'That is preposterous!' de Wetherset almost snarled.
'Gilbert is my trusted clerk. How do I know that one of you is not behind all this?'
There is nothing to be gained from this line of thought,' Michael intervened smoothly, giving Bartholomew a sharp glance. 'All we need to do is to talk to Gilbert. Come.'
He led the way out of the gloomy crypt and the others followed.
De Wetherset walked to the Lady Chapel where he had left Gilbert, but his clerk was not there, and neither was Cuthbert. The Chancellor walked outside.
'He has probably gone for some fresh air,' he said.
There was no sign of Gilbert outside either. De Wetherset hailed a lay-brother who was sweeping the path. The lay-brother strolled over to them.
'Poor Gilbert,' he said in response to de Wetherset's question. 'He came tearing out of the church as if it were on fire. Then he ran straight to the bushes there and disappeared. He ate at the Cardinal's Cap last night, and I have warned him about the food there.'
De Wetherset glared at Bartholomew. 'You have made him sick!' he exclaimed.
Bartholomew was looking over at the bushes where the lay-brother had pointed. 'Oh, I do not think so,' he said. He found the two tombstones and the tree he had used to calculate the entrance of the pathway to Primrose Alley from the church tower, ran through the angles and formulae in his mind, and headed for the spot where the entrance was concealed. De Wetherset and Michael watched him dubiously as he poked around the bushes before giving a triumphant shout.
They hurried over and he pointed out the path to them, almost invisible in the dense foliage, but an unmistakable pathway nevertheless.
That proves nothing!' snapped de Wetherset. 'Gilbert?
Are you there?'
He began to force his way through the undergrowth, while Michael followed. Bartholomew, recalling vividly the last time he had taken the path, grabbed at Michael's habit.
'Wait! We should fetch the Proctors,' he said urgently.
He forced his way past Michael and seized de Wetherset.
'Wait!' he repeated.
There was a slight whistling sound followed by a thud, and de Wetherset gazed in disbelief at the arrow that trembled in the tree-trunk only inches from his head.
Wordlessly, he turned and fled, thrusting Bartholomew out of the way in his haste to escape. Bartholomew followed more slowly. He knew that had Janetta's men meant to kill, the arrow would be in de Wetherset, and not in a tree. Perhaps Gilbert's loyalty to his Chancellor was worth something after all.
When he emerged into the sunshine, de Wetherset was white with fright, while Michael was bewildered.
'Gilbert might be dead in there,' de Wetherset gasped.
'He might be injured.'
'He might have set the archer there, 'said Bartholomew.
De Wetherset strode over to him and grabbed him roughly by the shoulder. 'One more allegation like that, and you will be looking for a new teaching position!' he snapped angrily.
He thrust Bartholomew away from him with a glare, and strode back to the church, calling for a clerk to send for one of the Proctors. Michael watched de Wetherset go.
'Do you really think Gilbert is our man?' he asked.
Bartholomew shifted his bag into a more comfortable position. 'He is most certainly involved, would you not think? For a man who helped retrieve a corpse that had been nailed to a bellframe, he reacted very strongly over the mere opening of a coffin. Unless he already knew what we would find.'
'You are right,' said Michael, thinking carefully. I have been wondering whether one of the clerks has been acting as a spy. Who better than Gilbert, who is privy to all the Chancellor's secrets? That is why we have had so little success with our investigation. The perpetrators of these crimes have known exactly what we have been thinking and planning!'
Bartholomew rubbed his chin. 'Remember when we almost dug up Mistress Archer's grave because the marker Gilbert left was on the wrong tomb?'
Michael stared at him. 'Cuthbert said children must have moved it. But what if it had never been moved at all, and it was exactly where Gilbert had set it?'
'And he must have known precisely where to find the path,' said Bartholomew, looking back at where the bushes once again hid it from sight. 'He went there without hesitation. His arrival in Primrose Lane must have alerted them to the possibility of pursuit, and so the archer was set there.' "I wonder what goes on in Primrose Lane that warrants such security?' mused Michael.
