An Unholy Alliance

by Susanna GREGORY

  Michael gave a snort of derision. 'De Wetherset will have nothing to do with that! What shall we do about this guild business?' "I am not sure,' said Bartholomew. 'We should hand the information to the Sheriff, since he is supposed to be looking for the murderer of these women.' He turned to Michael. 'Do you think the two are connected? The murder of the women and the murder of the friar?'

  'On what grounds?' asked Michael, surprised. 'Four victims with slit throats and one poisoned by a lock on the University chest; four ladies of ill-repute and one mendicant friar? No, Matt, I cannot see that they are connected.'

  'Frances de Belem was not a lady of ill-repute,' said Bartholomew. 'She was the daughter of a respectable merchant' He stopped suddenly. "I wonder if de Belem belongs to a guild.'

  Michael waved a dismissive hand. 'Now you are grasping at straws. Of course he is a member of a guild. "The Honourable Guild of Dyers, probably.'

  'But he might also be a member of another guild unrelated to his trade. Oswald is and so is Roger Alcote.'

  'Are they?' said Michael, surprised. 'Your brotherin-law did not mention that when we were talking just now. And Alcote? Scholars are forbidden to join guilds.'

  'Oswald is a member of the Guild of the Annunciation.

  Why do you think he became a burgess when Tulyet was Mayor? And Oswald once told me Alcote is also a member. Membership of these organisations is supposed to be secret, but if I wanted to know who is involved, all I would need to do would be to watch who went into the church on the day of their services. It would not be difficult to ascertain who was a member and who was not'

  'Good lord!' said Michael, his eyes gleaming. 'All this intrigue going on that I knew nothing about. This makes it all far more interesting.'

  'Perhaps, but it does not help with the dead friar. The only way forward I can see is to find that lay-brother and see if we can make him tell us what he knows,' said Bartholomew. "I do not feel inclined to go back to that alley again, so I suggest we ask de W'etherset to tell his clerks to trace him.'

  ' Do you think the lay-brother knows something?' asked Michael.

  Bartholomew nodded slowly. 'Oh yes. I am certain of it. And we do not have the faintest idea what happened to Evrard Buckley,' he continued. 'Why did he disappear?

  And why did he take all his furniture with him?'

  Michael raised his eyebrows thoughtfully. 'It could not have been easy moving all those belongings in the middle of the night from King's Hall,' he said.

  'Maybe,' said Bartholomew. 'Buckley has roomed alone since the plague carried off his colleagues, and his window opens directly onto the garden that runs down to the river. "The window is large, and, unless he had some really enormous pieces of furniture, I think there would have been no problem in lowering them down to the ground by rope.'

  'He must have had help,' said Michael. 'Or it would have taken an age to do.'

  'We should have something to report to de Wetherset,' said Bartholomew, 'and doubtless your Bishop will be wanting some news. We should walk round the back of King's Hall to see if we can see anything.'

  Michael was not impressed with the idea, but went anyway. Bartholomew was right in saying that the Bishop would want answers, and it would be Michael's responsibility to give him some. They walked down to the river and along the towpath. A barge was being docked at the wharves, three exhausted horses having dragged it through the night to be ready to trade its wares at the Fair. "The smell by the river was powerful.

  Stale eels that had not been sold the previous day lay in grey-black heaps on the bank, being squabbled over by gulls. All along the river people were dumping night waste into the water, while further downstream a group of children splashed and played in the shallows.

  Bartholomew saw one of Stanmore's apprentices bartering for threads, and a small group of women were admiring a collection of coloured ribbons. Walking past them, and heading in his direction, was Janetta of Lincoln. Bartholomew saw the sun glint on her blue-black hair, and memories of his experience in the alleyway came flooding back to him. For a reason he could not immediately identify, he decided he did not want to speak to her.

  Bartholomew pulled at Michael's sleeve. 'Come on,' he said, 'we do not have all day.'

