'Tell us what flash of inspiration suddenly occurred to make you suggest that,' he said.
Bartholomew sat on a stool next to the table and peered at the lock. 'It is old,' he said, 'and the tower is damp. I suspect that the lock's insides are rusty. Buckley opened it almost every day, and was probably used to the way it sticks; so familiar, in fact, that he did not need to fiddle like you did just now, Master de Wetherset. Similarly, you know better how to manipulate the thing than Michael, who was unable to open it at all. I think the small blade that killed the friar has been hidden in the lock for years.
Over time, the mechanism has become faulty and rusty.
I suspect it would have killed you, Master de Wetherset, had you opened it more recently.'
Harling looked puzzled. 'So you are saying that this nasty device has been in place since the locks were bought from Italy twenty years ago, and that it has become faulty over the last few months because it has become worn.'
De Wetherset looked at the lock in horror. 'Are you telling me that if Buckley had not been available to unlock the chest recently with his gloved hands and his familiarity with the thing, I might have suffered the same fate as the friar?'
Bartholomew nodded. 'That is exactly what I am telling you,' he said. 'And I think if you were to show a locksmith the other two locks, you would find similar mechanisms not far behind this one in terms of increasing unreliability.'
De Wetherset looked sick, but went to the door and called for Gilbert whom he dispatched to send for Haralda the Dane, the town's leading locksmith.
Harling tried to stop him. 'I must caution you to keep this matter a secret. Bartholomew's explanation seems a plausible one. Why can we not leave it at that? And anyway, it is Sunday, and you cannot encourage the locksmith to work on the Lord's day.' "I want to be certain,' said de Wetherset. 'If Matthew is wrong, we may draw the wrong conclusions from this wretched business and a murderer may walk free. I am quite sure the Lord will overlook Haralda's sin if it is to prevent the more heinous crime of murder.'
Harling opened his mouth to argue, but de Wetherset eyed him coldly, and nothing was said. Harling turned away in anger, and went to the window. Bartholomew was surprised at Harling's objections. So what if the town got to know the University had discovered three poisoned locks?
It might act as a deterrent to anyone considering burgling the chest a second time. It seemed to Bartholomew that Harling's other objection — that Haralda would be working on the Sabbath — was a second thought grasped at in desperation. After all, by his very presence in his office on a Sunday, it might be considered that Hailing was working, too. Perhaps he had other reasons for wanting the presence of the poisoned locks kept a secret.
While they waited for Haralda, Bartholomew sat on the damp cushions in the window-seat and watched Harling more closely. He was certainly agitated, and paced up and down as Bartholomew had done earlier.
Bartholomew saw Michael observing too, and knew that he was not the only one to note Harling's tension.
It was not long before Gilbert ushered the tall Dane into the Chancellor's office. Haralda's eyes immediately lit on the locks on the table, and he let out an exclamation of delight.
'Ah! Padua locks!' he said. "I have not seen one of these in many a year. May I?'
They are poisoned!' cried Michael, springing forward to stop him from touching them.
Haralda looked at him pityingly. 'Of course they are poisoned/ he said. 'They are Padua locks. Clever devices. I assume these are the reasons you have invited me here?'
De Wetherset nodded, while Hailing began to gnaw on his fingernails. Bartholomew was impressed at the Dane's command of English. When he had arrived six or seven years ago, he had conducted his business almost exclusively in French. Now, he not only spoke perfect English, but had acquired a gentleman's accent, not a local one. Bartholomew commented on it as he watched the locksmith work.
'I was taught by a lady,' he said proudly.
Bartholomew was puzzled, unable to imagine what kind of lady would be willing to coach a rough man like Haralda the Dane. Then the answer came to him.
The Lady Matilde?' he asked.
The Dane grinned at him conspiratorially. The very same,' he said.
Cambridge was indeed a small town, thought Bartholomew. De Wetherset apparently did not agree.
'Lady Matilde?' he said, frowning as he thought. 'I do not believe I know her. Is she the wife of one of the knights at the Castle?'