Bartholomew considered. Was that it? Did the seedy shacks and hovels behind the church hold the secret that would explain the deaths of the friar, Froissart, Nicholas, and the disappearance of Buckley? 'What can we do?' he said helplessly. 'We cannot ask Tulyet to raid it, because he is probably involved; it is beyond the Proctor's powers, because Gilbert disappearing down that path is insufficient to prove that it is University business; and if there are archers and crowds of ruffians on guard, we can do nothing ourselves.'
He turned as a large figure lurched out of the church. As Bartholomew and Michael waited for Cuthbert to reach them they saw tears glittering on his cheeks.
'Is it true?' he said. 'Does Nicholas lie dead in the crypt?'
Michael nodded, eyeing him suspiciously.
'He has been with me this past week. I confess it was a shock to see him out of his grave, but he told me he had needed to escape.'
'Escape what?' asked Bartholomew, bewildered.
Cuthbert shrugged, giving a huge sniff, and rubbing his face with his sleeve. 'He would not say, but he was clearly terrified. He said I would be safer not knowing.'
'Why did you not tell us?' cried Michael, exasperated.
'Because he said if I told anyone he was still alive, I would place him in mortal danger, and myself, too,' said Cuthbert, his voice rising. "I am certain he told me the truth. I have never seen him so frightened or angry.' He looked up suddenly. That lay-brother who locked the church for me saw him once. He came to me and said he had seen Nicholas risen from the dead.
I advised him to keep silent, and the next thing I knew was that he had fled the town.'
'Cuthbert!' exclaimed Bartholomew in disgust. 'Nicholas may have been the man who killed those women! How could you keep silent?'
'He was not!' cried Cuthbert vehemently. 'He would never kill,' he added more gently.
'But a dead woman was found in his coffin,' said Bartholomew. 'How can you explain that?'
'When we exhumed the grave, Nicholas had already come to me,' said Cuthbert. "It was no surprise to me that he was not in the grave we dug up, but I was not expecting another corpse! When I returned home, I told him what we had found, and he became frantic with grief. He believed she was the woman he had been seeing before he escaped.'
'But why did you not tell us all this?' cried Michael in despair. 'Did you not recognise her?'
Cuthbert shook his head. 'She had thick black hair, and the woman in the coffin was bald. I told Nicholas it could not be his lover, but he said she had a disease whereby her hair fell out and she always wore a wig.'
That is not proof that he did not kill her,' said Michael.
'He loved her,' said Cuthbert earnestly. "I met her, and it is clear that they made each other very happy.
He would not have harmed her. And we were members of the Guild of the Holy Trinity, a group dedicated to opposing sin. We do not kill!'
Bartholomew looked at him disbelievingly, while Michael walked with the distraught priest to his small house nearby. Bartholomew waited restlessly until Michael returned.
'Now what?' he said, exasperated. 'What a mess!'
'We must think,' said Michael, sitting down on the low wall surrounding the churchyard. 'Cuthbert claims that Nicholas returned a week ago in a state of terror.'
'We should start with his death,' said Bartholomew.
'He clearly feigned it, and if Cuthbert can be believed, he did so because he was afraid of something.'
'Yes,' said Michael. 'And
what better way to escape danger than to pretend you are dead? Who ever hunts a corpse?'
'If the woman was Nicholas's lover, then she must have helped him feign his death, perhaps with potions and powders. Then she went to help him out of the coffin the night before he was due to be buried.'
'And then what?' asked Michael. 'We can prove nothing else. Did he kill her then to ensure her silence so that he would be safe? And why was she wearing that hideous mask?'
'Whatever happened, Nicholas fled, and then returned a week ago,' said Bartholomew. 'When Cuthbert told him that a bald woman was found in his coffin, he realised who it was, and took to roaming the streets.'
'But what could be so terrifying that he was forced to such measures?' mused Michael. "It must be something to do with the book. Perhaps he was being threatened into revealing its contents.'
