Tulyet leaned back in his chair wearily. 'My son is not in a position to do anything,' he said.
'Why not?' said Michael. 'He is the Sheriff.'
'Because de Belem has Richard's son,' said Tulyet, putting his head in his hands. 'If he makes any moves against the guild, de Belem will kill him.'
'You mean his baby?' asked Bartholomew, horrified.
'The one born last year?'
Tulyet nodded. 'My only grandchild born after the Death. The only child Richard will ever have, as you told him yourself, Doctor.'
'But how do you know it is de Belem?' insisted Michael.
Tulyet took a deep breath, and composed himself before starting. 'Shortly after Richard's baby was snatched, he had a note warning him that his son would be killed if his investigations into the guilds did not cease immediately. Because Richard thought the guilds were connected with the killer of the women, he had to stop looking into that too. Richard is the only member of my family who refused to join the Guild of the Coming, because he did not want to be put in a position where his loyalty to members of the guild might conflict with his office as Sheriff.'
So that explained Tulyet's behaviour, thought Bartholomew, and why he was so vocal in threatening him and Michael. He was not threatening them so much as telling the spies of the high priest that he was not co-operating. It also explained his increasing agitation.
'Does Richard believe de Belem is committing these murders?' asked Bartholomew.
Tulyet nodded. 'He told me that the victims had circles on the soles of their feet. He assumed it was the killer claiming that the murders were committed by members of the Guild of Purification. When he began to investigate, his baby was snatched.'
Bartholomew frowned. But if de Belem were the killer, why did he encourage Bartholomew to investigate the death of Frances? He shook his head impatiently. It made no sense.
'The only clue Richard had as to his son's kidnappers was the note,' continued Tulyet. 'He noticed there were traces of yellow dye on the parchment.'
'And because de Belem is a dyer, you think he wrote it?' asked Michael incredulously. 'There are other dyers in the town, too!'
'No, there are not,' said Bartholomew. Stanmore had become tedious on the subject since the plague: de Belem held a monopoly on dyes. He was not only the sole dyer in the town, he was the only one for miles.
'But that is not sufficient evidence,' said Michael, shrugging his shoulders.
"I have not finished,' said Tulyet, tiredness in his voice. 'The day before her death, Isobel Watkins came to see Richard. She was de Belem's whore, and she told Richard that she had wandered where she should not have in de Belem's house and had discovered a dead goat and caged birds and bats. But what frightened her most was that she thought she had heard the cry of a baby.'
'Birds and bats?' said Bartholomew, thinking about the ceremony in All Saints'.
Tulyet met his eyes. 'Crows and big black bats, she said.
And a dead goat. As you know, the goat is the symbol of our guild. Two nights ago at the ceremony you appear to have observed, birds, bats, and a dead goat made their appearance. I did not connect the contents of de Belem's house with the horrible ceremony in All Saints' until yesterday. It terrified me to the point where I simply forced it from my mind, and I did not think properly.'
'But why did Richard not demand to search de Belem's house for his baby?' asked Bartholomew. 'Once he had his son back, de Belem would be powerless to blackmail him, and Richard could pursue his investigation of the murderer and the guilds.' "I said he should, but his wife was against it. She was afraid the baby would be killed as soon as Richard entered the house,' said Tulyet. 'Richard delayed, Isobel died, and, despite the fact that Richard has been watching the house, no baby has been heard since.'
Bartholomew leaned back against the wall and rubbed his chin. De Belem was a dyer, which meant that he would have ready access to certain chemicals, and would know which ones would explode, burn, or give off smoke.
Added to the bats and birds, the evidence was powerful.
He thought of the high priest's performance in All Saints'. He had been of a height and build similar to de Belem's. It could have been a good many other people too* however. But what about Frances? Bartholomew recalled his grief when he had broken the news of her death. Surely he had not killed her himself? What had she said on the night she died? That it was 'not a man'.
Was it because de Belem had been wearing his red mask as he had in the church, perhaps the same red mask that Bartholomew had seen in the Michaelhouse orchard? 'So what do we do now?' Michael asked Tulyet.
