'A scholar,' he said. 'That is all I can say." He sat back, his lips pursed.
'That is enough, Brother,' said Bartholomew, standing up as the treatment was done. 'No good can come of such talk, and much harm.' "No good and much harm",' mimicked Alban unpleasantly, beginning to sulk. Bartholomew was relieved to escape from the old man's gossip, although he could see that Gray would have been happy to stay longer'.
When his bag had been returned to him the day before, Bartholomew had emptied all the potions and powders out, and exchanged them for new ones from his store. He did not want to harm any of his patients because someone had altered the labels, or substituted one compound for another. It would not be possible to tell whether some had been tampered with, and these he had carefully burned on the refuse fires behind the kitchen. But there were tests that could be performed on the others that would tell him whether they had been changed.
He left Gray, Deynman, and Bulbeck in his small medical store carrying out the tests while he went to St John's Hospital to see a patient with a wasting disease. He stayed for a while talking to the Canons about the increase in cases of summer ague, and then went to the home of a pardoner with a broken arm on Bridge Street.
Since he was near the Castle, he decided to try to see Sybilla. She lived in a tiny wattle and daub house on the fertile land by the river. Although the land provided the families that lived on it ample reward in terms of rich crops of vegetables, their homes were vulnerable when the river flooded. It had burst its banks only a few weeks ago in the spring rains, and Sybilla and others had been forced to flee to the higher ground near the Castle for safety.
He knocked on the rough wooden door of Svbilla's house. There was a shuffle from within and the door was opened slowly. Sybilla, her face grey with strain, peered out at him. He was shocked at her appearance. There were dark smudges under her eyes, and her hair hung in greasy ropes around her face.
'Sybilla!' he exclaimed. 'Are you ill?'
She cast a terrified glance outside before reaching out a hand and hauling him into the house, slamming the door closed behind him. The inside of the house was suffering from the same lack of care as its owner. Dirty pots were strewn about the floor, and the large bed in the corner was piled with smelly blankets. Bartholomew had been told by Michael that Sybilla was renowned for offering a clean bed and a clean body to her clients, although how the monk came by such information Bartholomew did not care to ask.
He turned to her in concern. 'What is wrong? Do you have a fever? Are you in trouble?'
She rubbed a dirty hand over her face and tears began to roll. He saw a half-empty bottle on a table in the middle of the room, and poured some of its contents into a drinking vessel that had not been washed for days. He handed it to her and then made her sit on one of the stools. He sat opposite, and patted her hand comfortingly, feeling ineffectual.
Eventually she looked up at him, her eyes swollen and red. 'I am sorry,' she sniffed.
'What is wrong?' Bartholomew said helplessly. 'Please tell me. I may be able to help.'
She shook her head. 'You are a kind man, Doctor,' she said, 'but there is nothing you can do to help me.
I am doomed.'
Bartholomew was nonplussed. 'Doomed? But why?'
Sybilla sniffed loudly and scrubbed her nose across her arm. "I saw him,' she said, her eyes full of terror, and began to cry again. Bartholomew waited until the new wave of sobbing had subsided, and made her drink more of the cheap wine from the clay goblet.
'Tell me what happened,' he said. 'And then we will decide what to do.'
She looked at him, her eyes burning with a sudden hope in her white face. Just then, the door swung open and a woman entered. Bartholomew rose politely to his feet. She stopped dead as she saw him, and looked from him to Sybilla, her face breaking into a wide smile.
'Oh, Sybilla!' she said. 'I am glad you have decided to go back to work. I told you it would do you good. You look better already. I will leave you in peace.'
She turned to leave. Bartholomew was half embarrassed and half amused at her assumption.
'You misunderstand, Mistress,' he said. 'I am only a physician.'
The woman beamed at Sybilla. 'Better than that stonemason you had! You are doing well.'
Sybilla rose unsteadily and grasped the woman's arm.
'He is not a customer,' she said.
The other's attitude changed. 'Well, what do you want then?' she demanded of Bartholomew. 'Can you not see she is unwell?'
