lives do not take tables and chairs with them.'
The conversation was cut short as the Master rose to say grace at the end of the meal, and the Fellows filed in silence from the hall. As soon as they were out, Michael winked at Bartholomew and headed off towards the kitchens to scavenge left-overs. The students clattered noisily down the stairs into the yard, followed by the commoners. There had been ten commoners at Michaelhouse before the plague, but the numbers were now down to four, all old men who had devoted their lives to teaching for the College and were rewarded with board and lodging for the remainder of their lives. Bartholomew went to pay his customary call on one of them, a Cistercian in his seventies called Brother Alban. Alban grinned toothlessly at Bartholomew as the physician rubbed warmed oil into his arthritic elbow, and began to talk in graphic terms about the murder of the prostitutes. As always, Bartholomew was amazed at how the old man managed to acquire his information. He never left the College, yet always seemed to be the first to hear any news from outside. Occasionally, Bartholomew found his love of gossip offensive, but tried to be tolerant since the poor man had little else to do. Although he could still read, Alban's elbow7 prevented him from producing the splendid illustrated texts for which he had once been famous. Bartholomew occasionally saw the old man leafing wistfully through some of his magnificent work, and felt sorry for him.
'There will be yet more murders,' Alban said with salacious enjoyment. 'Just you see. The Sheriff is less than worthless at tracking this criminal down.'
'And I suppose you know who the murderer is,' asked Bartholomew drily, finding the discussion distasteful. He poured more oil into the palm of his hand, and continued to massage it into the swollen joint.
Alban scowled at him. 'Cheeky beggar,' he muttered.
'No, I do not know who the murderer is, but if I were your age, I would find out!'
'And how would you do that?' said Bartholomew, more to side-track Brother Alban from his lurid and fanciful descriptions of the killer's victims than to solicit a sensible answer.
'I would go to the churches of St John Zachary or All Saints'-next-the-Cas tie, and I would find out,' said Alban, tipping his head back and fixing Bartholomew with alert black eyes.
'Why those churches?' said Bartholomew, nonplussed.
The old monk sighed heavily and looked at Bartholomew as he might an errant student. 'Because they have been decommissioned,' he said.
After the plague, the fall in the population meant that there were not enough people to make use of all existing churches, and many had been decommissioned. Some were pulled down, or used as a source of stone; others were locked up to await the day when they would be used again. Two such were St John Zachary and All Saints'-next-the-Castle. At the height of the plague, the entire population north of the river next to the Castle had died. Bartholomew had burned down the pathetic hovels there so that they would not become a continuing source of infection for the town. People claimed that the site of the settlement and All Saints' Church were haunted, and few people went there.
'So?' said Bartholomew, his attention to the conversation wavering as he concentrated on Alban's arm.
'Do you know nothing?' said Alban, more than a touch of gloating in his voice.
Bartholomew flexed the old man's elbow. 'I know that your arm is improving.' He was pleased. The old man could bend it further than he had been able to a week ago, and seemed to be in less pain. Typically, Alban was more interested in his gossip.
'There are works of the Devil performed in the churches,' he crowed, 'and I am willing to wager you will find out from them who is killing these whores.'
'Works of the Devil!' scoffed Bartholomew dismissively.
'Always the excuse for the crimes of people!' 'I mean witchcraft, Matthew,' said Alban primly. 'It goes on in those two churches, and a good many others too, I imagine. I do not need to tell you why. People are wondering why they should pray to a God that did not deliver them from the Death, and so they are turning to other sources of power. It is the same all over England.
The murder of these harlots is symptomatic of a sickening society.'
Bartholomew finished his treatment of Alban's arm and left the old man's chatter with some relief. He had heard about the increase in witchcraft, but had given it little thought. Brother Michael had mentioned it once or twice, and it had sparked a fierce debate one night among the Franciscans, but Bartholomew had not imagined that it would occur in Cambridge. Perhaps Alban was right; he often was with his gossip. Bartholomew decided to ask whether Cynric knew anything about it, and, if he did, he would suggest to Sheriff Tulyet that he might consider asking questions about the murders in the churches of St John Zachary and All Saints'-next-the-Castle.
Michael was waiting for him in the yard and reluctantly Bartholomew followed him out of the gates to interview the clerks. The sun was hot and Bartholomew shed his black scholar's tabard and stuffed it in his bag. He knew he could be fined by the Proctors for not wearing it, but considered the comfort of wearing only leggings and a linen shirt worth the possible expense. Brother Michael watched enviously and pulled uncomfortably at the voluminous folds of his own heavy gown.
At St Mary's Church, they saw that the body of the dead friar had been laid out in the Lady Chapel. Bartholomew walked over to it and looked again at the small cut at the base of his thumb that had caused his death.
Michael sought out the lay-brother who had locked the church the night before, a mouselike man with eyes that roved in different directions. He was clearly terrified.
Bartholomew led him away to talk, but the man's eyes constantly strayed in the direction of the dead friar.
'What time did you lock the church last night?' asked Bartholomew gently.
The man audibly gulped and seemed unable to answer. Michael became impatient.
'Come on! We do not have all day!'
The man's knees gave out and he slid down the base of a pillar and crouched on the floor, casting petrified glances around him. Bartholomew knelt next to him.
'Please try to remember,' he said. 'It is important.'
The man reached out and grabbed his sleeve, pulling him close to whisper in his ear. 'At dusk,' he said, glancing up at the imposing figure of Michael with huge eyes. Michael raised his eyes heavenward, and went to gather together the other clerks with whom they would need to talk, leaving Bartholomew alone to question the lay-brother.
'At dusk,' the man repeated, watching Michael's retreating back with some relief. 'I doused the candles and went to see that the catches on the windows were secure. I put the bar over the sanctuary door as usual, and checked that the tower door was locked.'
'How did you do that?' asked Bartholomew.
The lay-brother made a motion with his hands that indicated he had given it a good shake. 'Then I made sure the sanctuary light was burning and left. I locked the door behind me and gave the keys to Father Cuthbert.'
'Why did Father Cuthbert not lock the church himself?' asked Bartholomew.
'He does when he can. But he has pains in his ankles sometimes, so I lock up when he cannot walk.'
Bartholomew nodded. He had often treated Father Cuthbert for swollen ankles, partly caused by the great pressure put on them by his excess weight, and partly, Bartholomew suspected, caused by a serious affinity for fortified wines.
'Did you notice anything unusual?' he asked.
The man shook his head hesitantly, and Bartholomew was certain he was lying.
'It would be better if you told me what you know,' he said quietly. He saw sweat start to bead on the man's upper lip. Then, before he could do anything to stop him, the man dived out of Bartholomew's reach and scuttled out of the church. Bartholomew ran after him and saw him disappear into the bushes in the churchyard.
He followed, ignoring the way the dense shrubs scratched at his arms. There seemed to be a small path through the undergrowth, faint from lack of use, but a distinct pathway nevertheless. Bartholomew crashed along it and suddenly found himself in one of the dismal alleys that lay between the church and the market-place, his feet skidding in the dust as he came to a halt.
This was one of the poorest areas of the town, a place where no one valuing his safety would consider entering after dark. The houses were no more than rows of wooden frames packed with dried mud. One or two of the better ones had ill-fitting doors to keep out the elements, but most only had a blanket or a piece of leather to
