An Unholy Alliance (16 page)

‘His neighbour, a MistressJanetta,’ Tulyet said bitterly, ‘although I am uncertain that her testimony is worth a great deal.’

Michael rose to leave. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘You have been most helpful.’

Tulyet gaped at him. “I have?’ he said. ‘You have not told me what you want.’

Michael beamed and clapped him on the shoulder.

‘Keep up the good work,’ he said, his comment designed to antagonise, and he swept out of the room and into the Castle bailey. He sauntered over to the soldiers playing dice.

‘Gambling is a device of the Devil, my children,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Were you playing dice when you should have been watching St Mary’s Church?’

The soldiers exchanged furtive glances. ‘No,’ one lied easily. ‘Froissart did not leave. The only person to go in or out was the friar.’

‘What friar?’ asked Michael, feeling his interest quicken.

‘The friar that visited Froissart in the church,’ said the soldier with exaggerated patience.

‘What time was this?’ Michael asked.

The soldier squinted up at him. ‘About an hour after the church was locked. It was dark by then, and we did not see him until he was almost on top of us.’ He turned back to his game and threw his dice.

‘Did you know him?’

The soldier shook his head, handing over a few pennies to one of his comrades, who laughed triumphantly. ‘He said his name was Father Lucius, and when he shouted his name, Froissart opened the door and let him in.’

‘What did he look like?’

The soldier shrugged. ‘Like a friar! Mean-looking with a big nose, and a dirty grey robe with the cowl pulled up over his head.’

Michael nodded. If he were wearing a grey robe,

he must have been a Franciscan. ‘Did you see him leave?’

‘Yes. After about an hour. He warned us about

gambling, and left’ The soldier took the dice from his neighbour and threw them again. There was a series of catcalls as he lost a second time.

Michael sketched a quick benediction over them and strolled away. He had enjoyed making Tulyet give him the information he wanted by needling him into indiscretion.

Michael had discovered not only where Froissart lived, but the identity of the neighbour who had witnessed his crime. From Tulyet’s men, Michael had also discovered the identity of Froissart’s murderer: the mysterious friar.

He hummed a song from the taverns that he should not have known, and walked back down the hill a lot more happily than he had walked up it.

He saw Bartholomew talking to two Austin Canons

outside the Hospital of St John the Evangelist as he turned from Bridge Street into the High Street. In fine humour he strolled across and greeted them.

Bartholomew looked at him suspiciously and quickly concluded his conversation with the Canons.

‘What have you been up to?’ Bartholomew asked

suspiciously. ‘You are not usually so cheery after climbing Castle Hill/

Michael toldhim, while Bartholomew listened thoughtfully.

“I know Richard Tulyet. He is not a bad man and, until recently, has been a good Sheriff. I hope you did not offend him. We might need his goodwill at some point’

Michael hastily changed the subject to the Franciscan friar. ‘How many do you know that are mean-looking and have big noses?’ he said.

‘Just about all of them,’ said Bartholomew drily. ‘We have at least five in Michaelhouse who match that description.’

Michael laughed. ‘Shall we go and visit your Janetta, and Froissart’s family?’ he asked.

‘We shall not!’ said Bartholomew feelingly. ‘It will be dark soon, and I have no desire to be there after curfew. De Wetherset’s men can bring them to us

tomorrow. I have had enough for today, and we

have a very early start tomorrow when we exhume

Nicholas.’

They began to walk back to Michaelhouse, stopping on the way for Michael to buy a large apple pie from a baker hastening to sell the last of his produce before trading ceased for the day. The sun was beginning to set, and weary tradesmen and apprentices were trailing in from the Fair.

‘So Froissart knew his murderer,’ said Michael, his mouth full.

‘Possibly,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is not absolutely certain that the Franciscan killed him. If Froissart allowed the Franciscan into the church, he may have let others in too while the soldiers were busy with their dice. And would one mean-looking friar have the strength to carry Froissart up to the tower and nail him to the bell frame?’

