But Joanna, if Joanna it were, was already dead in the Castle mortuary that morning and Agnes Tyler herself was staying at Jonas's house because her own had been looted.
'Where did Agnes see Joanna?' pressed Bartholomew.
'I do not know,' said Meg. 'She was up early and went off to inspect the damage done to her house. I did not question where they met.'
If they ever met, thought Bartholomew. There was no evidence to suggest that they did, and quite a bit to suggest that they did not.
'One last question,' he said. Meg nodded cautiously, still sniffling. 'Could Joanna write?'
Meg looked taken aback. 'Of course not,' she said. 'Her mother always planned for her to follow in her footsteps and become a dairy-maid at the Abbey. She had no need to learn her letters.'
But Eleanor could write, thought Bartholomew. And someone had written a note, purporting to be from Joanna, to Dunstan's lovesick grandson, perhaps so that her sudden disappearance would not arouse the lad's j suspicion, and cause him to go to Ely to find her. If t Joanna was illiterate, it was unlikely that she would,? have written a note — or even bother to dictate one I to a moonstruck adolescent who could not read. Eleanor Tyler's role in the affair was becoming increasingly susj pect.
Bartholomew made his farewells to Meg and the agi.| tated apothecary. As lie turned to leave the shop the doorway darkened. Against the bright sunlight, a figure: i stood silhouetted.
'Doctor Bartholomew,' said the hulking shape in a loud, confident voice that dripped with loathing. 'And | Brother Michael. I have been searching for you two. We i should talk. Meet me at St Andrew's Church at sunset| tonight.'
The figure moved away, leaving Bartholomew and Michael staring at the empty doorway.
'Well,' said Michael. 'Do we obey this summons and meet Master Lydgate tonight?'
'A summons from the Devil?' asked Bartholomew dubiously.
CHAPTER 10
In a flaming ball of golden orange the sun began to dip behind the orchard walls, bathing the creamy stone of Michaelhouse in a deep russet-red.;
Shadows lengthened, or flickered out altogether and in the distance carts clattered and creaked as farmers and ‹ merchants made their way home at the end of the day.
Michael stood and stretched. 'Ready?' he said, looking down to where Bartholomew was still sitting comfortably! on the fallen tree, his back against the sun-warmed stones «of the orchard wall.
Reluctantly, Bartholomew climbed to his feet, and; followed Michael through the trees to the back gate.'
They let themselves out and walked quickly towards the| High Street. It thronged with people heading for home.l Horses and donkeys drew carts of all shapes and sizes;] and weary apprentices hastened to complete the lastj business before trading ceased for the day. One cartj had lost a wheel in one of the huge pot-holes, andi a fiery argument had broken out between the cart's! owner and those whose path he was blocking. A barking! dog, children's high-pitched taunting of the carter andi a baker's increasingly strident calls to sell the last of his pies, added to the general cacophony.
Bartholomew and Michael ignored the row, squeezing past the offending cart. As they emerged the other side, Bartholomew heard something thud against the wall by his head. Someone had thrown a stone at him! He turned, but Michael's firm hand pulled him on.
'Not a place to linger, my friend,' he muttered. Bartholomew could not but agree. Any large gathering of townspeople, already riled by an incident such as the blockage caused by the broken cart, was not a place for University men to tarry. Bartholomew glanced backwards as they hurried on, glimpsing the owner of the broken cart howling in rage as three or four hefty apprentices tried to shoulder it out of the way.
He paused briefly, frowning at the carter as something clicked into place in the back of his mind, but yielded to Michael's impatient tug on his sleeve. They reached St Andrew's Church without further incident and slipped into its cool, dark interior. Here, the shadows lay thick and impenetrable and the only light was from a cluster of candles near the altar. Michael closed the door, blocking out the noise of the street, while Bartholomew prowled around the church looking for Lydgate.
Bartholomew had not wanted to come to this meeting.
He did not trust Lydgate and did not understand why, after so many protestations of dislike, the man should suddenly want to meet them. Inadvertently, his hand went to the dagger concealed under his tabard, which he had borrowed from the ailing Cynric. He rarely carried weapons but felt justified in bringing one to the meeting with Lydgate, although surely even Lydgate would be loath to commit murder in a house of God? But desperate or enraged men would not stop to consider the sanctity of a church. Even the saint, Thomas а Becket, had not been safe in his own cathedral.
The door gave a sudden creak and Bartholomew instinctively slipped into the shadows behind one of the pillars. Lydgate entered alone, pulling the door closed behind him with a loud bang. He stood for a moment in the gloom, accustoming his eyes to the dark after the brightness of the setting sun outside. Michael approached him and Bartholomew left his hiding place to join them.
Before any greetings could be exchanged, Lydgate pointed a finger at Bartholomew.
'You have many questions to answer, Bartholomew,' he hissed belligerently.
Bartholomew eyed him with distaste. It was not an auspicious start. Even the Principal of a hostel had no authority to speak to him so. But nothing would be served by responding with anger, especially with the blustering Lydgate.
'We have much to discuss with you,' he replied as pleasantly as he could.
Lydgate regarded him with his small blue eyes. 'First,' he began, 'where is Edred?'
Michael spoke before Bartholomew could answer.
'Where is your daughter, Master Lydgate?' he asked.s 'Is she still with your relatives away from Cambridge?'
Bartholomew looked at him sharply. He did not want Michael to mention Cecily's hiding place at Chesterton, even in connection with something else. Although he did not have an overwhelming respect for Lydgate's powers; of reasoning, he did not wish Michael to give him eveni the most obtuse clue that might betray her.
Lydgate seemed nonplussed at Michael's question, and; stood looking from one to the other in confusion, his› hands dangling at his sides. How could such a man,! a lout with poor manners and worse self-control, ever, have become the Principal of a hostel? wondered Bartholomew.
The University clearly needed to review its selection procedures.
'She is…' Lydgate began. He seemed to remember himself. 'Tell me where Brother Edred is lurking. He did not return home this morning.'
This morning?' Michael pounced like a cat. 'Why this morning and not last night? Surely, you do not expect your scholars to return at dawn when they should be safely tucked up in bed all night, Master Lydgate?'
Again the confused look. Bartholomew began to feel tired. It was like having an argument about logic with a baby. Lydgate was incapable of subtlety: he was too brutal and impatient. Bartholomew looked at the great hands hanging at Lydgate's sides. They were large, red and looked strong. Had those hands committed all the murders that Edred had claimed? 'We have much information that might be of interest to each other,' said Michael, relenting. 'Let's sit and talk quietly. Come.'
He led the way to some benches in the Lady Chapel.
Lydgate sat stiffly, unafraid, but wary and alert to danger.
Bartholomew sat opposite him, the hand under his tabard still on the hilt of his dagger. Michael sat next to Bartholomew.
'Now,' the monk said. 'I will begin and tell you what Edred has told us. Then, in turn, you can tell us what you know and together we will try to make sense of it all. Is that fair?'
Lydgate nodded slowly, while Bartholomew said nothing.
The beginnings of a solution, or at least part of one, were beginning to form in his mind, and the implications bothered him. They centred around the carter who had been blocking the High Street.