'Yes, I can,' said Bartholomew. 'That is why I am trying to help.'
'Help?' asked the woman suspiciously. 'How do you think you can help?'
'I cannot know that,' said Bartholomew, his patience fraying slightly, 'until I know what ails her. She was about to tell me when you came in.'
'Have you told him?' she asked Sybilla. Sybilla shook her head. 'Then do not. How do you know this is not him, or someone sent by him to find out what you know?'
Sybilla shrank back against the wall, and more tears began to roll down her face.
'If I were "him",' said Bartholomew testily, 'you have just told me that Sybilla knows something, and you have put her life in danger.'
The woman looked at him aghast. 'God's blood,' she swore in horror. She turned her gaze on Sybilla. 'What have I done?' She pulled herself together suddenly, seized a rusty knife from the table, and brandished it at Bartholomew. 'Who are you, and what do you want from us?' she demanded, steel in her voice.
Bartholomew calmly took the knife from her hands, and placed it back on the table. The woman glanced at Sybilla, stricken.
'I am no one who means Sybilla any harm,' he said calmly. 'My name is Matthew Bartholomew, and I came because I saw her running from St Botolph's churchyard the day that Isobel died.'
The woman gazed at him. You are the University physician?' she said.
'One of them,' he said, sitting down on the stool and gesturing for the women also to sit. Sybilla sank down gratefully, but the other woman was wary. Bartholomew studied her. She was tall, graceful, and wore a simple dress of blue that accentuated her slender figure. But it was her voice that most intrigued Bartholomew; she did not have a local accent, but one that bespoke of some education. Her mannerisms, too, suggested that she had not learned them in the town's brothels, as Sybilla had done.
Her eyes met his even gaze, and she stared back.
'Agatha told me about you,' she said.
Bartholomew was not surprised. Agatha had so many relatives and friends in the town that he could go nowhere where she had no links.
'My name is Matilde,' said the woman.
Bartholomew smiled. So that explained her accent.
'Agatha has told me about you, too,' he said.
Matilde inclined her head, accepting without false modesty that she might be an appropriate topic of conversation in the town. Agatha had told him about a year ago that one of her innumerable cousins had taken a lodger who was said to have been a lady-in-waiting to the wife of the Earl of Oxford. Rumour had it that this woman had been caught once too often entertaining men of the court in her private quarters, and had been dismissed. She had come to Cambridge to ply her trade in peace and was known locally as 'Lady Matilde' for her gentle manners and refined speech.
'Matilde is my friend,'Sybilla blurted out.'She has been bringing me food since…' She trailed off miserably and gazed unseeingly at her bitten fingernails.
'Since Isobel was murdered,' finished Matilde, looking coolly at Bartholomew.
'Tell me what you saw,' said Bartholomew to Sybilla.
'Do you know the man who killed Isobel?'
Sybilla shook her head. 'I did not recognise him, but I saw him,' she whispered.
Matilde seized Bartholomew's wrist with surprising strength. 'Now you know, you carry a secret that could bring about her death,' she said, her eyes holding his.
Bartholomew gazed back, his black eyes as unwavering as her blue ones. 'I know that,' he said, firmly pulling his
wrist away. 'But so might anyone else who saw her run screaming from Isobel's body on Monday.'
Matilde winced, and looked at Sybilla, who hung her head. "I was so frightened, I do not remember what I did,' she said, beginning to weep again. Matilde took matters in hand.
'You must pull yourself together,' she said firmly to Svbilla. 'You told me no one knew that you had seen Isobel's killer. Now it looks as though half the town might know. I think it would be best if you told the doctor what you saw. He might be able to use his influence to catch this evil monster who is killing our sisters, since the Sheriff is unwilling to act.'
Sybilla took a great shuddering breath and controlled herself with difficulty. 'I was just finishing with one of the baker's apprentices in St Botolph's churchyard, when we heard the University Proctor and his patrol going past.
The apprentice was able to slip off the other way, but I had to hide until they had gone. The Proctor's men usually leave us alone unless we are with scholars, but it is always best to avoid being seen when you can. It looks bad if you are seen about too often after the curfew.
