An Unholy Alliance mb-2

by Susanna GREGORY

  He covered her again, and glanced at Michael. Michael faltered in his prayers as he saw what Bartholomew was doing, and Bartholomew saw Piers Hesselwell look at them strangely as he noticed the exchange.

  'She was no suicide, Agatha,' he said softly. 'She was murdered.'

  'What?' queried Agatha loudly. 'Here in Michaelhouse?

  How do you know?'

  'It is not easy to commit suicide by cutting your own throat,' said Bartholomew. And there were the circle on her foot and the missing shoes to consider, he thought.

  Agatha hastily crossed herself. She let out a great sigh and muttered something about fetching the porters.

  Bartholomew watched her go, the usual aggressive buoyancy gone from her step. Kenyngham and the other Fellows came to form a circle around the dead girl.

  'Does anyone know who she was?' Kenyngham asked.

  'Frances de Belem,' said Bartholomew, looking up at him.

  'The merchant's daughter?' queried Alcote, and then smirked. 'Ah, yes. I had forgotten how you would know that,' he added nastily.

  The Master raised his eyebrows and Alcote continued, 'Matthew's sister married well, and her husband is Sir Oswald Stanmore, who owns the large building next to Sir Reginald's house. That is how Matthew knows the daughters of wealthy merchants.'

  Bartholomew saw Alcote exchange smug looks with Hesselwell. Was Alcote trying to curry favour with the new Master to advance his own career? If so, his tale-telling had failed to impress Kenyngham, who smiled benignly at Bartholomew and touched him lightly on the head.

  'Then I am afraid, Matthew, that you are probably the best man to tell her family what has happened,' he said.

  'Does anyone know how she came to be here?'

  Vacant looks answered his question until Eli spoke up. 'Mistress Agatha found her here when she came to hang out the washing. She called for me, and I fetched you and the others.'

  Bartholomew looked around at the grass. A trail of blood leading to a spot some distance away indicated that Frances had dragged herself from one place to another, perhaps in the hope of reaching Michaelhouse for help.

  It had dried, suggesting that she had probably been in the orchard for several hours, and perhaps even since the night before.

  'Thank you, Eli,' said Kenyngham, 'but that does not explain how she came to be here in the first place. I doubt that she could have entered through the College, which means that she must have come in through the door that leads out to the lane.'

  Cynric had already looked. 'The gate is open,' he said.

  "I bar it myself at dusk each night, and so someone inside must have opened it between dusk last night and now.'

  'Well,' said the Master, looking round at his Fellows, 'has anyone used the back gate this morning?'

  There was silence as the Fellows shook their heads and looked at each other blankly.

  "I will ask the students,' said Kenyngham. 'Now, I suggest we return to our duties. Eli and Cynric, take Mistress de Belem to the church with the porters. Master Hesselwell, take Brother Michael to his room: he looks ill. Master Alcote, I would like you to inform the Sheriff and the Chancellor.' As they scurried to do his bidding, he turned to Bartholomew.

  'Matthew, I do not envy you your task. Would you like me to come with you?'

  Bartholomew thanked him, but felt it was a duty he should perform alone. On his way to Milne Street, he met Stanmore, already heading for the Fair with his apprentices. His good humour evaporated when he learned Bartholomew's news.

  'Heaven help us,' he said softly. He grabbed Bartholomew's arm. 'Let me come with you. Reginald and I have had our differences, but he may need me now.'

  It was a long time before Bartholomew felt he could leave de Belem's house. Sir Reginald was working in the dim morning light in his solar. He stood when Bartholomew and Stanmore were shown in and came to greet them, surprised but courteous. He was a man in his early fifties, powerfully built, with thick hair that showed no trace of grey. Bartholomew had been with his wife when she had died during the plague a little over a year before.

  De Belem stared in disbelief when Bartholomew told him why they had come, and then shook his head firmly.

  '"The killer takes whores,' he said. 'Frances was not a whore. You are mistaken: it is not her.'

  Bartholomew, feeling wretched, met his eyes. 'I am not mistaken,' he said gently.

  'But she is not a whore!' protested de Belem.