  'What is the matter with you?' grumbled Michael, objecting to this increase in his pace when the air was already beginning to grow thick and humid with the promise of heat to come.

  It was too late. Janetta had seen him and came forward with the enigmatic smile he remembered from the day before, showing under her cascade of black hair. Michael stopped dead in his tracks and eyed her suspiciously.

  'So, Matthew Bartholomew. Good morning to you.'

  Bartholomew nodded to her, hiding his bitten hand under his scholar's robe. He instinctively knew that she would ask him about it, and he did not want to tell her about the incident in the orchard. In fact, he did not want to tell her anything at all. * Janetta laughed at his cautious response. "I trust I find you well?' she said, looking him up and down and appraising him coolly.

  Did she know about his skirmish last night? Was she surprised to see him intact? Or was she merely thinking about her rescue of him from the alleyway? 'Very well. And you?' he asked guardedly.

  'In fine health,' she said. 'And now, Doctor, I have a great many things to do, and I cannot stand around gossiping all day like a scholar!'

  She sauntered away, walking slowly, as if she were in no particular hurry to get back to her 'great many things'.

  'And we cannot stroll around idly like harlots,' retorted Michael, nettled by her comment She evidently heard his remark, for she turned around and wagged a finger at him, smiling, although Bartholomew thought he detected a flash of anger in her eyes.

  'Who was that?' Michael asked, staring after her.

  'Janetta of Lincoln,' Bartholomew answered, embarrassed by Michael's retort.

  'Ah, yes,' said Michael. 'You did not tell me she was a convicted felon.'

  'What?' said Bartholomew, startled. 'How do you know that?'

  'Did you not notice those scars on her face? There was a judge at Lincoln who liked to sentence prostitutes to that punishment. He reasoned that it would force them to turn from prostitution because they would be unable to secure clients. He was only in office a short time, but he made a name for himself locally because of the sentences he gave to petty offenders.'

  'Petty offenders?' said Bartholomew. 'Then perhaps she was convicted of a crime other than prostitution.'

  Michael shook his head. 'He only scarred women like that for the crime of harlotry. She was a whore, Matt, and was convicted and punished for it. You mark my words.'

  'What happened to the judge?' asked Bartholomew.

  'Killed in a brothel,' said Michael, laughing. 'Full of women with scarred faces, I expect! I would say your Janetta of Lincoln was almost certainly one of his victims.'

  'That might explain why she left Lincoln. If this judge's punishments are not common knowledge, perhaps she thought she might be able to live here without her past being known,' mused Bartholomew.

  '"The only reason I know is because I saw similar scars on the face of a woman in a group of travelling singers,' said Michael. "I asked her how she came by them, and she told me about the judge.'

  Bartholomew looked doubtfully at him, wondering how the fat monk had managed to embark upon such an intimate conversation with a female travelling entertainer. Michael caught his glance and waggled his eyebrows before changing the subject. 'Let's go and look at this grass.'

  As Bartholomew had predicted, the walls bore marks that Buckley's furniture had been passed out of the window. They also found the grass below it was trampled, and there were ruts made by a cart. But there was also something else.

  'Michael, look,' said Bartholomew, bending to examine a small smear on the creamy stone. 'What is it?' asked Michael, looking, and not finding the brown mark especially enlightening.

  'Blood,' said Bartholomew. He pointed to where the grass was less t
rampled to one side, and several blades of grass were stained. He straightened up and he and Michael exchanged a look of puzzlement.

  'Well, at least we have something to report to the Chancellor,' said Michael.

  5

  The Chancellor was not impressed with the information they had gleaned, and he agreed only reluctantly to send one of his clerks to bring the lay-brother to them so that he could be questioned. He was also unsympathetic about Bartholomew's experience in the alleyway behind the church and denied that there was a short cut there through the shrubs in the churchyard.

  'Why would there be such a thing?' he snapped. 'None of those people would deign to set foot in a church.'

  Bartholomew wanted to tell him that it might be a short cut to the river that just happened to be through the churchyard, but could see no advantage in antagonising the Chancellor.