'She does not live at the Castle,' said Bartholomew, and changed the subject before it got him into trouble.' What can you tell us about the locks, Master Haralda?'
'They are old,' said the Dane. He slipped on a pair of thin but strong gloves and unrolled a piece of cloth containing some tiny tools. He carefully picked up one of the locks in his paw-like hands. 'Yes, this one is broken, see?' He pointed to the blade and waggled it with his finger, laughing at the exclamations of horror from Gilbert and de Wetherset.
He selected a minute pair of tweezers and removed the blade completely. It was a third of the length of Bartholomew's little finger and yet it had already killed one man. Haralda deftly unscrewed the lock to reveal its innards. Bartholomew peered over his shoulder.
Haralda tutted and shook his head. 'You do not know how to treat a lock, my lords,' he said reprovingly. This poor thing has not seen a drop of oil since the day it was made. You are lucky it has not killed someone/ Harling glared at Bartholomew and Michael in turn, daring them to say anything. Haralda did not notice.
This is an especially fine model,' he said. 'It became popular in Italy about twenty or thirty years ago, although few are made these days. It was one of the best locks ever to be produced. They are expensive, but worth the cost if you have something worth protecting/ He looked up, and Harling eyed him coldly. 'Just documents,' he said. 'Nothing that would interest a thief/ Haralda picked up the second lock and poked at it.
'Yes. This one is different. The blade comes through the back, not the top. It is in better condition than the other one, but not by much/ He turned his attention to the third one, and wagged its finger at it as it gave a sharp click when he started prodding. 'Look at that! You are lucky, my lords. If any of you had tried to open this, you would be dead. The mechanism is so worn, it is almost smooth. I would say it would have released its blade within three attempts at opening it at most. You were right to have called me/ "I do not understand why they have suddenly become so unreliable,' said de Wetherset. 'We have been using them for years without trouble/ 'But you have not cared for them as you should have done. They are rusty, and they have become dangerous.
You could have had many years' service from them if you had treated them properly, but now I would recommend that you dispense with them/ 'How has the poison stayed for so long in so potent a form?' asked Bartholomew.
Haralda beamed at him, pleased that someone was expressing an interest, rather than disgust, at the locks.
'The blade has its own chamber here, see? It is sealed with lead, so no poison can leak and cause damage. If I were to open this chamber, which I would only do under the special conditions at my workshop, you would find the poison mixed with various mixtures, including quicksilver, to keep it fluid. Thus the poison is always ready. I saw a lock like this kill a dog in under ten minutes in Rome, although I would think perhaps, judging from the age of this lock, that the poison may have lost some of its potency. If you meant business, you would need to change the poison regularly to ensure its continued efficacy.'
Bartholomew nodded, staring down at the rusting insides of the three locks on the table. He picked up Michael's keys and played with them idly. Haralda took them from him.
These smaller keys,' he said, holding them up, 'are to turn the poison mechanism on and off. In this way, the lock can be used normally.'
He inserted the smaller key into one of the parallel vertical slits on the back of one of the locks to show them.
Bartholomew studied it closely and a
dmired its ingenuity.
The slit did not look like another keyhole, and anyone who did not know what it was, would never guess.
"I would assume,' said Haralda, 'that whoever last knew about this left the mechanism turned off. Once again, I say yeu are very lucky none of them slipped on while you were using them.'
'Which is why Buckley was safe, even without his gloves,' murmured Michael to Bartholomew. 'It must have broken as the friar poked about with it in a way that Buckley never had.'
Haralda stood up. 'Dispense with these, my lords.
They are no longer safe.'
'Will you take them?' asked de Wetherset. "I would feel more secure knowing that a professional man had disposed of them in a proper manner.'
Haralda bowed to him, flattered, and collected the pieces of the locks in the cloth. De Wetherset went to see him out of the church. Harling paced restlessly.
