Bartholomew was ashamed of himself for not knocking and giving the poor woman a chance to compose herself, but Rachel was unabashed. She looked curiously at Sybilla, still wearing Bartholomew's gown. Bartholomew found his tongue.
'Can Sybilla stay with you for a few days?' he asked, suddenly feeling awkward. 'I promise I will clear it with Oswald as soon as I can see him.'
'As you please,' Rachel said in her pleasant low voice.
She helped Sybilla remove the heavy tabard and cloak.
'It appears Sybilla is in trouble, and she will not be turned away.'
At the kindness in her voice, Sybilla began to weep again, and Bartholomew took the opportunity to leave.
Sybilla could tell Rachel her story and Rachel would have the sense and the discretion to deal with her accordingly.
Bartholomew felt Cynric slip up behind him as he left.
'Sorry, Cynric. I should have knocked,' he said.
Cynric grinned at him. 'No matter, lad. We were just talking.' He became serious. 'Your brother-in-law saw me as I was going to Rachel's room, and told me to tell you that the Cuild of the Coming are meeting tomorrow night at All Saints'.' He rubbed his hands gleefully, oblivious to Bartholomew's expression of dismay. 'Another night expedition, eh boy? You and I will get to the bottom of all this yet.'
8
Dawn the next day was duel and grey, the hot weather of the past few weeks replaced by a chill dampness. It was the turn of the Franciscan Fellows, William and Aidan, to prepare the church, and Bartholomew was able to stay in bed longer than he had the previous week. He thought about Sybilla, hidden away in fear of her life, and the dead women, especially Frances de Belem, and he felt depressed by the fact that he even had a witness to one murder, but was still no further forward with uncovering the killer's identity. He considered de Wetherset too, concealing documents from Michael that might help them to reason out some of the jumble of information that they had accumulated.
When he heard the Benedictines moving about in the room above, he reluctantly climbed out of bed to wash and shave in the cold water left for him by Cynric the night before, hopping about on the stone floor in his bare feet. He groped around in the gloom for his shirt, shivering in the cool air. The bell was already ringing by the time he was ready, and he had to run to catch up with the others. Michael told him in an undertone that they had been asked to meet with the Chancellor that morning. Bartholomew groaned, his scanty morning humour evaporating.
Michael jangled some keys at him. 'We can try these, out,' he said. 'The Bishop gave them to me yesterday.'
Bartholomew took them from him. There were three large keys and three small ones, all on a rusting metal ring. 'Why are there six keys?' he asked. 'There are only three locks.'
Michael shrugged. 'The Bishop said they had been deposited with his predecessor. There is another University chest at the Carmelite Friar) containing duplicates of all documents. Did you know that? I thought not. I suspect that is a secret few other than de Wetherset know. Anyway, the scroll with the keys was dated November 1331. They have lain untouched at the bottom of one of the Abbey strong-boxes for almost twenty years! Can you believe that?'
Bartholomew wondered whether they were the right keys.
No such doubts assailed Michael, who cracked his knuckles cheerfully. 'Now we will get some answers. If they fit, it means that the lock was tampered with and the poison device installed recently; if they do not fit, it means the lock was changed completely.'
'And what does that tell us?' grumbled Bartholomew.
Michael shrugged. 'We will know whether someone planted that device deliberately to kill.'
'But if it were changed, it tells us only that it was done at some point between November 1331 and last Monday,' said Bartholomew, ignoring warning glowers from Alcote for talking in the procession.
'And that provides us with little information that will be of use/ 'It was your idea to check the Bishop's keys,' said Michael, crestfallen by Bartholomew's negative attitude.
'And if the lock has been changed, it must mean that de Wetherset's key must also have been changed — the key that only leaves the chain around his neck when it is given to the mysteriously absent Buckley.'
'So de Wetherset says,' said Bartholomew. 'But how do we prove that the poisoned blade was not put onto the lock only the day before the friar was killed?'
'Because Buckley locked the chest and the tower at dusk just a few minutes before the lay-brother locked the church. If the device was put there during the day, then Buckley would have been poisoned by it.'
