An Unholy Alliance (44 page)

“I have no idea what you are talking about,’ said Jonstan. He appealed to Michael with Tulyet behind him. ‘He has gone insane!’

Bartholomew dropped Jonstan back into his chair.

‘Where are your bloodstained clothes, Jonstan?’ he said. He began to look around the kitchen. ‘I have seen the bodies of your victims. You must have been covered in blood when you came home. What were

you wearing?’ He grabbed a bucket and upended its contents onto the floor, and then began to open the doors to the cupboards.

Jonstan rose unsteadily to his feet, favouring his injured ankle. ‘Stop him!’ he said to Tulyet. ‘He cannot barge into my home and start going through my possessions!

Arrest him! Brother, he is your friend. Stop him before I decide to press charges!’

Tulyet took hold of Bartholomew’s shoulder, but

was shaken off angrily. Michael made a half-hearted attempt to stop his friend as he went towards the small scullery.

Jonstan limped across the floor after Bartholomew.

‘Stop!’ he almost screamed. ‘You have no right!’

Bartholomew grabbed something and pushed it into Jonstan’s face. It was a bloodstained hose. ‘What is this?’

he snarled.

Jonstan’s face was an unhealthy colour. “I cut myself,’

he said. “I was going to wash that this afternoon.’

‘Show me where you cut yourself, Master Jonstan,’

said Bartholomew, clenching his fists to stop them from grabbing the Proctor by the throat.

“I will do no such thing. I am a Proctor of the University and you are under my jurisdiction. Brother, take your colleague back to his College and lock him away where he can do no more harm,’ said Jonstan, pushing Michael towards Bartholomew.

Bartholomew wrenched the doors open on another

cupboard and rummaged inside. He held up an assortment of women’s shoes. The victims Bartholomew had

seen had their shoes removed so that the little circle could be painted on their feet.

‘Where did you get these?’ he demanded, hurling one at Jonstan.

‘They belong to my mother, not that it is any of your business,’ said Jonstan.

Bartholomew continued his prowling and bent to

retrieve another article of clothing from where it had been hurled into a corner. He held it up so that Michael and Tulyet could see the huge dark blotches that stained Jonstan’s tabard.

“I told you I cut myself,’ said Jonstan. ‘You go too far, Doctor. Leave my house at once!’

‘Show me the cut that produced this much blood, and I will leave,’ said Bartholomew.

Tulyet looked from the bloodstained tabard to Jonstan and began to move towards him. Jonstan made a sudden dive into the scullery, slamming the door closed, locking Michael and Tulyet in the kitchen. He turned to Bartholomew and brandished a knife coated thickly with clotting blood. He lunged towards Bartholomew, who countered his blow with a small stool he had grabbed.

One of the legs bounced to the floor and Bartholomew began to back away.

‘Harlot-lover! ‘Jonstan hissed. “I knowhowyou visit that filthy Matilde, and I know how you secreted the ditcher’s daughter away, thinking to keep her from me!’

A great crash shook the kitchen door as Michael and Tulyet began to batter it down. Jonstan ignored it.

‘My mother warned me about men who go with

whores,’ he said, limping closer to Bartholomew. ‘And she told me the Death would come again as long as we did not learn from our sins and continued to allow the whores to roam.’

There was another crash from the kitchen door.

Jonstan darted forward and made a feint to his right with the knife. Bartholomew swung wildly with the stool, and remembered that Jonstan was well trained in hand-to-hand fighting. He was not a Proctor, prowling the streets at night for miscreant scholars, for nothing.

He had doubtless wrestled many a reluctant student back to his lodgings. Before he realised what was happening, Bartholomew felt one arm bent painfully behind him and saw the knife flash at the same time that there was a third crash from the locked door. He saw the hinges begin to give, as he squirmed sideways using every ounce of his strength. Jonstan’s knife stabbed harmlessly into his bag. Jonstan wrenched it free but did not relinquish his hold on Bartholomew’s arm.

As the door flung open, Jonstan calmly held the

knife to Bartholomew’s throat and smiled at Michael and Tulyet. They stopped dead. Bartholomew began to struggle, but Jonstan merely pressed the knife more firmly to his throat.

‘This is a sharp knife, gentlemen,’ he said. “I have reason to know.’

