'Or are they both lying?' asked Michael. 'Janetta saw the murder, but Tulyet never asked her. What about Froissart? You say you gave her no reason to assume that Froissart was dead? She has no idea he lies cold and stinking in St Mary's crypt?'
'Tulyet does not know of Froissart's death either.
Janetta says the townspeople believe that Froissart is the killer and that Tulyet lost him. Tulyet says that Froissart does not have the intelligence to carry out the murders.
Janetta says Froissart was violent.'
'They do not sound like the same man to me,' said Michael. 'Either Froissart was a clever and vicious killer or he did not have the intelligence to plan such things.
Which Froissart was the real one?' "I suppose it does not matter much,' said Bartholomew, leaning back with a yawn, 'since we know he is not in a position to do much about anything.'
Michael yawned too. "I cannot make any sense out of this tonight. The Chancellor is burying Froissart and the woman tomorrow. Let us see what their funerals might bring to light.'
They both started suddenly, aware that someone else had entered the room and was standing silently in the shadows.
'Boniface!' said Bartholomew, leaning back against the wall again. 'You made me jump!' "I am leaving, Master Bartholomew,' he said.
Bartholomew twisted around to look at him. 'Leaving?
But your disputation is in two days. I have already told you that if you can put heresy to the back of your mind for a couple of hours, you should pass.' "I do not want to become a physician,' said Boniface.
He stood stiffly in the doorway. 'And I do not want to be a friar.'
'Boniface!' said Michael kindly. Think about what you are saying. You have taken vows. At least talk to Father William first/ "I have,' said Boniface. 'He told me I should take some time to consider before I act.'
That is good advice,' said Bartholomew gently. 'But do not consider tonight. It is late. Come to see me tomorrow and we will talk when our minds are fresh.'
Boniface was silent.
'Frances de Belem!' he blurted out suddenly. 'She was coming to see me the day she died. We usually met before dawn under the willows by the fish-ponds.
I unbarred the gate and waited, but she did not come.
All the time she was dying in the orchard.'
Bartholomew remembered Alban claiming that Frances had a lover, and even her father had known she was meeting someone at dawn. Poor Boniface! A murdered lover was hardly something for which a young friar could claim sympathy from his fellows.
"I thought you might have killed her,' he said, swallowing and looking at Bartholomew.
"Me?' said Bartholomew, appalled. 'What on earth could have given you that idea?'
'Well, you are often out of the College at night, and I thought you must have seen her and killed her to keep your comings and goings secret,' said Boniface, 'especially if you were involved in all this business with witchcraft that Brother Alban was telling us about.'
'Brother Alban is a dangerous old gossip,' said Michael firmly. 'And Matt is not the only one to slip in and out of College at night. I do, I have seen Hesselwell and Aidan do so, and now you say you did.' "I know,' said Boniface, 'but I was distraught, and I had no one to tell. I did not know what to do. She told me she had something important to tell me, and I waited but she never came.'
Bartholomew could not meet his eyes. If Boniface was Frances's lover, then he must have been the father of her child. No wonder Frances had said that the father could not marry her. He decided nothing would be gained by telling Boniface that Frances was carrying his child when she died. The student was in enough turmoil already.
'She was almost hysterical,' Boniface reflected. "I asked her to tell me then, but she said she needed to tell me privately. Against my better judgement, I agreed to meet her in the orchard.'
'Did you not wait at the gate for her?' asked Michael.
Boniface shot him a bitter look. "I waited for her by the fish-ponds. I was afraid of being seen, and there are reeds and willows in which to hide around the ponds.'
Bartholomew could think of nothing to say. He tried to remember the times he had broken the rules to meet a woman in the night while a student in Oxford, but the memories were dim, and he could not recall his feelings.
Boniface hurried on.
'When I heard she had been dying while I hid among the reeds, I felt wretched. I took the arsenic from your bag, and put the sugar in its place because I was going to swallow it. Then you gave your lecture on dosages and I realised there was not enough to kill me. Here.'
He pushed a packet at Bartholomew.