'He wore gloves, remember?' said Bartholomew. He shook his head. 'Have you noticed that everyone we want to talk to, who might be able to help us, has disappeared?
The lay-brother, Janetta, Froissart's family, Master Buckley. Even Nicholas, and he is supposed to be dead!'
Michael studied him in the gloom. 'What is wrong, Matt?' he asked. 'You are not usually so morose. Are you worried about de Wetherset?'
'No. I expect he is merely trying to safeguard the University's secrets by deceiving you over the book. But I am fed up with all this. The more I try to fathom it all out, the less I understand. It is something to do with those damn covens, I am sure. One of them is meeting tonight, and Cynric thinks I am going with him to spy.
Meanwhile this killer is still free, and Tulyet seems to be doing nothing to catch him.'
Michael sighed. 'One thing at a time, Matt. We will go to see the Chancellor, and then we will try to reason all this out. We are supposed to have some of the finest minds in the country. We must be able to solve this riddle.'
Bartholomew was not so sure. He tried to put it out of his mind during Prime, but found he could not. He thought about Sybilla and wondered if she would be safe at Stanmore's premises. He found himself looking at the wall painting where the goat-devil tossed people into the burning pit, and wondered whether Wilson's tomb, when he finally had it built, would hide it.
Father William was noted for the speed of his masses, but he was not matched by Aidan, who stammered and stuttered, and lost his place as he read. At one point he knocked the paten off the altar and the pieces of bread intended for communion scattered over the floor.
Bartholomew saw Gray and Deynman start to laugh, making Alcote look at them sharply. As William and Aidan scrabbled to recover the bread, Bartholomew saw that Hesselwell was asleep. He watched, fascinated, as the lawyer slipped further and further down his seat until it tipped with a loud bang that echoed like thunder through the church.
Hesselwell looked startled, but returned the Master's deprecating look with a guileless smile that made it look as if the clatter had been caused by someone else. Gray and Deynman were having serious trouble in containing their laughter, and Bartholomew could see that if they did not control themselves, Alcote would fine them. Opposite, Harling watched in icy disapproval, making it clear that he regarded the students' behaviour as typical of Michaelhouse scholars. Kenyngham was blissfully oblivious to it all, his hands clasped in the sleeves of his monastic gown and his eyes fixed on the ceiling as he chanted. Jonstan, standing next to Harling, looked from the students to Kenyngham, and smothered a smile.
Finally, order was restored and mass continued, but it was late by the time they finished. Since it was Sunday, there were no lectures, and the scholars were expected to read or spend time in silent contemplation. Bartholomew saw no reason why his students should not read something medical. He hailed Gray and Bulbeck and told them to read specific sections of Galen's Prognostics until midday, at which point they were free to spend their time as they pleased. He gave Gray the keys so that he could unlock the valuable tome from where it was chained to a wall in Bartholomew's storeroom, and read it aloud to the others in a corner of the hall.
Boniface regarded him aghast. 'It is the Lord's day!' he exclaimed. 'We cannot work!'
'Reading is permitted,' said Bartholomew. 'But no one is obliged to attend if they feel themselves unable.'
'Working on the Lord's day is a sin!' said Boniface, looking down his long nose at his teacher. 'It is because of evil men like you that the Death was visited upon us.'
'That is true, Doctor.' Bartholomew turned to see Father William standing behind him, tall, immovable, and with a fanatical gleam in his eye that forewarned Bartholomew he was spoiling for a good theological debate.
' Perhaps it is,' said Bartholomew.' But I do not consider listening to medical texts work.'
'But you hold a book, you turn its pages, and you use your voice to speak the words,' said William. 'That is work.'
' In which case you are working now,' said Bartholomew.
'You are trying to engage me in a theological debate — and theology is your trade, quite apart from your vocation, since you are paid to teach it — and you are using your voice to speak the words.'
William nodded, appreciating the logic. 'True,' he countered. 'Yet I do not consider it work.'
'And I do not consider reading medical texts work,' said Bartholomew. 'So we have reached a stalemate.'