  'Gilbert stuck that blade on the poisoned lock into a rat,' said de Wetherset. 'It died in moments. I also sent him to the Dominican Friary, but you were correct in your assumption that the dead man was not one of them. "The Prior came to look at the body and said he had never seen the man before.'

  Bartholomew felt guilty that the Chancellor had more to report to them than they had to him. He wished he would have a sudden insight to tie all the loose threads together, so that they could be done with it all and he could concentrate on his students' disputations.

  'What do you plan to do next?' de Wetherset asked, picking up a piece of vellum covered with minute writing and studying it. Bartholomew rose to leave.

  "The Chancellor clearly was not interested in how they went about getting the information, only in what they discovered. Michael remained seated.

  "I would like to read Nicholas's book,' he said.

  "The Chancellor was momentarily taken off-guard.

  'What for?' he asked suspiciously.

  'When we first saw the body of the friar, you were more concerned with the book than anything else in the chest. Therefore, it is likely that the friar wanted to read or steal it more than any other document. If I were to read it, I might gain a better notion of why someone might want to kill for it,' he said, folding his large arms across his chest.

  'Very well,' said de Wetherset, after a moment's deliberation. 'You have until Sext. Then I have business at Barnwell Priory and I want the book locked in the chest before I leave.'

  Michael inclined his head, and the Chancellor conducted them to the small chamber in the tower of the church, where he donned thick leather gloves and undid the locks on the chest. Bartholomew saw that the three locks gleamed bright and new: the Chancellor was taking no chances.

  As the last lock sprang open, de Wetherset straightened, and Bartholomew saw his face was beaded with perspiration.

  'Poisoned locks!' he muttered. 'Whatever next? A puff of poison in the rugs to kill those who trample on them?

  Arsenic soaked into the documents themselves?'

  Michael's hand had been half in the chest after the mysterious book, but now he withdrew it hastily. The Chancellor gave an unpleasant smile and tossed him his gloves.

  "I will return before Sext. Please bar the door after I leave. I do not want anyone else in the chamber. Should anyone knock, tell them to go away.'

  Bartholomew shot a sturdy bar across the door after he had gone and wandered around the small chamber restlessly. Michael took the book from the chest and placed it on the table. "The leaves of the text were thick and there was no problem turning them while wearing the gloves.

  'Can you get the spare set of keys from the Bishop?'

  Bartholomew asked suddenly.

  Michael looked surprised.

  "I could ask him. Why?'

  'Because then we could try them on the old locks. If they do not fit the poisoned one, we would know that not only must a new lock have been put on the chest, but that someone had exchanged de Wetherset's keys.

  Since de Wetherset said the keys are never out of his sight, it would mean that Buckley, the only other person with access to them, must have exchanged them by some sleight of hand when he undid the chest. If the key does fit, then we know that either the lock was tampered with and the poisonous blade fitted, or that it was there all the time.'

  Michael nodded slowly. '"The keys will be of no use to the Bishop now there are new locks on the chest. I see no reason why he should not let me have them.'

  Bartholomew went to the window and looked across the High Street. By leaning out, he could see Michaelhouse, and remembered his students. He left the window and went to a wall cupboard, opening the wooden doors to peer inside. Michael shot him an irritable glance as he closed the doors again noisily. Bartholomew bent down to look at the rug on which the friar must have knelt when he picked the locks, but there was nothing to see.

  "I should be with my students. Some of them have already failed their disputations once,' he said. 'And I should visit Mistress Bocher's baby. It gets colic'

  ' I will never get through this if you keep distracting me,' said Michael, exasperated. 'Go and see your students.

  Come back for me before Sext.'

  Bartholomew was apprehensive about leaving Michael alone in a room where the friar had died by such sinister means, but could see no benefit in wasting the day in idleness. He waited until he was certain that Michael had barred the door from the inside and began to walk down the stairs. When he was almost at the bottom, he stopped as a thought occurred to him, and turned to climb them again.