"I never carry enough to kill in case anyone steals it, or it falls from my bag by accident,' said Bartholomew, staring at the small packet in his hands.
"I am glad you are cautious,' said Boniface with a faint smile. 'At least now I have not compounded one sin with another by committing suicide/ He stood to leave.
Bartholomew rummaged in his bag and handed him a twist of cloth. This is camomile,' he said. 'Mix it with some wine, and it will help you sleep. Tomorrow we can talk again.'
Boniface looked as if he would refuse, but then leaned forward and snatched it from him. He gave a sudden smile that lightened his sullen features and made him almost handsome. Michael sketched a benediction at him, and the friar disappeared. Bartholomew looked out of the window to make sure he returned to his own room. When he saw Boniface pour himself a drink and lie down on his bed through the open window opposite, he sat again.
"I wonder what she wanted to tell him,' said Michael.
'Nothing that is of import to us,' said Bartholomew.
'You know?' said the astute Michael immediately. 'She told you!' Bartholomew tried to change the subject, but Michael was tenacious. 'She carried his child!' he exclaimed, watching Bartholomew intently. They were lovers, and he made her pregnant! That is why you know and he does not. She must have asked you for a cure.'
'Michael…' began Bartholomew.
Michael raised his hands. 'No one will hear of this from me. I will say a mass for the child since no one else ever will, and there will be an end to it.' He paused. 'So that explains why she was in Michaelhouse. But not who killed her. Is it a scholar here, do you think?'
Bartholomew shook his head slowly. "It is possible,' he said, 'but if Frances could get into Michaelhouse, so could another. Tulyet, perhaps, since his night patrols mean that he is sometimes out at night. Or Nicholas dead, but seen alive at his own graveside. Or Buckley, who conveniently disappeared the night the friar died in the chest containing the controversial University history. Or perhaps even Boniface, to free himself from a romance that was destroying his peace of mind and threatening his vocation.'
Michael stretched. "It is beyond me,' he said. 'Like Boniface, I need to sleep, and we will talk again in the morning.'
10
The following morning, Bartholomew found that his students had managed to work their way through the first set of texts he had set the day before, but not the second. He instructed that they finish it that afternoon and attend Master Kenyngham's astronomy lectures in the morning. The students would be tested on their knowledge of astronomy, and hearing lectures would refresh their memories.
Boniface, looking more rested and relaxed than Bartholomew had ever seen him, approached Bartholomew shyly. He said he intended to spend the day praying in the church. Bartholomew gave him leave gladly, thinking uncharitably that his other students would be able to study better without him. Bartholomew decided to attendKenyngham'slectures too, partly to ensure none of his students played truant, and partly because he found Kenyngham's knowledge fascinating, and liked to hear the enthusiasm in his voice as he spoke.
When the bell rang for dinner, Cynric was waiting to tell him that the Chancellor had arranged for Froissart and the unknown woman to be buried that afternoon.
The ceremony would not be an open one, and Gilbert had told Cynric that the coffins had already been sealed
to keep their contents from prying eyes.
Dinner was eaten in silence, apart from the voice of the Bible scholar who read a tract from Proverbs. His Latin was poor, and Bartholomew was not the only one of the Fellows to glance up at him in puzzlement when his pronunciation or missed lines made what he was saying incomprehensible. Beside him, Michael grumbled under his breath about the food, tossing a piece of pickled eel away in disgust when he found it rotten. Bartholomew felt little inclination to eat the fish and watery oatmeal, but he was hungry and ate it all. He noted that there was barely enough to go round, and many scholars left complaining they were still hungry.
'Damn the plague,' Michael muttered. The sickness has gone, but now we will starve to death.'
By mutual consent, Bartholomew and Michael resumed their discussion of the night before in the deserted conclave. The sun streamed through the windows, and Michael reclined drowsily among the cushions of the window seats. Bartholomew paced restlessly, trying to make sense of everything.
"I am certain that Janetta is involved in all this,' he said. 'Perhaps she killed the women.'
'Janetta?' said Michael in disbelief. That is notpossible, Matt. She is not strong enough.'
