feeling sweat begin to form on his face and back.
With a small thump, something landed on the chest.
The man had tossed something on to it. Bartholomew released pent-up breath slowly: someone would hardly put something on the lid if he intended to open it. He forced himself to relax and watched as the man began to walk around the chamber. The man began to whistle again. Bartholomew saw him wrench an old sconce from the wall with a creak of ancient metal and try a new one for size. It evidently did not fit, for there was an irritable pause in the whistling and one or two grunts could be heard as force was applied.
The man came back to the chest and Bartholomew heard the clink of metal. It had been his tools he had put there. A few moments later, there came the sound of metallic rasping as something was filed into shape. The sconce was tried again, but to no avail. The man advanced on the chest once more, then sat on it heavily.
A loud snap exploded in Bartholomew's ears as the pottery handle broke under the man's weight. Bartholomew heard him curse and stand to inspect the chest. By now, Bartholomew almost wished he would be discovered, just to end the unbearable tension. The lid had been forced down over the broken handle, which was now wedged firmly between the lid and the side of the chest. With horror, Bartholomew saw the man's fingers curl under the lid as he attempted to prise it open.
Fortunately for Bartholomew, the attempt was a halfhearted one; with a grunt, the man gave up and sat down again, forcing the lid to jam further shut with his weight. The whistling was resumed, accompanied by filing in time with the rhythm of the tune. It seemed to go on for ever. Bartholomew eased himself into a slightly more comfortable position and waited.
Alter an age, a voice drifted down into the chamber.
The workman called back, and Bartholomew heard them share a joke about the eccentricity of a mistress who wanted new sconces fitted in rooms that nobody used.
At last, the man seemed happy with the sconce's fitting, and his whistle receded as he climbed the ladder. There was a deep thump as the upper trapdoor was dropped into place and then there was silence.
Taking a deep breath, Bartholomew pressed his back to the lid of the chest and pushed. Nothing happened.
He tried again but the lid was stuck fast. Bartholomew felt his heart begin to pound and his mouth go dry.
What could he do? He could hardly call for help! He took several deep breaths and concentrated on using even ounce of his strength in forcing the lid to open, lust when it seemed the task was impossible, and he was on the verge of giving up in despair, it flew up with a tremendous crash that reverberated all around the small chamber. Bartholomew winced at the noise and stood shakily, his legs wobbling and burning with cramp and tension. And came face to face with Cecily Lydgate.
As Cecily opened her mouth to scream, Bartholomew raised his hands in a desperate gesture to beg her silence, and saw that he still clutched the rusty knife that had been at the bottom of the chest. In the light from the lamp in the new sconce — that Cecily had evidently been in the process of lighting — he saw that it was not rusty at all, but thickly coated in dried blood.
Cecilv saw the knife, too, and the scream died before it reached her throat. She looked at Bartholomew with a rank fear that sickened him. Unsteadily, he climbed out of the chest and walked towards her. His blood began to circulate again, sending unpleasant buz/ing sensations down his arms and legs. He longed to be away from this dank cellar and its vile secrets.
'What will you do with me?' Cecily asked, her bulging eves flicking from Bartholomew's face to the knife in his hand.
'N'othing, if you do not shout,' Bartholomew replied, wondering how he could extricate himself from the Situation without harm to either of them.
They were both silent while Bartholomew moved his weight from foot to foot to try to speed up the process of easing his cramp.
'Master Bigod's retainers are looking for you outside,' she said finally.
Bartholomew grimaced. 'Because the villagers told them I had come?'
Cecily nodded, her eyes fixed on the knife. 'But they will not think to look here. My husband said you were clever.'
Not a great compliment from one whose intellect Bartholomew did not rate highly. He said nothing, but closed the chest so he could sit on it. Cecily stayed where she was.
'Why are you here, Mistress?' he asked, gesturing around the gloomy basement. 'It can scarcely compare with your handsome house in the town.'
Her pale grey eyes suddenly filled with tears that dropped down her wrinkled cheeks. 'I am safe here.'
'Safe from whom?' asked Bartholomew, although he had already guessed at the answer.
'Safe from him. From Thomas.'
'Do you think your husband would harm you?' Bartholomew asked. He was not surprised she was afraid:
Lydgate seemed to be a man who might resort to violence if it suited him.
'He killed Dominica!' she said in a sudden wail, muffling her face in one of her wide sleeves. Bartholomew cast a nervous glance up at the trapdoor. If she carried on so, someone would come to investigate. He thought about her accusation. Could it be true? Lydgate had no alibi for the night that Dominica had died. Indeed, he had worse than no alibi: he had given one that had proven to be false. Could Lydgate have killed his daughter? Was his appearance at her grave remorse, rather than grief? He o-lanced at the knife in his hand, some of the dried blood t-›.staining his palm, and wondered whether it had been used on Dominica. He almost cast it away from him in disgust, but if he were unarmed, Cecily would certainly raise the alarm.
Once the matter was out in the open, Cecily began to talk with evident relief. 'As soon as the riots started most of the students left, spoiling for mischief. I was grateful Dominica was safe, away from the town. Then Edred came back, breathless and limping and said he had seen her in the company of a man near the Market Square. Thomas was furious. He knew she had been seeing a student but she would not tell us which one. Thomas set out into the night, and I followed, hoping to find her first so that I could warn her.'
She paused, wiping first her eyes, then her nose, on the ample material of her sleeves. 'I went to all the places where I thought she might be — her friends, a cousin, the church. And then I saw Thomas, standing with his dagger dripping, and Dominica lying there with her clothes all drenched in blood. There was a man there, too, also dead — her lover, I presume. Thomas did not see me. I ran to Maud's, and Thomas Bigod ordered one of his servants to bring me here.'
'Is this where you kept Dominica before she died?' Bartholomew asked, gesturing to the underground chamber and trying to force his bewildered mind to make sense of the details.
'Yes, with the chest across the trapdoor. But she got out when a sen-ant brought her food. The servant claimed she stabbed him but I do not believe Dominica could do such a thing.'
Bartholomew and Cecilv simultaneously looked at the bloodstained knife. Cecily's hands flew to her throat. But the poor girl had been kept a prisoner in the painted dungeon, so who could blame her for using violent means to escape? Bartholomew thought Dominica must have disposed of the knife in the chest before she left.
Bartholomew did not doubt that Cecily believed the story she had related to him, but was what she saw really what had happened? He had seen no stab wounds on Dominica — assuming she was Joanna, of course — and so if Lydgate had killed her, it had not been with his blood-dripping knife. But two students had died from knife wounds that night, although, whatever Cecily might believe, neither of them could have been Dominica's lover because James Kenzie had been murdered the night before. And who had raped Dominica? Surely not Lydgate!
Bartholomew was certain that Lydgate might kill given the right circumstances — for a short while he had given serious consideration to the possibility that Lydgate might have killed Cecily, and was only claiming she had left him to explain her sudden absence. And he definitely had something to hide, or why would he be so hostile to Michael and his inquiries, and give Tulyet a false alibi?
Bartholomew recalled Tulyet saying that Cecily's room had appeared to have been ransacked. When he asked her about it, thinking she would confirm his suspicion that she had done it herself in her haste to pack up a few belongings, she denied that she had returned to the hostel after seeing the dead Dominica. In fact, she was horrified.
'Did you see it?' she cried. 'Did they take anything?'