‘Let him go, Alric,’ said Michael softly. ‘You cannot escape now.’

‘He is a lover of whores,’ said Jonstan again. ‘And that is not appropriate behaviour for a scholar. I am a Proctor and it is my duty to see that he does not do it again. My mother would not be pleased to hear that I had let him escape.’

‘Your mother is dead,’ said Michael, He began to move towards Jonstan, but stopped as he lifted the knife, preparing to strike.

‘Stay back! My mother is upstairs. She will come down soon to see what all this noise is about. She will not be pleased to see what you have done to her door.’

Bartholomew felt Jonstan grip him tighter still. He saw that Jonstan was sufficiently unbalanced that if Michael or Tulyet made a move towards him, he would not

hesitate to kill. Gritting his teeth against the ache in his arm, Bartholomew began to undo the strap on his medical bag.

-.‘Why did you kill all those women?’ asked Tulyet, seeing what Bartholomew was doing and trying to buy him time.

‘My mother told me to,‘Jonstan replied.

‘That is not possible,’ said Tulyet. ‘Your mother died before the first of your victims was killed.’

“I told you, she is upstairs,’ said Jonstan with exaggerated patience.

Bartholomew had his hand inside the bag and began to feel around.

‘Were you a member of one of the guilds?’ asked

Michael, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on Jonstan’s face so he would not betray what Bartholomew was doing.

“It is against the University regulations to be in a guild,’

said Jonstan. ‘And I most certainly was not a member of a coven.’

‘But what about the Guild of the Holy Trinity?’ asked Michael. Then like Richard Harling believe as you do that continued sin will bring about a return of the Death.’

Bartholomew had what he wanted and was struggling to open the packet with out making it rustle. Jonstan made a dismissive gesture at Michael, who licked dry lips.

‘If you were not a member of the covens, why did you kill Sybilla before new moon as the high priest demanded?’ he asked.

“I did nothing of the kind,’ said Jonstan. “It was time for another whore to die - one every ten days so they will all be gone before Christmas - and that is why she died, not because that raving maniac in the mask told me to do it.’ He took the knife away from Bartholomew’s throat but put it back again when Tulyet made a move forward.

Jonstan continued matter-of-factly. “I killed them because my mother did not like whores patrolling the streets outside her home. You must appreciate that the Death will return if we do not take steps to eradicate evil from our land. We have been warned, and God will send another plague to destroy us if we continue to sin.’

‘Why did you draw a circle on the feet of the victims?’

asked Tulyet, seeing beads of sweat breaking out on Jonstan’s face, and desperately trying to keep him talking.

‘Because that was the sign one of the guilds used: a fallen halo. A sign that represented evil seemed an appropriate mark for evil women,’ said Jonstan. He gave a short chuckle and began to move the knife.

‘Matt!’ yelled Michael, leaping forward. Bartholomew hurled the contents of his hand backwards into Jonstan’s face, and struggled free as the Proctor fell back, choking and flailing wildly. As the powder began to burn jonstan’s eyes, he dropped the knife and began to cry out, covering his face with his hands. Bartholomew staggered back, while Tulyet kicked the knife out of reach and pushed Jonstan up against the wall.

“I cannot see!‘Jonstan cried, struggling to wrench his arms from Tulyet to rub at his eyes.

‘Neither can Sybilla!’ said Bartholomew quietly, as he left the house.

Later that day, after they had spoken again to de Wetherset and had made formal statements to Tulyet, Bartholomew and Michael sat on the fallen tree next to the wall of the orchard, watching the sun sink down behind the trees. There was a haze of insects in the air, but it was quiet in the orchard, and Bartholomew did not want to answer any more questions that day.

He stretched his legs out in front of him and folded his arms across his chest. Next to him Michael fidgeted to get comfortable as he leaned back.

‘So,’ Michael said. ‘Jonstan acted alone in the murder of the women. He claimed his first victim the day that his mother died, selected a prostitute randomly every ten days or so, and intended to continue so that the town would be free of them by Christmas. He was wholly unconnected with the guilds and selected one of their symbols only because it represented evil to him, in much the same way that the poor prostitutes did.’

Bartholomew was silent. Jonstan’s mad claims had so unsettled him that he had asked Michael to return to Jonstan’s house, just to make certain that there were no ancient mother still living upstairs as Jonstan had maintained. Michael had found no mother, but had found her room laid out as though she would return at any moment to use it.