'How strong do you need to be to cut someone's throat?' said Bartholomew. 'Perhaps she had help from one of those louts that always surround her. Perhaps it was her I saw in the orchard after Frances's murder.'
'But Sybilla saw the killer, and she said it was an average man, remember? There is no earthly chance that Janetta could be mistaken for an average man. Even wearing a man's clothes she would be too small.' He mused. 'But Nicholas is of average size.'
'So is Buckley. We have failed to find him, and it cannot be coincidence that he disappeared the night the friar died.' "I think the killer might be Tulyet,' said Michael.
Bartholomew stopped pacing. 'He has good reason to be out at night while he keeps the Sheriffs peace, and he and his father are obviously involved with this Guild of the Coming.'
'If we knew the identity of the high priest, we would probably have the solution to all this in our hands,' said Michael. 'Did you see nothing at all that might give us a clue? A limp, a distinctive walk?'
Bartholomew shook his head. 'All I know is that he wore a similar mask to the one I saw on the man in the orchard. We should have raided All Saints' Church and had Jonstan arrest the lot of them.'
That would have been outside Jonstan's power,' said Michael. 'He only has jurisdiction over University affairs, and there is not a shred of evidence that anyone from the University is involved. And we could hardly ask Tulyet to do it!'
Bartholomew rubbed his forehead, becoming exasperated with their lack of progress. He switched to another avenue of thought. 'So if you think Tulyet is the killer, it is likely that Tulyet is also the high priest, otherwise how would he be able to predict that there would be another victim before the new moon?'
Michael pulled at some stray whiskers at the side of his face. 'Yes,' he said slowly. 'Before the new moon, when it is especially dark.'
After a while, they realised that they were getting nowhere with their discussion. They could generate as many theories as they wanted, but progressed no further as long as they lacked the evidence to prove or disprove their ideas. Eventually, they left Michaelhouse to attend the funerals in St Mary's Church. The afternoon sun was blazing in a clear blue sky and the air buzzed with flies. They made their way to the crypt where Gilbert waited restlessly for de Wetherset and Father Cuthbert to arrive so that the ceremony could begin. There was a buzz of flies there, too, hovering over the coffin in which Froissart's remains were sealed.
Bartholomew wandered over to look at the coffins, and wondered how secret their presence could be. He saw that both had been securely nailed down, and frowned.
He ran his fingers over the rough wood of the woman's coffin and leaned to inspect a join where the wood did not meet properly. Gilbert and Michael watched him in distaste.
'Who ordered the coffins sealed?' he asked Gilbert.
'No one,' said Gilbert. 'But I have been given the duty of ensuring that their presence is kept secret. I do not need to tell you how difficult that has been in this warm weather. I sealed them myself. If anyone had managed to gain entry to the crypt, a sealed coffin presents a far more formidable obstacle than an open one.'
Bartholomew looked up as de Wetherset arrived, ushering Cuthbert in front of him, and pulling the gate closed.
"I have four clerks to help,' he said, rubbing his hands together in a businesslike fashion to conceal his nervousness. 'They have been told we are burying two beggars. We will carry the coffins out of the crypt ourselves so that no one will detect how long they have been here.'
The others moved towards the coffins, but Bartholomew held back. This is perhaps an odd request,' he began, 'but they have been lying here for some time. I would like them opened to make certain that we know whom we are burying this time.'
De Wetherset looked at the coffins in distaste, while Gilbert was visibly angry. 'What for? Can we not just get this foul business over and done with? I am tired of all this death and corruption!'
The Chancellor patted the arm of his distraught clerk sympathetically. "I am sorry, Gilbert. What I have asked you to do over the past week has been beyond your clerkly duties. I will see that you are well rewarded.'
Gilbert shook his head. 'You do not need to pay me for my loyalty. I want an end to this business with corpses and coffins. Let us just put these poor people in their graves and leave them in peace.'
De Wetherset nodded. 'You are right.' He bent to lift one of the coffins, and gestured to Bartholomew to pick up the other end.