Bartholomew considered. 'You must be right,' he said. 'After Nicholas "died", whoever was terrifying him realised that alternative methods were needed to get at it. The friar was employed to steal the book, but was accidentally killed by the poisoned lock.'
'Which must mean that, as far as we know, whatever deadly secret led to all this is still there,' said Michael.
'Because de Wetherset seemed to have checked it all very carefully to ensure nothing was missing/ 'So did the person behind all this kill Nicholas?' asked Bartholomew.
Michael shrugged. "It must be the same person who killed Froissart because they were both garrotted. It must be Gilbert.'
'Of course it must!' said Bartholomew suddenly.
'Gilbert has the only key to the crypt. It can only have been him who took the woman's body away and put Nicholas there.' "It does not tell us why,' said Michael. 'But it does throw light on how the friar ended up inside the chest, dead, with the lid down. Gilbert must have used his keys to hide in the crypt, unbeknownst to the friar, before the lay-brother locked up, and emerged after the friar had gone to the tower to begin opening the chest. He probably had no intention other than to ensure his plan went smoothly. He must have become worried when the friar took so long, and went to see what had happened.
He found the friar dead, and, in a panic, he pushed him into the chest and closed the lid.'
'De Wetherset said no pages were missing,' said Bartholomew. 'If Gilbert had gone to all this trouble, surely he must have stolen the part he wanted?'
Michael scratched his head thoughtfully. "I am sure he did,' he said. 'When we lifted the friar from the chest, de Wetherset was only concerned about the book. He immediately went to check that certain sections were unmolested. The part Gilbert probably took must have been so unimportant to the Chancellor, he failed to notice it was missing. So there are at least two parts of this book that are important: the part that de Wetherset was so concerned with, and the part Gilbert took.'
Bartholomew thought again. 'Gilbert was not unduly worried about the friar's sudden death: after all, there was nothing to connect him with the dead man. He left the church, first removing the bar that the friar had put across the door for added security. One of the clerks mentioned to me later that the bar had been moved, proving that there had been two people in the church when the friar had died, not one.'
'Who was this Father Lucius who was allowed into the church by Froissart?' said Michael. 'Could that have been Gilbert?'
'No,' said Bartholomew. 'Froissart would have been a fool to allow anyone into the church. I suspect Gilbert, with his keys, hid himself in the crypt, and it was he who let this Father Lucius into the church, not Froissart. Froissart was probably already garrotted, and Father Lucius was necessary to help Gilbert haul his body into the belfry and secure it there.'
'Froissart garrotted, Nicholas garrotted,' said Michael.
'Gilbert must have killed them both. It almost fits, but we still do not know why all this happened.'
'And we never will so long as de Wetherset plays his own games and is less than honest with us about this book,' said Bartholomew.
Michael's shoulders sagged in defeat. 'Cynric is coming for you,' he said, seeing the small Welshman walking towards them. "I will go to try to placate the Chancellor, and persuade him to send the Proctors after Gilbert.'
Bartholomew went to meet Cynric, who had a request that he visit the wounded soldier at the Castle. Cynric accompanied him, shyly confiding that he had an hour to spare before he was expected to meet Rachel Atkin at Stanmore's business premises.
The sergeant Bartholomew had met the night before was waiting for him, and he was conducted across the bailey to the hall. The small chamber was flooded with light, the window shutters thrown open, and it was thronging with men. They parted to let him through.
The injured soldier sat up in bed and held up his arm where he had removed the bandage Bartholomew had tied, showing a neat wound with no trace of infection.
Bartholomew bent to inspect it. "It is healing well,' he said, as he tied another cloth around it. 'But you must give it time, or it will break open again.' "It is a miracle!' proclaimed the soldier. 'Father Philius pronounced I would die, and Robin of Grantchester wanted to saw off my arm. But you came and I am healed!' "It is no miracle,' said Bartholomew nervously. One thing he dreaded were rumours of miraculous cures.
First,*he would have half the country coming to him pleading for help, and, second, his colleagues would believe none of it, and he would likely find himself proclaimed a heretic.