“I wonder whether Froissart fled up your path between the bushes from the scene of his crime to the church?’

mused Michael. “I wonder why Janetta of Lincoln went to such pains to hide it? Knowing what we do, I suspect that the only reason she intervened when the mob attacked you was because she is intelligent enough to know that two murders - yours and Froissart’s wife - within a few days of each other might bring the unwanted attention of Tulyet’s officers into her small domain. The death of Froissart’s wife may have saved you, Matt’

Bartholomew sighed. “I want to read some Hippocrates tonight before the light fades completely. You could go to the Franciscan Friary and see if anyone there attended Froissart on the night of his death. The Franciscan’s visit might be entirely innocent, and we should at least try to find out’

Michael rubbed his hands. ‘It is turning chilly,’ he said, ‘and not a red cloud to be seen. It will be raining when you dig up poor Nicholas tomorrow morning, Matt. You mark my words.’

THE PORTER WAS ASLEEP IN HIS SMALL OFFICE when Bartholomew unbarred the wicket gate and stepped out into the lane long before dawn

the following day. The night before, Kenyngham had enquired about the investigation concerning the body in the University chest, and Michael had given him a brief outline of what had happened, dutifully omitting any reference to Froissart and Nicholas’s book. Kenyngham mentioned that the Chancellor had asked that they be relieved of teaching until further notice, a request of which he did not approve. It was relatively easy to find teachers of theology to take Michael’s place, but there was no one who could teach medicine.

Kenyngham instructed them to complete the business as soon as possible and to return to their obligations at the College.

“I am uncomfortable with the College becoming

involved in this,’ he had said. ‘The relationship between town and University is unstable, and I do not want Michaelhouse to become a scapegoat. It is bad enough having to share St Michael’s Church with Physwick Hostel - the Chancellor and both Proctors have

connections there, and none but Jonstan are popular men.’

Bartholomew agreed. ‘Perhaps relations may improve once the killer of these women is caught.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Kenyngham. ‘The man Tulyet allowed to escape.’ Bartholomew and Michael exchanged a glance.

‘That is not helping with University-town relations either.

There is a rumour that he is being sheltered by one of the Colleges because the university does not approve of students visiting prostitutes.’

‘That is an unreasonable assumption,’ said Bartholomew.

‘Women will always sell themselves so long as there is a demand.’

‘I am not questioning the logic of the rumour, but of the damage it might do to us,’ said Kenyngham, more impatiently than Bartholomew had heard him speak before. He must be concerned indeed, Bartholomew realised, for there was little that usually disturbed the gentle Gilbertine’s equanimity.

Kenyngham continued. ‘Michaelhouse is already the target for evil happenings. That business with the back gate worries me. We were lucky you and Cynric were to hand to save us all from being burned in our beds.

Do you have any ideas as to why an attack should be aimed at us?’

Bartholomew and Michael shook their heads. ‘It

could only have been meant as some kind of warning,’

said Michael. ‘Perhaps it was not aimed at

Michaelhouse at all, but at someone who uses the lane.’

‘Really?’ asked Kenyngham doubtfully. ‘Like one of the merchants going to the wharves by the river?’

‘It is possible,’ said Michael. ‘Such pyrotechnics need wood, and our gate is the only wood available.’

Kenyngham sighed. ‘Well, I do not like it. I have asked that the Proctors set a beadle at the back gate until all this is resolved, and have stipulated that no one is allowed out of College after curfew for any reason except you two. The Bishop would not approve of me confining his best spy,’ he said to Michael, ‘and your work among the poor, Matthew, is very beneficial in maintaining good relations between us and the townspeople. So just remember that when you dispense some of your outlandish treatments. You might consider being more orthodox until this business is resolved.’

Bartholomew looked at him in bemusement, uncertain whether to be angry or amused that his work among the sick was being used as a political tool to placate the townspeople.

He mulled over Kenyngham’s words as he waited for Michael and Cynric to join him, and glanced up at the low clouds that drenched the town with heavy rain. Michael’s prediction had been right. Bartholomew pulled up the hood of his cloak and paced restlessly. The more he thought about what they were about to do, the more he felt it was terribly wrong. He was not averse to performing the exhumation in itself-he had seen far worse sights in his life - but he was afraid of the diseases the corpse might unleash. While he did not believe that supernatural powers opened the graves of the dead to bring the plague, he was reluctant to dismiss the rumour out of hand. When the consequences of an action might be as potentially devastating as a return of the plague, any risk, however small, was simply too great. He almost yelled out as a shadow glided up to him from behind.

‘Easy, lad,’ said Cynric, his teeth glinting white in a brief smile in the gloom.