'It was a mistake bringing in another,' he said. 'He told us nothing we did not know or could not guess.'
'But now we are certain,' said Michael. 'We know the lock was not changed by Buckley, or by someone wanting to kill members of the University. We know that the locks are just old and worn, and that the friar was notmurdered.
I suppose it could be called accidental death.'
'But we still do not know what he wanted in the chest,' said Bartholomew. 'In fact, we are not much further forward at all.'
'Yes, we are,' said Michael. 'We are no longer looking for the murderer of the friar.'
'But we still want the murderer of Froissart,' said Harling. He chewed nervously at his fingers. 'If you will excuse me, gentlemen, I have much to be doing.'
He bowed and left the room. Bartholomew leaned out of the window, and saw de Wetherset still talking to Haralda below.
'Harling was unaccountably nervous,' said Michael, opening one of de Wetherset's wall cupboards and peering inside. 'Even if it is a Sunday, I feel he had another reason why he did not want us to fetch the locksmith.'
Bartholomew sighed and made for the door. 'Come on, Brother. Harling is not the only one with much to be doing,' he said.
They stepped outside and began to walk home. There was a flicker in the sky, followed by a low rumble, and then rain began to fall heavily. Bartholomew and Michael joined several others who ran to St Mary's Church to wait the thunderstorm out. Inside, the church was dark from the grey clouds that hung low overhead, lit brilliantly by occasional flashes of lightning. Bartholomew had never been in a church during a thunderstorm before, and the way the wall-paintings suddenly lit up reminded him of passages from Revelations about the end of the world.
He wandered around aimlessly, listening to the rain drumming on the roof. The tombs in the choir reminded him of his promise to Master Wilson to attend to the building of his sepulchre. Some tombs were plain, while others were vulgar. A plain one in black marble would not be too bad, thought Bartholomew, but, in his heart of hearts, he knew that Wilson would have wanted a vulgar one. Not for the first time, Bartholomew was disgusted. Wilson should have arranged to be buried in a fairground with the kind of tomb he had had in mind, not a church!
A sharp tug on his sleeve pulled him from his thoughts.
One of the clerks was there, hiding behind a pillar. He looked frightened, and Bartholomew pretended to be reading an inscription on a nearby tomb, so that no one watching him would know he was speaking with a man in the shadows.
The lightning flickered again, making the man wince and press further back, but the storm was moving away.
'The day after the friar's death,' said the clerk, glancing furtively around him, "I saw that the bar on the front door had been moved.'
'What does that imply?' asked Bartholomew softly, rubbing the brass on the tomb with his sleeve and pretending to look closer.
'Everyone here thinks that the friar hid in the church before it was locked up. He then went upstairs and died.
But the bar on the door was in a different place in the morning than it was the night before,' whispered the clerk hoarsely. 'What I am saying is that I think the friar barred the door after the church was locked, which means that someone must have unbarred it from the inside, or we would not have been able to get in the next morning.'
Bartholomew's heart sank. He had just proved, rather ingeniously he thought, that the poisoned lock had been a cruel twist of fate that had killed the friar, and now this clerk was telling him the friar had not been alone in the church on the night of his death, which threw the whole thing back under suspicion.
'Are you certain?' he asked heavily, still careful not to look at the man and give him away.
The clerk nodded quickly. "I think I may be putting myself at risk by talking to you, but if I do not tell you what I know, how will you be able to solve this mystery and let us get back to normal?'
Bartholomew was taken aback by the man's confidence in his abilities as a detective, and not particularly pleased at the pressure he felt it put on him to draw this matter to an acceptable conclusion. 'Do you know anything else?' he asked. 'Like the whereabouts of the man who locked the church that night?'
The man huddled further back behind his pillar. 'He has not been seen since you chased him. He has not been home, and his family have had no word from him.'
'Did you know Nicholas of York?' Bartholomew whispered, watching as a second clerk walked past him, carrying a pile of dirty-white tallow candles.
He felt the man's confusion. 'Yes. He died more than a month ago,' he said.