Bartholomew stayed where he was. "It will not take a moment,' he said. 'Wait outside if it distresses you, and I will do it alone.'
'What are your reasons for this?' asked de Wetherset, setting the coffin back down and eyeing Bartholomew with resignation.
Bartholomew pointed to the woman's coffin. 'When we exhumed the body of the lady, she was in an advanced state of decay. The coffin is flimsy, and the lid does not fit properly. If the woman was in there, Master de Wetherset, you would need more than a few bowls of incense to keep her presence from being known. She would be smelt from the porch.'
De Wetherset let out an exclamation of dismissal.
'Rubbish! The shock of the exhumation has addled your brain, and now you are suspicious of everything.
Gilbert is right. Let us just get this done.'
Bartholomew looked at Michael for help. Michael raised his eyes to the ceiling, but rallied to his side. "It will take only a few moments. What harm can it do?'
'Why can we not just let the poor souls rest in peace?' muttered Cuthbert. 'Both murdered, and now, even in death, they are not safe from desecration!'
De Wetherset was torn. He looked at Gilbert's pleading eyes and grey, exhausted face, and then back to Bartholomew. He sighed. 'In the interests of thoroughness, and to satisfy the Doctor's unpleasant curiosity, I suppose the coffins may be opened. Do it if you must.'
Gilbert backed out of the door. "I want to see no more decaying corpses. I will wait in the church.' "I will wait with you,' said de Wetherset. "I too have had my fill of sights from beyond the grave.'
Cuthbert followed them out, his fat features set in a mask of sorrow.
When they had gone, Michael turned to Bartholomew irritably. 'Is this really necessary? De Wetherset will be furious if you are wrong, and poor Gilbert is at the end of his tether!' then wait outside,' said Bartholomew, losing patience.
"It is for your Bishop that we are investigating this.'
Michael went to sit on the steps as Bartholomew took a knife from his bag and levered up the lid of the woman's coffin. The cheap wood splintered, but the lid came off easily. He stared in shock, unprepared for the sight that faced him. He took a deep breath and stood back.
'Well?' said Michael.
Wordlessly, Bartholomew went to perform the same operation on Froissart's
coffin, while Michael went to look in the woman's. Michael stared down at the corpse in the coffin in mystification and, hesitantly, went to look at Froissart's too. Bartholomew shut it before he could see.
'Look if you will,' he said, 'but it is only Froissart, alone and unmolested.'
Michael gazed in horror at the woman's coffin. 'Where is she?' He began a fruitless search of the crypt, hunting for a body that was not there.
Bartholomew scratched his head. 'Who knows? We should tell de Wetherset.'
Michael went to fetch him while Bartholomew re nailed Froissart's lid. De Wetherset peered cautiously into the woman's coffin.
'Nicholas of York!' he breathed. He raised a white face to Bartholomew. 'How?'
Bartholomew inspected Nicholas's body. There was some stiffness, but Bartholomew imagined he had not been dead for more than a day. Like Froissart, a deep purple mark on his neck indicated that he had been garrotted.
He told de Wetherset, who looked at him blankly.
'But how could this have happened? And where is the body of the woman?'
'Someone must have stolen her,' said Michael. 'But Gilbert said he had been guarding the crypt, and that it is always locked. How could anyone have gone in without him seeing?'
'Where is Gilbert?' said Bartholomew. The small clerk had not followed de Wetherset back into the crypt.
'He is unwell. I have told him to wait in the church with Father Cuthbert,' said de Wetherset. 'All this has proved too much for him. But how could anyone take a body from here while the gate was locked?'
'Perhaps the gate was not locked,' said Bartholomew quietly.
De Wetherset looked blank for a moment. 'What?' he said sharply. 'What are you saying? Gilbert has been my personal clerk for the past ten years. I trust him implicitly.'
'Gilbert always came with you and Buckley when you opened the University chest,' said Bartholomew slowly.
'He knew about Nicholas of York's book. He was with you when you found the friar, and he helped us remove Froissart from the tower. Now we find he is the person to have the only key to the crypt during the time the woman's body disappeared.'
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