  He passed the chest room and continued upwards.

  As he climbed higher, the stairs became dirty and were covered in feathers and dry pigeon-droppings, and Bartholomew guessed they were seldom used. There was an unpleasant smell, too, and Bartholomew noted the decaying corpses of several birds that had flown in and had been unable to get out.

  He reached the bell chamber and walked in. The bells stood silent among crooning pigeons and scraps of discarded rope and wood. "The spiral stair ended, but a vertical wooden ladder led from the bell chamber to a trap-door in the ceiling above. Bartholomew tested it carefully, not trusting the cracked wood, nor the way in which the ladder leaned away from the wall as he prepared to climb.

  "The ladder was stronger than it looked, and he reached the trap-door without the rungs falling out or the ladder tearing away from the wall to deposit him on the bells below. He unbolted the trap-door and gingerly pushed it open, ducking as he disturbed a flurry of birds on the roof. "The sunlight streamed down on his head, making him blink after the darkness of the tower. He hauled himself up and stood on the roof.

  He surveyed the view in awe. "The day was clear, not yet spoiled by the stinking mists that blew in from the Fens, and he thought he could see the distant towers of Ely Cathedral. He could certainly see the glitter of the maze of waterways snaking through the flat Fens, as they stretched off towards the sea. He leaned against one of the corner turrets and traced the silvery line of the river as far as he could, surprised that he could see a barge hauling in about two miles distant. He wondered that his brother-in-law did not post one of his informants on the roof permanently so he could have early warning of the arrival of trading vessels.

  He peered directly down, intrigued at how the streets and buildings appeared from above. He saw the market stalls, looking brighter and prettier than they ever did in the market itself. Then he searched for the alley where he had been attacked the day before. He looked harder, leaning precariously over the edge as he screwed up his eyes to see. "There was a gap between the rows of shacks, and following the line of it towards the church he saw a very distinct thinning of the undergrowth running towards the churchyard. "There was his hidden pathway: he knew he would be able to see it from above!

  He chose two prominent tombstones and a tree, quickly calculated angles and distances, and committed them to memory. He smiled grimly to himself. He would be able to find the entrance to it next time he looked, no matter how well hidden it was.

  He stood for a few moments savouring the p
eace, and then made his way back down the ladder. As he was closing the trap-door, a tricky operation that involved wrapping one leg around the ladder and using both hands to heave the heavy wooden flap back into place, someone started to toll the bell for the friar's funeral. Bartholomew had heard that people were sent mad if they stayed too long in the chamber where bells were tolled, and that their ears would burst.

  Another myth dispelled, he thought, as he climbed down the ladder. "The bell's ringing was loud, but he did not feel it would send him mad or that his ears would burst. When he reached the bottom of the ladder, he put his hands over his ears to muffle the sound and watched the bell swing back and forth. His hands dropped to his side when he saw what had been concealed behind the bell, but what was exposed as the bell moved. He started towards it, but then stopped. While he did not believe the bell would damage his hearing within a short time, he did not relish the idea of being hit by the great mass of metal as it swept ponderously back and forth.

  He went outside the chamber, closed the door, and sat on the stairs until the tolling had stopped. When the last vibrations had died away, and he could hear the first notes of the requiem mass drifting up the stairs, he opened the door again and edged his way towards the bell. "There were four different-sized bells in the tower.

  It was the biggest one that had tolled for the friar and that concealed the body behind it. Even so, all that was visible was a white and bloated hand that dangled just below the bell frame.

  "The bells were supported in a wooden frame about three feet from the floor, and the easiest way to reach the body was to crawl on hands and knees beneath it.

  Bartholomew ignored the accumulated filth of decades and made his way to the other side of the chamber. Even as he neared the big bell, the sack that evidently held the body was all but invisible, and it was only the dead white hand that betrayed its presence. He used the bell to pull himself up onto the frame, and inspected the sack.

  It had been jammed between the frame and the wall, quite deliberately positioned to hide it from prying eyes.