'I decided to stay where I was, hidden in the bushes.
The Proctor and his beadles were discussing that fight between two hostels last month, arguing about whether it could have been stopped if they had arrived earlier. I must have fallen asleep. When I woke, the Proctor and his men had gone. I was about to climb out of the bush when I heard a noise. At first I thought it was just a rat or a bird, but then I saw him.'
She stopped and turned great fearful eyes on Bartholomew. 'Go on,' prompted Matilde.
Sybilla swallowed loudly, wiped her nose on the hem of her dress and continued. 'He was skulking about in the bushes by the road. Then I saw Isobel coming back from one of her regulars. She kept looking behind her, and I saw that horrible black cat that the Austin Canons feed. It was following her, and she kept looking round as if she could hear it. If that vile cat had not been distracting her and making her look behind, she might have seen the monster in the bushes waiting for her. I wanted to call out, but I was too frightened.'
She stopped again and Matilde took one of her hands to encourage her to finish. 'He leapt at her, and I saw the flash of his knife as he cut her throat. I think I must have fainted,' she said, and was silent for a moment. 'When I came round, Isobel was lying on the ground and the man had gone. I stayed in the bush for ages, trying to bring myself to go to her. When I did finally, she was covered in blood, and I ran. I do not remember going home. I only remember Matilde talking to me later.'
Her story finished, she wiped away fresh tears and blew her nose on a rag that Matilde handed her".
'You saw only one man?' asked Bartholomew, thinking about the three he had encountered in the orchard. Are you sure there were not others?'
'There was only him,' said Sybilla firmly. I am certain of that. Had there been others, I would have seen them.
There was only him.' "I was worried,' said Matilde. "I usually see Sybilla at the market. I thought she might be ill, and so came to see her~. She has not left her home since then. I bring her food, but she cannot stay like this for ever.'
'Did you see his face?' asked Bartholomew.
Sybilla rubbed her- sore, red eyes. 'It was dark, and I was quite a distance away. I did not see his face long enough to recognise him. He was wearing a dark cloak or gown, and he had the hood pulled up. All I can say is that he was not young: he was a man and not a youth. He had no beard or moustache, and he was just average.'
'Average?' said Bartholomew, not understanding.
'Just like anyone else,' Sybilla said. 'Just average. Not tall, not short, not fat, not thin. He had two arms, he did not limp. He did not have great scars on him, or teeth that stick out. He was just normal.'
'Would you recognise him if you saw him again?' asked Bartholomew.
Sybilla swallowed. "I do not think so, which is why I am frightened to leave the house.'
Bartholomew stood and went to look out of the hole in the wall that served as a window. The sky had clouded over and a light drizzle had begun to fall. He watched the river flowing past a few feet away, all kinds of refuse bobbing and turning slowly in the currents.
What should he do now? He was aware of the two women waiting for him to come up with an answer that would solve their problems. Sybilla was right to be frightened, he thought. If the killer had any inclination she had seen him murder Isobel, he would be foolish not to come to ensure her silence. But Sybilla had provided little to elucidate the muddle of information that Bartholomew had acquired over the past few days.
All she could tell him was that the man was average. He could be anyone.
She could not stay in her home, that much was clear.
It was probably only a matter of time before the killer heard that Sybilla had run screaming from the scene of Isobel's murder, and had refused to leave her home ever since, before he took action to ensure his identity could never be revealed. Even if he remained unaware that Sybilla had seen him, she had to be moved. She would become seriously ill if left by herself much longer.
He could not. take her to Michaelhouse. Even for the best reasons, the Master would not allow him to bring a young prostitute to the College. He could give her money to find other lodgings in the town, but Cambridge was a small town and it was almost impossible to hide in it.
There was only one thing for it. He would have to impose upon Oswald Stan more. He had done it before, when Rachel Atkin's son had been killed in a town riot, and Stanmore had benefited by gaining a very talented seamstress. However, Bartholomew thought wryly, Stanmore would not benefit from Sybilla unless he intended to open a brothel.