Tulyet's face fell. "I hoped you would know,' he said.
He looked out of the window. 'It is getting dark and the high priest promised another murder. Richard's anguish has made him increasingly unstable over the last few days.
I cannot allow him to be involved any further until he has the baby back. You are my last hope,' he said with sudden despair.
'How long has the baby been gone?' asked Bartholomew.
'Almost four weeks,' said Tulyet. 'He is a bonny babe, strong and healthy. Not like the yellow weakling you saw when he was born. But he still needs his mother.'
Bartholomew mused. About a month. The same time that Nicholas feigned his death, and the woman had been placed in his coffin; the same time that de Belem had made himself the new high priest of the Guild of the Coming; and about the same time that Janetta had been in town.
'We should question de Belem,' said Michael.
'Discreetly.'
'But if you go to de Belem, and he has even the slightest inkling of what you know, he might harm my grandchild,' said Tulyet.
'He asked us if we would investigate the death of his daughter,' said Bartholomew reasonably. 'He cannot be suspicious of us. We will go to him tonight. The longer we wait, the more likely it is that the child will come to harm.'
'But what of the risk?' cried Tulyet. 'What if you make a mistake?'
'What if the child dies because he is in the care of a man who does not know about children?' asked Bartholomew.
'Do you think he might die from neglect?' asked Tulyet anxiously.
Bartholomew raised his hands. 'It is in de Belem's interest to keep the child alive, but he will not be as well cared for as if he were at home.'
Tulyet sat in an agony of indecision, looking from Michael to Bartholomew with a stricken expression.
'This cannot go on,' said Michael gently. 'A child needs its mother. And we cannot allow another murder to happen when we know what we do. Think of Fritha.'
Tulyet nodded miserably. 'But please be careful for the child,' he said. 'Many people are guilty of vile crimes in this business, but he is wholly innocent.'
Tulyet stood, white faced, and Michael clapped him reassuringly on the shoulder. 'Do not go home. Your anxiety might alert your son, and he may interfere and do harm. Wait with Master Kenyngham until we return.
Tell him what you have told us, and we will inform you of what we have learned as soon as we can.'
Tulyet nodded again. Bartholomew called for Cynric to escort the merchant to Kenyngham's room.
'What made you come to us now?' asked Michael as he left.
Tulyet gave a weak smile. 'The town has failed since the Sheriff is helpless, and my own information has revealed nothing. The Church will not help me now I have sold my soul to the Devil. What else is there but the University? I came close to telling you the other day.
Now I feel you are our only hope.'
They watched him walk across the yard, his shoulders stooped.
'What shall we do first?' asked Michael.
"I have an idea,' said Bartholomew.
11
Michael puffed along next to Bartholomew on their way to Milne Street, while on his other side, Cynric glided through the shadows like a cat.
Bartholomew hoped Stanmore had not already gone home, and he was relieved when he saw lights burning in one of the storerooms. He led
the way through Stanmore's yard, and found his brother-in-law supervising two exhausted labourers with the last bales of cloth from a consignment that had arrived from the Low Countries. Stanmore smiled at his unexpected visitors, waved his men home for the night, and wiped his hands on his gown.
'Dyed cloth from Flanders,' he said, patting one of the bales in satisfaction.' Excellent quality. It goes to show that it is better to use the barges than the roads these days.'
'Do you have anything in black?' asked Bartholomew, looking around.
'I have black wool. What do you want it for?' asked Stanmore.
'A Benedictine habit,' said Bartholomew.
Stanmore frowned and looked at Michael's habit. "I have nothing in stock that would be appropriate. I would need to have something dyed. When do you need it?'
'Two days,' said Bartholomew. Michael looked from one to the other in confusion.
'I do not need another habit,' he said. 'I have two already.'
Bartholomew wandered to where Stanmore kept his tools and a small bucket of red dye used for marking bales of cloth as they arrived. He took a brush from the bucket and flicked it at Michael, who gazed in disbelief at the trail of red drops down the front of his black robe.
Stanmore looked at Bartholomew as if he had gone mad, and edged nearer the door.