‘Do you have the lamp and rope?’ Bartholomew asked, to hide his nervousness.

‘And spades,’ said Cynric. ‘Stay here while I rouse that fat monk. He is probably still asleep.’

Bartholomew cursed softly as the first trickle of cold water coursed down the back of his neck. He closed his eyes against a sharp gust of wind that blew stinging rain into his face. What better conditions for an exhumation?

he thought morosely. He remembered the murderer of the town prostitutes, the friar, and Froissart, and looked around uneasily. He hoped the night was sufficiently foul for murderers to want to be in their beds.

He almost cried out a second time as a heavy hand dropped onto his shoulder.

‘Master Jonstan!’ said Michael cheerfully, approaching and addressing the Junior Proctor who had given

Bartholomew the fright. ‘Were you told we have business tonight?’

Jonstan nodded. ‘I have the licence here, signed by the Chancellor and the Bishop,’ he said, waving a folded piece of vellum at them.

‘Wonderful!’ muttered Bartholomew irritably to

Michael, his heart still thudding from the shock the Junior Proctor had given him. ‘We may be about to risk the lives of hundreds of people by exhuming corpses, but all is well as long as we do so legally.’

‘Believe me, Matt, I am as reluctant to do this as you are,’ Michael replied. ‘But the Chancellor has issued an order, and the Bishop’s signature is confirmation that we have no alternative but to comply. Moaning about it will do no good at all.’

He took the bucket and a length of rope from Cynric, and set off up the lane towards St Mary’s Church. Jonstan slipped away to instruct his beadles to stay at the College until he returned, while Bartholomew picked up a spade and trailed morosely after Michael, wishing the rain would stop. The single trickle of cold water down his back seemed to have developed into a deluge, and he was already shivering uncontrollably.

The others caught up with him, and they made their way silently to where St Mary’s Church was a looming shadow against the dark sky. Father Cuthbert was waiting for them in the shelter of the porch, a huge black shape huddled up on a bench.

‘Gilbert marked the grave with a rag on a stick,’ he said, pulling a voluminous cloak around him against the cold. ‘It is over there.’

‘.Are you certain it is the right one?’ asked Bartholomew, aware of the priest’s nervousness. He did not wish to dig up the wrong grave - especially since some of the first plague victims had been buried in the churchyard.

Cuthbert nodded quickly, and withdrew further into the shadows of the porch. He clearly had no intention of leaving his shelter to brave the elements, or to be directly involved in the unpleasant task that lay ahead.

Bartholomew could not find it in his heart to condemn him for his attitude.

Cynric set up the lamp where it would be out of the rain, while Bartholomew took a spade and began to dig, grateful that Nicholas of York had not been considered important enough to have been given a tombstone that they would have had to move.

‘No!’ Father Cuthbert’s voice was a hoarse cry. ‘Not that one! The next one!’

Bartholomew peered at the mound Cuthbert indicated from the shelter of the porch. ‘But this is the one that is marked.’

Cuthbert, reluctantly, left the porch, and came to stand next to the marker. ‘It has been moved,’ he said, surprised. ‘Wretched children, I expect. I saw a group of them playing here late yesterday afternoon. That is the grave you need to dig, not this one.’

‘How can you be sure?’ asked Bartholomew, his

resentment at the task imposed on him growing by the moment.

‘Because when I said the funeral service for Nicholas, I stood under that tree, and water dripped down the back of my neck during the whole ceremony. I remember it clearly. I would not have stood so far away if he had been buried in this grave. I think this one is Mistress Archer’s …’

‘And she died of the plague,’ Bartholomew finished for him, remembering her death vividly, one of the first he had witnessed. He shuddered. ‘Really, Father, this affair is foolishness itself. Can we not merely assume the worst and say that Nicholas, too, was murdered? And then we can dispense with this distasteful business.’

Cuthbert gave a heavy sigh. ‘Believe me, gentlemen, I tried as hard as you did to dissuade the Chancellor from this course of action, but he was immovable. I suspect the Bishop is behind it, and the Chancellor has little choice in the matter. Look,’ he said, taking Bartholomew by the shoulder, ‘you know what to expect, and you know how to avoid contamination. It is better that you do this than some of the beadles, who might well spread infection without realising what they are doing.’