He watched a blackbird hopping through the grass, eyeing them cautiously with beady, yellow-rimmed eyes.

Michael cracked his knuckles and stretched his arms.

‘So, we were called to investigate the possible death of a friar in the University chest, and we discover that the friar died because the Chancellor did not maintain his locks; that a man was killed and hidden in the bell tower because he saw the Chancellor’s clerk changing his identity; that one of the town’s best-known merchants was using witchcraft and kidnapping to terrify people into helping him gain a monopoly over the dyeing trade; and that the Senior Proctor was insane and was killing the town’s prostitutes. Quite a feat of investigation considering how little we had to go on,’ he said.

They sat for a while longer, watching the red fade from the sky as it grew dark and silent; black bats flitted between the trees. Bartholomew was tired, but did not want to move. The air was cool and pleasant after the long, hot day. His students’ disputations were the next morning, and he did not want them pestering him trying to find out what questions they might be asked.

‘What did you throw at Jonstan?’ asked Michael after a while.

‘Pepper,’ said Bartholomew. He smiled suddenly. “It is not a usual component of my medical supplies, but I was rash enough to ask Deynman to refill some of the bottles and packets that I wanted to replace after my bag was stolen in Primrose Alley. It is not a difficult task, and they are all clearly marked. I use ground mustard seeds for some treatments, but Deynman could not find any because it had all been used to make Walter sick. He gave me pepper instead. I meant to take it out and get the mustard, but never got around to it.’

‘Would mustard have worked?’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘Not nearly as well as pepper.’

A shadow fell across them and Bartholomew looked up to see Boniface. In place of his habit he wore baggy homespun leggings and a dark green tunic. He sat next to them on the fallen tree and looked up to where the bats were feasting on the thousands of insects that hovered in the air.

“I assume you have decided what you wish to do,’ said Bartholomew.

Boniface nodded. ‘I made my confession to Master Kenyngham, and he agreed that I should go home. He said I need time to consider, and that I will be a better friar if I return than if I stay.’

‘Wise advice,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And I imagine you do not wish to be a physician either?’

Boniface grimaced. ‘Never!’ he said. “I only agreed to study medicine to follow in my father’s footsteps.’

‘Your father is a physician?’ said Bartholomew in disbelief. How had a physician managed to sire the surly Boniface, with his rigid ideas about bleeding and treatments?

Boniface nodded. ‘We seldom see eye to eye,’ he added with a wry grin at Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps we might do better now.’

‘You live in Durham, I recall?’ said Bartholomew.

Boniface nodded. ‘Do you have enough money to

travel?’

Boniface shook his head. “I gave it all to Master Kenyngham for my College bill, but I will manage.’

‘Take this,’ said Bartholomew, rummaging in his bag and handing Boniface a package.

‘What is it?’ he asked, taking it warily.

‘Saffron,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Friar Lucius gave it to me. You should be able to sell it for a high price, since it is apparently almost impossible to obtain these days.

It should give you enough to get home.’

‘Saffron!’ exclaimed Boniface, turning the package over in his hands. “I have not seen saffron since before the Death.’ He thrust it back. “I cannot take this from you.’

‘You can,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And if you will not take a gift, you can send the money later. Go, Boniface, before Father William realises you are missing.’

The student turned to leave, and then came back.

‘The Master was right,’ he said, with a sudden smile that made him look young. ‘You are a good man for a heretic!’

He sped off through the trees and they heard the gate slam behind him as he left.

‘Father Lucius gave me some saffron too,’ said

Michael, standing stiffly and stretching.

‘And what did you do with yours, Brother?’ asked Bartholomew, rising and looping his battered bag over his shoulder.

“I gave half to Agatha and half to Lady Matilde,’ said Michael. ‘Agatha will now let me into the kitchen again, while Matilde has promised me a fine meal.’

Since it was a pleasant evening to be out, they

decided to walk along the river and then cut back to Michaelhouse along the High Street. The paths and streets were full of people returning home after a day at the Fair. Bartholomew saw Stanmore’s apprentices pulling a cart, and realised that his brotherin-law’s already considerable fortune was still being made even when he was away chasing murderers and tricksters.