The soldier smiled at him. 'Well, miraculous then,' he said. 'You saved my life, and you saved my arm. I will yet be as good an archer as my father.' He smiled up at the sergeant. Bartholomew, pleased at the young man's rapid recovery, left, with instructions not to overtax his strength too quickly. The sergeant followed him out across the courtyard.
'You looked sorrowful last night,' he said, 'and I thought you might like some happy news.' He seized Bartholomew firmly on the shoulders. 'You saved my son. I wish we could do something for you, and catch this killer.'
'Do you know anything that might help?' asked Bartholomew.
The sergeant shook his head. 'Nothing. And believe me, I would tell you if I knew. The Sheriff had discovered virtually nothing before he stopped investigating. He is not even looking into these stolen carts now.'
'Oswald Stanmore's carts?' asked Bartholomew.
The soldier inclined his head. There is a strange business. Those were not random attacks, but carefully planned manoeuvres. I know the work of soldiers when I see it, and there were soldiers involved in those robberies right enough. Good ones too.'
Bartholomew was startled. Did that mean that Tulyet was using part of his garrison to strike at the traders and steal their goods? Was that why he was failing to investigate the crimes in his town?
As they left, Bartholomew almost collided with Tulyet himself.
'You!' the Sheriff snarled. 'What do you want here?' "I am just leaving, Master Tulyet,' Bartholomew replied politely, not wishing to become embroiled in an argument that might prompt Tulyet to arrest him.
Then leave!' Tulyet shouted. 'And do not return here without my permission.'
Bartholomew studied him. Tulyet was younger than Bartholomew, but looked ten years older at that momen t.
His face was sallow and there were dark smears under his eyes. His eyes held a wild look that made Bartholomew wonder whether the man was losing his faculties. Was he the murderer, knowing he would have to commit another crime because he had been so ordered at the ceremony at All Saints'? As a physician, Bartholomew could see signs that the man was losing his sanity and reason.
Without a word, Bartholomew left, Cynric following, When they were out of the Castle, Cynric heaved a sigh of relief.
"I have heard around town that he is losing his mind.
They say it is because he cannot catch Froissart. I thought he might order us locked up for some spurious reason.
He has arrested several others and accused them of being Froissart.'
Bartholomew reflected for a moment. Perhaps they should tell Tulyet tha
t Froissart was dead after all, to save innocent people from being arrested. But then, Bartholomew reasoned, what good would that do? And if Tulyet were the real killer, Bartholomew might be signing his own death warrant by telling him that Froissart was dead.
Engrossed in his thoughts, he jumped when Cynric seized his arm in excitement. He looked around. They were near All Saints' Church, which stood half-hidden by the tangle of bushes and low trees that were un tended around it.
'Someone is in the church!' exclaimed Cynric, Before Bartholomew could stop him, Cynric had disappeared into the swathe of green. Bartholomew followed cautiously, making his way to the broken door and peering round it. Cynric was right. A person was there, bending to inspect the dark patches on the floor — a figure in a scholar's tabard like his own. Bartholomew looked around quickly. The man appeared to be alone, so he slipped through the door and made his way towards him, ducking from pillar to pillar up the aisle.
Was this the high priest, visiting the church to make certain he had left nothing, even after his careful removal of his accoutrements before he departed? He stopped as he trod on a piece of wood that had fallen from the roof, and a sharp crack echoed around the derelict church.
The man looked up, startled at the loud noise.
'Hesselwell!' Bartholomew exclaimed.
On hearing his name, Hesselwell turned and fled, without waiting to see who had spoken. Bartholomew raced after him, throwing caution to the wind. Hesselwell reached the altar and stumbled as he reached the steps.
Behind the altar was a large window and Hesselwell grabbed the sill with both hands to haul himself through.
Bartholomew lunged at him as he was about to drop down the other side, and pulled as hard as he could.
Both fell backwards, Hesselwell kicking and struggling like a madman.
Bartholomew gripped the flailing wrists and leaned down with all his weight. Pinned to the floor, Hesselwell was helpless.
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