  '"The murderer did not know that,' said Stanmore, with quiet reason. 'It was probably dark, and he saw a girl in the streets alone. He must have jumped to the wrong conclusion.'

  'How was she killed?' de Belem demanded suddenly, looking at Bartholomew. 'You were with her when she died, you say?'

  'With a knife,' said Bartholomew, reluctant to go into detail while de Belem still dealt with the shock of his news.

  'Her throat cut?' persisted de Belem.

  Bartholomew nodded. There was no point in denying it if de Belem already knew from local gossip.

  'Did she say anything?' said de Belem, ashen-faced.

  'Was she aware of what had happened to her?'

  Bartholomew raised his hands in a gesture of uncertainty.

  'What she said made no sense,' he said. "I had given her some syrup to dull her senses and she was probably delirious.'

  'What did she say?' asked de Belem, his voice unsteady.

  'That whoever killed her was not a man,' said Bartholomew reluctantly.

  De Belem looked bewildered and shook his head slowly, as if trying to clear it. 'What does that mean?' he said. 'What was it? An animal? A devil?'

  Bartholomew could think of nothing to say. "The wound on her throat had been inflicted by a knife, of that he was certain, and Frances's killer was unquestionably human.

  Was Brother Alban right, and were the murders of the women part of some satanic ritual? 'Do you have any ideas about why Frances may have been killed?' asked Bartholomew. 'Did she have any arguments with anyone recently?'

  De Belem shook his head again, helplessly. 'We were not close,' he said, 'although I loved her dearly. Since my wife died, I have immersed myself in my work, and left her to her own devices. But I can think of no one who meant her harm.'

  He paused and put his head in his hands. Stanmore reached out and patted his shoulder.

  'Will you catch him for me?' de Belem asked suddenly, looking intently at Bartholomew. 'Will you catch the madman who killed my child?'

  Bartholomew was startled. '"I hat is the Sheriffs duty,' he said.

  De Belem stood abruptly and gazed down at him. '"The Sheriff is doing nothing to investigate the deaths of the other women. I know you are looking into the dead man found in the University chest. Give that up, and find out who murdered my Frances. I will pay you well.'

  'I cannot,' said Bartholomew, disconcerted that his commission for the Chancellor seemed to be common knowledge. 'It is not only beyond my authority, it is beyond my capabilities.'

  'You must,' said de Belem, seizing Bartholomew's shoulder with such force he winced. 'Or my daughter's death will go unavenged. "The Sheriff will do nothing!'

  'But how? It is not my affair!' protested Bartholomew.

  'Please!' cried de Belem, grasping Bartholomew harder still. 'You and Brother Michael uncovered those murders last year. You will be my only hope!'

  Bartholomew thought about Frances's unborn child, and was sorry that her last days had been tainted by unhappiness. She might have been his wife, had he not disobeyed Stanmore's wishes and chosen his own path.

  "I will try,' he said finally. 'But anything I discover I will have to pass to the Sheriff.'

  'No!' cried de Belem, virtually flinging Bartholomew away from him in his vehemence. '"Tell the Chancellor, or even the Bishop, if you must. But not the Sheriff! He would merely take your information and do nothing with it.'

  Bartholomew made him sit down. '"There is no need to be arguing about whom we should inform when, as yet, we have nothing to tell,' he said so
othingly.

  De Belem relaxed a little, his hands dangling loosely between his knees.

  'Why was Frances out alone?' said Bartholomew. 'She must have known that it is not safe at any time, but especially so with this killer at large.'

  De Belem stared at him. 'She was a religious girl. She was probably going to mass.'

  Bartholomew tried not to appear sceptical, and wondered if he had made a better job of it than Stanmore, who looked openly incredulous.

  De Belem saw their expressions and sighed. 'She is gone,' he said to Stanmore. 'What good will come of questioning her actions now? Since her husband died, she has grown wild. I am too busy a man to be constantly chasing after an errant daughter.'

  'Do you know why she might have been in Michael house's grounds?' asked Bartholomew.

  De Belem shook his head wearily. 'She must have been meeting someone.'

  'Do you know who?' asked Bartholomew. He saw de Belem hesitate, but then seem to make up his mind.