'Now you have only one,' said Bartholomew. 'But it is not good enough for you to attend your students' disputations in two days' time. The Bishop will be there, and you know how vain Benedictines like to look their best. It is a shame you were careless in Oswald's workshop when he had just told you he had no black cloth in stock.'
Michael looked up slowly, his green eyes gleaming as he understood Bartholomew's plan. 'It is essential we get the cloth tonight,' he said, 'or the habit will not be ready in time.'
It was Stanmore's turn to look from one to the other in bewilderment. "I can buy some from Reginald de Belem,' he said. 'He always has plenty of black cloth dyed ready to sell me.' "I bet he does,' said Bartholomew, drily. 'What do you think he would do if we wanted him to give us some tonight?'
'Like any good merchant, I imagine he would try to accommodate a customer.' Stanmore looked at him suspiciously. 'This is about the guild business, isn't it?' he said.
Bartholomew nodded. 'De Belem appears to be playing a bigger part in this than we thought. We need to enter his house. Once in, we will distract him while Cynric looks around.'
Cynric's dark face was alight with excitement, but Bartholomew felt a twinge of guilt for once again involving his book-bearer in something dangerous. He hoped Tulyet's information was accurate. It was only Isobel's claim that she had heard a baby that drove him on — since Isobel had been killed only a few days ago, the baby might yet be alive. That he had not been heard since might merely mean that he had been moved to a different room in de Belem's sizeable house. But at the back of his mind doubts nagged where facts did not fit together: de Belem's daughter had been murdered; the nerve-calming medicine the high priest of the Guild of the Coming had given to Hesselwell was Buckley's; and de Belem had been desperate that Bartholomew should investigate the murders. Yet other facts pointed clearly to de Belem's guilt: the birds and bats in his home; Isobel murdered after she had discovered them, albeit too late to ensure her silence; the baby crying in his house; and the dye staining the blackmail note. It was clear de Belem had some role in the affair, but Bartholomew remained uncertain whether it was that of high priest.
'This is not illegal, is it?' said Stanmore nervously.
'De Belem has already broken the law,' said Michael.
'We are trying to ensure that he does not do so again.'
He explained briefly what they had learned from Tulyet, and added one or two speculations of his own.
Stanmore picked up his cloak from where it lay on a bale of cloth. 'Well, let us see if Master de Belem will sell us what we need,' he said. He saw Bartholomew hesitate.
'Your excuse will appear more convincing if I am there also. And another man present will do no harm.'
They left Stanmore's premises and knocked at the door of de Belem's house. The house was in silent darkness, and all the window shutters were closed. For a moment, Bartholomew thought he may have ruined Michael's habit for nothing and that de Belem was not home, but eventually there were footsteps and de Belem himself opened the door. When he saw Bartholomew, Michael, and Stanmore, hope flared in his eyes.
'You know?' he said. 'You know who killed Frances?'
Stanmore shook his head. 'Not yet,' he said. 'We have come on another matter.'
He stood back to indicate Michael with his hand. De Belem's puzzled frown faded into a smile when he saw the red stains on the front of Michael's habit.
He leaned forward and inspected it. "I can re-dye this and those marks will not show,' he said. 'That way, you can avoid buying new cloth from Master Stanmore and the cost of a tailor to sew it. Bring it to me tomorrow.'
He ignored Stanmore's indignant look, and prepared to close the door.
"I need it dyed tonight,' said Michael quickly. 'This is my best habit and I want to wear it to my students' disputations.' "I cannot dye it tonight, Brother,' said de Belem reasonably.
'All the apprentices have gone home, and the fires under the dyeing vats have been doused. Come back tomorrow at dawn. I will make it my first priority.' an UNftoLv ALLi^Nce "I will light the fires myself,' said Michael, inserting a foot into the door, 'if you dye it tonight.'
De Belem, despite his reluctance to refuse a customer, was beginning to lose patience. 'Sir Oswald, tell the Brother that it is not an easy matter to light the fires under the vats, and that if we were to start the process now, we would be here all night. I cannot help you, Brother.'