He told Sybilla to gather up what she would need for a stay at Stanmore's premises, and went outside to wait.
Matilde followed him to the river bank, oblivious to the drizzle that fell like gauze upon her luxurious hair.
'It is kind of you to do this,' she said.
'I need not tell you that you must inform no one where she is,' he said. 'And you must not visit her until the killer is found, lest he follow you there. And do not come back here yourself. The killer may mistake you for Sybilla if he comes.'
Matilde gave him a smile. 'Agatha said you were a good man. There are not many who would take such trouble over a couple of whores,' she said. He looked away, embarrassed.
'There are quite a number of women like us,' she continued, 'and we talk a lot. It is imperative that we do: we need to know who might be rough, who might refuse to pay, who might be diseased. We hear other things, too, through our lines of communication. I heard that you blundered into Primrose Alley a few days ago.'
'Primrose Alley?" Bartholomew had never heard of it.
'Behind St Mary's,' said Matilde. 'Not an appropriate name for such a place, but I imagine that is why it got it.
Anyway, I heard that you were escorted out by Janetta of Lincoln.'
Bartholomew was amazed. He seemed to be the only person in Cambridge without vast arrays of informants to tap into when he needed to know something. Stanmore had his own legion of spies; the Chancellor and the Bishop seemed to do well for information when they needed it; and even the town prostitutes appeared to know his every move.
Matilde touched his arm, seeing his reaction. 'It was Janetta we were interested in, not you,' she said. 'She arrived in Cambridge about a month ago and immediately assumed a good deal of influence in Primrose Alley with the rough men who have lived there since the Death.
We did not know how much power she had accrued, until we heard that she was able to call off the louts that were attacking you, with a single word. We believe she was one of us in Lincoln, but she denies it to any who ask, and does not practise here. We do not usually share our information with outsiders, but you are helping us, and I would like to help you with a warning: have nothing to do with that woman.'
'I need to talk to her,' Bartholomew said. 'She may be able to give me information that might lead to the killer.'
'I would not trust any information gained from her,' said Matilde, 'although it would not surprise me to know that she had some to give. Who is she to have such command over those rough men within a month? She is a living lie from her fake smile to her false hair.'
'False hair?' said Bartholomew, surprised, thinking of Janetta's thick cascade of raven black hair.
'Yes,' said Matilde firmly. 'That black hair that you doubtless admired is none of her own. Perhaps she is grey and wants to retain the appearance of youth. Who knows her reason? But I know a wig when I see one.'
Bartholomew lent Sybilla his tabard and cloak, and pulled the hood up over her head to hide her face. He gave her his bag to carry, hoping that in the failing light she would pass for one of his students.
She trailed behind him, giving an occasional sniff.
Matilde had already slipped away after giving him a final warning about Janetta of Lincoln. Bartholomew thought about her advice. He had thought it odd at the time that Janetta had such control over what seemed to be an unruly gang of men. She had arrived a month ago. Nicholas of York had died or disappeared a month ago, and the unknown woman buried in his place. The woman with no hair. He frowned. Had the woman's hair fallen out after she died, had she worn a wig like Janetta, or did Janetta's wig belong to the woman in Nicholas's coffin?
Bartholomew concentrated, barely aware of Sybilla behind him. Were the events related? Was the arrival of Janetta connected to the death, or disappearance, of the man who was writing the controversial book? He rethought Sybilla's story and Matilde's warning, but, try as he might, he could make no sense of them, nor tie them in with the information he already had.
When they arrived at Starrmore's business premises, most of the buildings were already in darkness and Stanmore had returned to Trumpington. Bartholomew bundled Sybilla into the small chambers behind the main storerooms, the place where Rachel Atkin worked, before anyone could see her. As he burst in unannounced, he stopped in astonishment. Cynric stood up, from where he had been sitting by Rachel on the hearth. He put down his goblet of wine and grinned sheepishly, caught in the act of his courting. It was late, and the other women had gone home, leaving Cynric to enjoy the company of Rachel alone.
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