  "I do not want this to become common knowledge, but I think Frances had a lover. She did not stay out all night — even I could not countenance that — but she did leave early in the morning on occasions. Perhaps she had fallen for an apprentice somewhere, and joined him for his early morning chores.'

  Or perhaps she had fallen in love with a scholar, thought Bartholomew, and met him as soon as the gates were opened to allow the academics out for church.

  He thought about the area where she died. There was Michaelhouse, of course, and opposite there was Physwick Hostel. King's Hall was a short distance to the north, while Garret Hostel, Clare College, Gonville Hall, and Trinity Hall were to the south. But Michaelhouse and Physwick Hostel were the closest.

  It seemed de Belem could tell them no more, and they waited with him until the Sheriffs deputy arrived.

  De Belem agreed to speak to him only reluctantly.

  Bartholomew was nervous of leaving de Belem with the Sheriffs man in view of the merchant's evident contempt for the Sheriffs competence, but, as he pondered, de Belem's sister arrived full of concern and sympathy, and Bartholomew knew she would prevent any misunderstandings.

  They stopped at Stanmore's business premises next door, before Stanmore left for the Fair and Bartholomew returned to his teaching duties at Michaelhouse.

  Stanmore ordered that a fire be built in the solar, for, despite the fact that it was summer, the day seemed chilly. He and Bartholomew sat in front of the flames and sipped some mulled ale.

  'Have you heard about witchcraft being on the increase in Cambridge?' Bartholomew asked, partly to change the subject from Frances and partly for information.

  Stanmore had a network of informants who kept him up to date with the various happenings in the town.

  There have been rumours, yes,' said Stanmore. 'A religion where fornication, drunkenness, and violent acts are regarded as acceptable will have a certain appeal to people frustrated with being urged to practise moderation and told that the injustices of their lives are God's will.' He stared into the fire. * 'What about in Cambridge?' Bartholomew tried to get comfortable on the wooden chair.

  "I have heard that lights have been seen moving about All Saints' Church in the depths of the night.

  Many superstitious people think that part of the town is haunted. If you had not burned down those houses with the people still in them, the site of that settlement would not be so feared.'

  '"The people were dead, Oswald!' said Bartholomew, angry at the misrepresentation of fact. 'And no one wanted the task of taking the bodies to bury them in the plague pit! What would you have done? Left them there to rot and further infect the town?'

  'Easy now,' said Stanmore, startled at his outburst. 'I am only telling you what people think, and you did ask.

  What is your interest in witchcraft?'

  'None, really,' said Bartholomew, still annoyed. 'Old Brother Alban was rattling on about it and he thought it may have had something to do with the deaths of these women.'

  Stanmore thought for a moment. 'It is possible, I suppose. I will ask my people to keep their ears open and will contact you if they hear anything.' He stood as Bartholomew rose to leave. 'Be careful, Matt. "The rumours about these covens are unpleasant. In London, some fiend takes children from their cribs at night.' "I am a little too old to be taken from my crib,' said Bartholomew, relenting from his irritation and laughing.

  Stanmore laughed too. 'Your sister does not think so.

  You must visit her soon, Matt. She is lonely, and would like to see you.'

  As Bartholomew walked back towards Michaelhouse, he thought about Frances. Was the father of her child the man who had killed her? And if so, did this mean that he was also the killer of the other women? Had they also been pregnant by him? He shook his head.

  That was absurd: the other women had been prostitutes who had probably known how to prevent pregnancy, as far as that was possible. Hilde's sister had not done very well, it seemed. But what had Frances's dying words 'not a man' — meant? Was her death connected with the witchcraft that seemed to be on the increase all over the country? Why did so many people believe the Sheriff was reluctant to investigate? Bartholomew rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Was it possible he was involved in witchcraft too, and already knew the identity of the killer whom he had allowed to escape? Bartholomew ran a hand through his hair in frustration. The killer could be anyone! Hundreds of people had converged upon Cambridge for the Fair: any of them could be responsible.

  "The more he thought about it, the more he realised he had set himself an impossible task by agreeing to help de Belem.