Before William could respond, Bartholomew gave a small bow and began to walk away. Boniface ran after him and seized his sleeve.
'I will not read your heretical texts,' he hissed. 'And I will not commit the sin of working on the Sabbath. I will go to the conclave and listen to readings from the Bible with Father Aidan.'
'Do so, Brother,' said Bartholomew wearily. He had neither the energy nor the inclination to ask Boniface what he thought the difference was in listening to one text or another. He disengaged himself from his obnoxious student, and made for his room. This time he was accosted by C*ray and Bulbeck.
'All those potions we tested yesterday seemed to be what you said they should be,' said Gray. 'Except for the white arsenic. That was sugar.'
'Sugar? How did you know it was sugar?' asked Bartholomew, startled. "I gave you no tests to prove that!'
'Deynman ate it,' said Gray.
'He what?' cried Bartholomew, looking in horror at Deynman skulking nearby, waiting for his friends. He grinned nervously at Bartholomew.
'We thought the arsenic looked like that fine white sugar that we had at the feast last year. Deynman ate it, and said it was indeed sugar.'
Bartholomew put his hand over his eyes. He wondered what he had done to deserve students like Boniface and Deynman, one unable to see past the dogma of his vocation, and the other unable to see much of anything. 'Deynman!' he yelled suddenly, making the others jump and several scholars look over to see what was happening. He strode to where the student stood and grabbed him by the front of his tabard.
'What are you thinking of?' he said fiercely. Deynman shrugged and tried to wriggle free. Bartholomew held him tighter. 'You might have been poisoned — like Walter!'
'Sam and Thomas would have fetched eggs and vinegar to make me sick!' Deynman protested, struggling feebly.
'Like Walter.'
'The chances that eggs and vinegar would have saved you from arsenic poisoning are remote,' said Bartholomew. 'It would have been a horrible death, and I doubt I would have been able to help you.' He released Deynman, and stood looking down at him, torn between wonder and anger at the young man's ineptitude.
'But it was not arsenic, it was sugar,' protested Deynman. 'The poison that made Walter ill must have been stolen from your bag and replaced with sugar.'
'Oh, Rob!' exclaimed Bartholomew in despair. 'How can that be possible? I have just told you that arsenic produces a violent death, not a peaceful slipping away into sleep like Walter. Walter was poisoned with a strong opiate used for dulling pain. The arsenic missing from my bag was not the poison used on Walter.'
'But who would exchange arsenic for sugar?' cried Deynman, confused.
'I do not know,' said Bartholomew. 'And anyway,' he added severely, 'that is none of your concern. But if you ever taste any of my medicines again without asking me first, I will make sure that you are sent home the same day. Do I make myself clear?'
Deynman nodded, frightened by his teacher's rare display of anger. Bartholomew gave him a long hard look and sent him off before Alcote, hurrying across the courtyard towards them, could catch him. Alcote watched Deynman run to Bartholomew's storeroom to fetch the book with Gray and Bulbeck.
'What was all that about?' he asked.
'Alchemy!' snapped Bartholomew, still angry at Deynman's stupidity, but reluctant to tell the nosy Alcote anything that would get him into more trouble.
'Your students are a disgrace,' sniffed Alcote. 'When I catch them, I will fine them for laughing in church.'
He headed towards Bartholomew's store, head tilted to one side, looking more like a hen than ever. As he entered, Bartholomew saw the shutters fly open and the students clamber out of the window. Alcote emerged to see them running across to the hall with the book tucked under Gray's arm. Bartholomew laughed despite himself, and wondered how long they could keep a step ahead of the vindictive Senior Fellow.
He went to close the shutters, wondering whyJanetta's friends had exchanged sugar for white arsenic. Arsenic was an unusual item for a physician to carry, but Bartholomew found it useful for eliminating some of the vermin that he believed spread diseases to some of his poorer patients. Despite his words to Deynman, Bartholomew did not carry enough of the white powder to kill a person, and he was not unduly worried about the amount that was stolen.
Michael was waiting for him by the porter's lodge, and together they walked to see the Chancellor.