'Do you have any black cloth, then?' asked Michael.
Bartholomew was impressed at the monk's tenacity.
De Belem sighed in resignation. 'Yes. I have black cloth dyed for the abbey at Ely. It will be a more expensive option for you, but if it will satisfy your desire to have something done tonight, I will sell you some now.'
They followed him into his house.
'He is exceeding himself in this!' Stanmore hissed to Bartholomew. 'He is not authorised to sell cloth, only to dye it. And he even has the gall to sell it with me present!'
Bartholomew shrugged off his arm impatiently and followed Michael inside, careful not to shut the door so that Cynric could slip in. Stanmore followed, still grumbling.
'If there were other dyers in the town this would never happen. The man thinks he can do what he likes now he has this monopoly. No wonder the cloth trade is poor if we are constantly being undercut by de Belem.'
Bartholomew silenced him with a glance, and Stanmore, still bristling with indignation, said no more.
They followed de Belem down a long corridor where a door led directly into the yard. Two wooden buildings had been raised there. The smaller one, judging from the smell and the stained ground outside, was the dyeing shed, while the other was for drying and storage. De Belem took some keys from his belt and unlocked the door to the storeroom. A torch stood ready near the door, and he kindled it so he could find the correct cloth. The room smelled so strongly of the plants and compounds used for dyes that it was overpowering.
Bartholomew stayed outside, looking over at the house on the other side of the yard. It was in darkness except for lights flickering at one window, and Bartholomew saw a figure walk across it. He wondered who it might be. De Belem lived alone now his daughter was dead. Perhaps de Belem had found himself another prostitute. He felt his stomach churn. He hoped not, for that might mean that she was in very serious danger.
Bartholomew edged away from the storeroom when he heard Stanmore begin an argument with de Belem, first about the price and then about which cloth was best for the purpose. De Belem was becoming exasperated with his late customers and Bartholomew knew he would not tolerate them much longer. He had a sudden fear that they would not be able to distract him long enough for C
ynric to conduct his search of the house, or worse, that Cynric would still be inside when they left.
Taking a hasty decision, he ran back across the courtyard to the house and began to climb up some large crates that were piled up against the outside wall. The house was not as well built at the back as it was in the front, and he was able to climb higher on ill-fitting timbers that jutted from the plaster. He made his way towards the lighted window, wincing as his feet slipped and scraped against the wall. Grasping the window-sill, he hauled himself up and peered through the open window just as Janetta of Lincoln looked out to see what had made the noise.
For a second, they regarded each other in silence, and then Janetta tipped her head back and yelled as loudly as she could. Someone who had been sitting with his back to the window leapt to his feet and spun around, and Bartholomew had his second shock as he recognised the missing Evrard Buckley. Bartholomew heard a shout from the storeroom and glanced back to see de Belem race out, pulling the door closed behind him. Something crashed against it from the other side just as de Belem got a stout bar into place.
De Belem saw Bartholomew and began to run towards him. Bartholomew cursed in frustration. How had Michael and Stanmore managed to let de Belem lock them in the storeroom? Janetta tried to prise his fingers from the window-frame, and at the same time, he felt de Belem make a grab for his feet.
'Michael!' he yelled, kicking out so hard he almost dislodged himself from the wall. Janetta picked up a heavy jug from the table and began clumsily to swing it at Bartholomew's head. As Bartholomew ducked, and tried to keep his feet out of de Belem's reach, he was vaguely aware of Buckley grabbing something from the bed. He heard a small whimper and knew Buckley had Tulyet's baby. Janetta gave a yell of anger and hurled the jug at Bartholomew, spinning round to follow Buckley to the door. Even as Buckley reached for the lock, the door flew open, and Cynric stood there, breathing hard.
'Cynric! The baby!' Bartholomew gasped.
De Belem had a good grip on Bartholomew's leg and was pulling with all his might, and Bartholomew found he could hold on no longer. As his fingers began to slip, he saw Janetta and Cynric engaged in their own furious struggle. And then he finally lost his grip on the window-sill, and was tumbling through the air.
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