  Bartholomew worked hard that morning, painstakingly discussing Dioscorides's text on opiates and how they might be used to ease a variety of ailments. After dinner he gave Gray and Bulbeck mock disputations to test their knowledge of Hippocrates and Galen, and then went to visit three different people who had contracted summer ague, a shivering fever that struck many people in the sweltering months of July and August. It was late by the time he had seen his last case, and the sun had already set.

  He walked briskly through the dark streets towards Michaelhouse. Alcote, who had taken on unofficial duties as College policeman, saw to it that the gates were locked at dusk. Although Bartholomew had the Master's permission to answer summonses from patients after the curfew, he knew it was not an arrangement approved by the other Fellows, who considered that it set a bad example to the students. Bartholomew abused the privilege at times, despite knowing that it would take very little for the Fellows to exert sufficient pressure on Kenyngham to withdraw his limited freedom. Because of this, he usually used the back gate: if Cynric knew he was late, he left it unbarred.

  As expected, the front gates were locked, and the porter on duty was the miserable Walter, who was paid a half-penny for every late scholar whose name he could report to Alcote. Bartholomew slipped off down the shadows in St Michael's Lane towards the back gate, to see if Cynric had left it open.

  As he neared the gate, he saw a tiny movement, and instinctively melted further into the shadows at the side of the road. He strained his eyes in the darkness, trying to distinguish between the swaying of spindly bramble branches in the night breeze, and movements that might be more sinister.

  A shadow glided silently from the shelter of one tree to another and he heard a soft, but unmistakable, cough.

  He pressed further into the shadows and cursed softly.

  "The Master must have asked one of the Proctors to keep a watch on the gate. He stood for a moment and considered. He would have to retrace his steps, go along the High Street, and cut back through the Austin Canons' land that backed onto Michaelhouse.

  Cynric had shown him a portion of the wall that was in poor repair, where a desperate scholar might climb if both gates were locked.

  Feeling absurd that he, a doctor of the University, should be sneaking around at night like some errant undergraduate, he made his way through the dark streets and prowled along the back of the Colle
ge until he found the crumbling wall. He scrambled up it, wondering how many of his students had done the same, and hoping he would not meet any of them now.

  Once on top of the wall, he walked along it until he came to a section where large compost heaps made the jump down the other side less hazardous. He crouched on the wall and let himself drop, landing in an undignified tumble that finished in a mound of cut grass. Swearing softly to himself, and trying in vain to brush the grass from his tabard, he made his way stealthily towards the kitchen door, keeping in the shadows as he had seen Cynric do. As he approached the bakery, he thought he saw something move. He froze and, for the second time that night, pressed further back into the shadows to watch.

  Sure enough, someone was there. At first he thought it was Cynric, so soundlessly did the figure move, but it was a bigger person than Cynric. Bartholomew peered into the darkness, trying to gain some clue to the intruder's identity as he moved steadily towards the orchard to the place where Frances de Belem had died. A tiny light flared as a candle was lit. Leaving the shadows of the bakery wall, Bartholomew crept carefully towards the laundry, a long wooden building that housed the servants on its upper floor. "The intruder appeared to be searching for something. Bartholomew's stomach tightened. Could it be the murderer, the monster whom Frances had said was not a man, searching for some vital clue to his identity that he had mislaid or lost as he killed her?

  He leapt with fright as a hand was clapped over his mouth and held there firmly to prevent him from calling out. He struggled violently, stopping only when he felt the sharp prick of a knife against his throat.

  'Hush!' came Cynric's voice. Bartholomew twisted round in disbelief. 'Sorry, boy,' the Welshman whispered, holding up the dagger. 'It was the only way I could get you to stop struggling long enough to let you know it was me.'

  He slipped his knife back into his belt and poked his head round the corner to watch the figure with the candle.

  As Cynric observed, Bartholomew sank onto the grass to try to regain his composure.

  'Hsst!' Cynric was off, gesturing for Bartholomew to follow. Still carrying the candle, the figure left the orchard and began to move down the path that led to the back gate. Cynric motioned for Bartholomew to watch from the wall that ran down one side of the vegetable gardens, while he moved like a ghost through the bulrushes that fringed the fish-ponds on the other side.