group, and they set off, some singing a bawdy tavern song despite their weariness.
Stanmore continued his dismal analysis on the safety of roads, which had Bartholomew glancing nervously over his shoulder. But despite Stanmore's gloom, they arrived at Michaelhouse without mishap, where Michael went to the kitchen for something to eat, and Bartholomew went straight to bed.
Early the next morning, he was awoken by an insistent knocking on his door, and Eli, the bow-legged College steward, burst in.
'Doctor Bartholomew!' he gasped. 'You must come!
There is a girl dying in our orchard.'
3
He led the way to the orchard that lay behind the kitchen. Agatha knelt in the long grass, leaning over someone lying on the ground.
At a discreet distance, Master Kenyngham stood with Michael, Alcote, Cynric, and Piers Hesselwell.
As Bartholomew approached, he saw the bloodstained sheet that Agatha had used to cover the girl and knew what to expect. Yet another murder of a prostitute, except that this time the murder had not been in a churchyard, but on College property. As he knelt next to her, Agatha caught his wrist, her strong face unusually white. She glanced around to ensure she could not be overheard.
'Only you and I know about this, Matthew,' she said.
'We could keep it that way.'
He gazed at her, bewildered, but she would say no more, and Bartholomew turned his attention to the girl.
He caught his breath in horror as he saw who lay beneath the sheet, and stared at Agatha in shock. She touched his arm and gestured at the figure on the ground, to bring his attention back to Frances de Belem. An attempt had been made to cut her throat, but, although there was a nasty wound there, it had failed to give her a quick death. Bartholomew had no idea how long she had been in the orchard in this condition. Her body was cold, but he could not tell whether it was from the loss of blood, or from lying in the wet grass. Her eyes were closed and blood bubbled through her white lips as she breathed.
Bartholomew sent Cynric to fetch a sense-dulling potion that he kept in a locked chest in the chamber adjacent to his own room. While Cynric was gone, Kenyngham gave last rites. When he had finished, Bartholomew dripped some of the powerful syrup between her teeth, but hoped that she would not regain consciousness to need it. Frances's breathing grew more laboured, and Michael and Alcote knelt, and began intoning prayers of the dying.
Just when Bartholomew thought she would slip away, she opened her eyes and looked at him. Agatha took her hand and crooned comfortingly, while Bartholomew motioned to the clerics to keep their voices down. He leaned close to her to hear what she was trying to whisper.
'I am sorry for what I asked you to do,' she said, her voice little more than a breath.
'No harm was done,' Bartholomew said. 'But who did this to you?'
'It was not a man,' she said in a low voice, her eyes filling with tears. Her hand fluttered to a silver cross she wore around her neck.
When Bartholomew looked from the cross to her face, she was dead. He felt for a life beat, put his cheek close to her mouth to see if he could detect breathing, and covered her with the sheet.
Agatha leaned towards him. 'Will you condemn her as a suicide? Or will you keep silent about what she told us yesterday?'
Before replying, Bartholomew' pulled the sheet from her feet. She wore no shoes and there was the small circle on her left foot. Frances de Belem was too wealthy to go without shoes, so someone must have taken them.
He covered her again, and glanced at Michael. Michael faltered in his prayers as he saw what Bartholomew was doing, and Bartholomew saw Piers Hesselwell look at them strangely as he noticed the exchange.
'She was no suicide, Agatha,' he said softly. 'She was murdered.'
'What?' queried Agatha loudly. 'Here in Michaelhouse?
How do you know?'
'It is not easy to commit suicide by cutting your own throat,' said Bartholomew. And there were the circle on her foot and the missing shoes to consider, he thought.
Agatha hastily crossed herself. She let out a great sigh and muttered something about fetching the porters.
Bartholomew watched her go, the usual aggressive buoyancy gone from her step. Kenyngham and the other Fellows came to form a circle around the dead girl.
'Does anyone know who she was?' Kenyngham asked.
'Frances de Belem,' said Bartholomew, looking up at him.
'The merchant's daughter?' queried Alcote, and then smirked. 'Ah, yes. I had forgotten how you would know that,' he added nastily.
The Master raised his eyebrows and Alcote continued, 'Matthew's sister married well, and her husband is Sir Oswald Stanmore, who owns the large building next to Sir Reginald's house. That is how Matthew knows the daughters of wealthy merchants.'
Bartholomew saw Alcote exchange smug looks with Hesselwell. Was Alcote trying to curry favour with the new Master to advance his own career? If so, his tale-telling had failed to impress Kenyngham, who smiled benignly at Bartholomew and touched him lightly on the head.
'Then I am afraid, Matthew, that you are probably the best man to tell her family what has happened,' he said.
'Does anyone know how she came to be here?'
Vacant looks answered his question until Eli spoke up. 'Mistress Agatha found her here when she came to hang out the washing. She called for me, and I fetched you and the others.'
Bartholomew looked around at the grass. A trail of blood leading to a spot some distance away indicated that Frances had dragged herself from one place to another, perhaps in the hope of reaching Michaelhouse for help.
It had dried, suggesting that she had probably been in the orchard for several hours, and perhaps even since the night before.
'Thank you, Eli,' said Kenyngham, 'but that does not explain how she came to be here in the first place. I doubt that she could have entered through the College, which means that she must have come in through the door that leads out to the lane.'
Cynric had already looked. 'The gate is open,' he said.
'I bar it myself at dusk each night, and so someone inside must have opened it between dusk last night and now.'
'Well,' said the Master, looking round at his Fellows, 'has anyone used the back gate this morning?'
There was silence as the Fellows shook their heads and looked at each other blankly.
'I will ask the students,' said Kenyngham. 'Now, I suggest we return to our duties. Eli and Cynric, take Mistress de Belem to the church with the porters. Master Hesselwell, take Brother Michael to his room: he looks ill. Master Alcote, I would like you to inform the Sheriff and the Chancellor.' As they scurried to do his bidding, he turned to Bartholomew.
'Matthew, I do not envy you your task. Would you like me to come with you?'
Bartholomew thanked him, but felt it was a duty he should perform alone. On his way to Milne Street, he met Stanmore, already heading for the Fair with his apprentices. His good humour evaporated when he learned Bartholomew's news.
'Heaven help us,' he said softly. He grabbed Bartholomew's arm. 'Let me come with you. Reginald and I have had our differences, but he may need me now.'
It was a long time before Bartholomew felt he could leave de Belem's house. Sir Reginald was working in the dim morning light in his solar. He stood when Bartholomew and Stanmore were shown in and came to greet them,