'Did you see his body or attend his funeral? Did you notice anything untoward?'
The clerk looked at him as though he were insane.
"I saw his body in his coffin the night before we buried him, but I fail to see why you ask.' He sank back into the shadows as the other clerk returned from depositing his candles. 'The friar died a few days ago, and Nicholas has been in his grave for weeks.'
Bartholomew sighed. 'Then do you know anything about the Guild of the Coming or the Guild of the Purification?'
The man crossed himself so violently that Bartholomew could hear his hand thumping hollowly against his ribs.
'You should not speak those names in this holy church!' he hissed. 'And do not try to find out about them. They are powerful and would kill you like a fly if they thought you were asking questions/ 'But they are small organisations with only a few members,' said Bartholomew, quoting Stanmore's information, and trying to allay the clerk's fears.
'But they have the power of the Devil behind them!
They do his work as we do God's.'
Bartholomew already knew the two guilds might harm him or Michael if they thought they were coming too close to their secrets. When he glanced up again, the man had melted away into the shadows. He thought about what the clerk had said. Either two people were locked in the church that night, or the friar had let someone else in. But what was even more apparent was that the second person must have had a set of keys to the church, or how would the doors have been locked the following morning?
Bartholomew rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Buckley had to be involved. Perhaps he had not murdered the friar, as Bartholomew had considered possible, but did he lock the doors to the tower after the friar had died and he had put him in the chest? And then did he leave the church, lock it behind him, and flee the town with all his property? And was he also responsible for putting the murdered woman in Nicholas of York's coffin? In which case, he might also be the killer of the other women.
Even stranger was the case of Nicholas of York. The clerk and de Wetherset claimed they had seen Nicholas dead, which implied that someone must have made off with his body, first replacing it with the woman's. But what reason might anyone, even a coven, have for such an action? Bartholomew closed his eyes and leaned back against the tomb. But what if Nicholas were not dead?
Perhaps he had feigned death, spending the day lying in his coffin while his colleagues kept vigil, and then broke out during the night. Perhaps the woman had helped him.
Had Nicholas then repaid her by killing her and putting her in his place? Had she come to snatch his body away for some diabolical purpose and been foiled in the attempt? Perhaps Nicholas was the killer, a man assumed to be dead, and so not an obvious suspect.
And what of Tulyet's role in all this? The townspeople believed Froissart was the killer, but deaths had occurred after he was murdered and hidden in the belfry. Perhaps Tulyet was the murderer. He had reacted oddly to the mention of goats, and was doing nothing to catch the killer, although he could not know Froissart was dead.
Perhaps it had been Tulyet who had snatched Nicholas's body for some satanic ritual.
Bartholomew opened his eyes and saw that the rain had eased. Michael was singing a Kyrie with another monk, their voices echoing through the church, Michael's rich baritone a complement to the monk's tenor.
Bartholomew let their music wash over him, savouring the way their voices rose and fell together, growing louder and then softer in perfect harmony with each other. The faint smell of wet earth began to drift in through the open windows, momentarily masking the all-pervasive aroma of river. All was peace and stillness until a cart broke a wheel outside, and angry voices began to intrude.
"I am hungry,' announced Michael as they walked back to College in the light rain following the thunderstorm.
'Cynric foolishly told Agatha about that trick we played on you with the shadows, and she is refusing to allow me into the kitchen. We could sit in the garden behind the Brazen George and have something to eat while we talk.'
Bartholomew looked askance. 'What are you thinking of, monk? First, it is a Sunday, and second, you are well aware that scholars are not permitted in the town taverns.'
'What better day than a Sunday to celebrate the Lord's gift of excellent wine?' asked Michael cheerily. 'And I did not suggest entering a tavern, physician, merely the garden.'
'Michael, it is raining,' said Bartholomew, laughing.
'We cannot sit in a tavern garden in the rain. People would think we had had too much to drink! And the Brazen George will be closed because it is Sunday.'
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