'Why were you yelling at Deynman?' Michael asked curiously. He had seldom seen the physician angry enough to shout.
Bartholomew did not want to think about it, and avoided Michael's question. Cynric had already been dispatched to ask de Wetherset if they could try the keys on the locks, and when they arrived at his office, the Chancellor and Hailing, recently promoted from Senior Proctor to Vice Chancellor to replace Buckley, were waiting for them. De Wetherset reported that his clerks had still been unable to trace Froissart's family, and suggested he be buried in St Mary's churchyard as soon as possible.
"I have made some enquiries,' said Hailing. 'One of the two covens in Cambridge, the Guild of the Coming, uses goats in its rituals. I can only conclude that members of this guild must have left the head on Brother Michael's bed, perhaps as a warning?'
'A warning of what?' demanded Bartholomew. 'We cannot be a danger to them. We have made little headway in our investigation: we do not know who the friar was, or what he wanted from the chest, and we do not know who killed Froissart.' He stood abruptly and began to pace.
'We know that the Guild of the Coming must be connected to the woman in Nicholas's grave,' said Harling, trying to be placatory.
'Why?' snapped Bartholomew. 'How do you know it was not one coven trying to desecrate the sacred symbol of its rivals, or trying to implicate it in a murder of which it is innocent? And what of the Guild of the Holy Trinity?
That may be leaving satanic symbols to bring the covens into disrepute.'
Harling spread his hands. 'The Guild of the Holy Trinity is dedicated to stamping out sin, not to committing murder and desecration. But regardless, how would anyone guess that Nicholas's grave would be exhumed and we would find the mask?'
'As I said to Master de Wetherset,' said Bartholomew, still pacing, "I suspect Nicholas's coffin was meant to be opened before his burial, not after.'
De Wetherset sighed. 'You are right-we know nothing to be a danger to anyone. Unless we know something that may seem unimportant to us that means a great deal to them.'
He had a point, and Bartholomew stopped wandering for a moment to consider it. After a few moments, he resumed his pacing, frustrated.
"I can think of nothing,' he said. 'The only way forward that I can see is to look into the murders of the town women. We know their deaths involve the University now that we have discovered the woman's body in Nicholas's coffin. There are no witnesses that can identify the killer.
Rumours are spreading that the mu
rderer is Froissart, but we know that cannot be so.'
De Wetherset watched Bartholomew pace, and turned to Michael. "I understand you visited Ely,' he said. 'Do you have the keys?'
Michael produced them and de Wetherset fetched the old locks from a cupboard in the wall. He carried them carefully and placed them on the table on top of a piece of cloth. Michael selected a key, donned the heavy gloves, carefully inserted it into the lock, and waggled it about.
'It always was a bit sticky,' said the Chancellor, watching from a distance.
Michael jiggled the key a little more, and stepped back in alarm as the tiny blade popped further out, revealing jagged edges. Michael, his hands a little unsteady, took a grip on the key again and twisted it back and forth, but nothing happened. 'It does not fit,' he said. 'The lock must have been exchanged.'
'Wait!' said Bartholomew, moving towards the table from the window-seat where he had been watching.
The others looked at him. 'How do you know it was sticky?' he asked de Wetherset. 'You said Buckley usually opened it.' — . 'Well, he did, usually,' said de Wetherset. 'But he was sometimes ill, so I would open it. I always struggled with the damn thing, although Buckley never had a problem.'
'When was the last time you opened it personally?' asked Bartholomew.
De Wetherset blew out his cheeks. 'Heavens,' he said.
"I cannot recall… perhaps during spring. Why do you ask?'
Bartholomew's mind began to whirl. 'Open it now,' he demanded.
'Why?' said de Wetherset. 'Brother Michael has already shown the key does not fit.'
Bartholomew snatched the key from the table and handed it to de Wetherset. 'You try.'
The Chancellor looked puzzled, but donned the gloves and inserted the key in the lock gingerly. Unlike Michael, de Wetherset steadied the lock with his other hand, and after a few moments of jiggling, there was a loud snap and the lock sprung open.
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