led to the hall on the upper floor. Father William, the dour Franciscan teacher of theology, was holding forth to a group of six or seven scholars on the doctrine of original sin, his voice booming through the hall to the distraction of the other Fellows who were also trying to teach there. Piers Hesselwell, Michaelhouse's Fellow of Law, was struggling valiantly to explain the basic principles of Gratian's Decretum to ten restless undergraduates, while Roger Alcote, probably tired of competing with William's voice, had ordered one of his scholars to read Aristotle's Rhetoric to his own class. As Bartholomew passed him on his way to the conclave at the far end of the hall, Alcote beckoned him over.
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