surprised but courteous. He was a man in his early fifties, powerfully built, with thick hair that showed no trace of grey. Bartholomew had been with his wife when she had died during the plague a little over a year before.
De Belem stared in disbelief when Bartholomew told him why they had come, and then shook his head firmly.
''The killer takes whores,' he said. 'Frances was not a whore. You are mistaken: it is not her.'
Bartholomew, feeling wretched, met his eyes. 'I am not mistaken,' he said gently.
'But she is not a whore!' protested de Belem.
''The murderer did not know that,' said Stanmore, with quiet reason. 'It was probably dark, and he saw a girl in the streets alone. He must have jumped to the wrong conclusion.'
'How was she killed?' de Belem demanded suddenly, looking at Bartholomew. 'You were with her when she died, you say?'
'With a knife,' said Bartholomew, reluctant to go into detail while de Belem still dealt with the shock of his news.
'Her throat cut?' persisted de Belem.
Bartholomew nodded. There was no point in denying it if de Belem already knew from local gossip.
'Did she say anything?' said de Belem, ashen-faced.
'Was she aware of what had happened to her?'
Bartholomew raised his hands in a gesture of uncertainty.
'What she said made no sense,' he said. 'I had given her some syrup to dull her senses and she was probably delirious.'
'What did she say?' asked de Belem, his voice unsteady.
'That whoever killed her was not a man,' said Bartholomew reluctantly.
De Belem looked bewildered and shook his head slowly, as if trying to clear it. 'What does that mean?' he said. 'What was it? An animal? A devil?'
Bartholomew could think of nothing to say. 'The wound on her throat had been inflicted by a knife, of that he was certain, and Frances's killer was unquestionably human.
Was Brother Alban right, and were the murders of the women part of some satanic ritual? 'Do you have any ideas about why Frances may have been killed?' asked Bartholomew. 'Did she have any arguments with anyone recently?'
De Belem shook his head again, helplessly. 'We were not close,' he said, 'although I loved her dearly. Since my wife died, I have immersed myself in my work, and left her to her own devices. But I can think of no one who meant her harm.'
He paused and put his head in his hands. Stanmore reached out and patted his shoulder.
'Will you catch him for me?' de Belem asked suddenly, looking intently at Bartholomew. 'Will you catch the madman who killed my child?'
Bartholomew was startled. ''I hat is the Sheriffs duty,' he said.
De Belem stood abruptly and gazed down at him. ''The Sheriff is doing nothing to investigate the deaths of the other women. I know you are looking into the dead man found in the University chest. Give that up, and find out who murdered my Frances. I will pay you well.'
'I cannot,' said Bartholomew, disconcerted that his commission for the Chancellor seemed to be common knowledge. 'It is not only beyond my authority, it is beyond my capabilities.'
'You must,' said de Belem, seizing Bartholomew's shoulder with such force he winced. 'Or my daughter's death will go unavenged. 'The Sheriff will do nothing!'
'But how? It is not my affair!' protested Bartholomew.
'Please!' cried de Belem, grasping Bartholomew harder still. 'You and Brother Michael uncovered those murders last year. You will be my only hope!'
Bartholomew thought about Frances's unborn child, and was sorry that her last days had been tainted by unhappiness. She might have been his wife, had he not disobeyed Stanmore's wishes and chosen his own path.
'I will try,' he said finally. 'But anything I discover I will have to pass to the Sheriff.'
'No!' cried de Belem, virtually flinging Bartholomew away from him in his vehemence. ''Tell the Chancellor, or even the Bishop, if you must. But not the Sheriff! He would merely take your information and do nothing with it.'
Bartholomew made him sit down. ''There is no need to be arguing about whom we should inform when, as yet, we have nothing to tell,' he said soothingly.
De Belem relaxed a little, his hands dangling loosely between his knees.
'Why was Frances out alone?' said Bartholomew. 'She must have known that it is not safe at any time, but especially so with this killer at large.'
De Belem stared at him. 'She was a religious girl. She was probably going to mass.'
Bartholomew tried not to appear sceptical, and wondered if he had made a better job of it than Stanmore, who looked openly incredulous.
De Belem saw their expressions and sighed. 'She is gone,' he said to Stanmore. 'What good will come of questioning her actions now? Since her husband died, she has grown wild. I am too busy a man to be constantly chasing after an errant daughter.'
'Do you know why she might have been in Michael house's grounds?' asked Bartholomew.
De Belem shook his head wearily. 'She must have been meeting someone.'
'Do you know who?' asked Bartholomew. He saw de Belem hesitate, but then seem to make up his mind.
'I do not want this to become common knowledge, but I think Frances had a lover. She did not stay out all night — even I could not countenance that — but she did leave early in the morning on occasions. Perhaps she had fallen for an apprentice somewhere, and joined him for his early morning chores.'
Or perhaps she had fallen in love with a scholar, thought Bartholomew, and met him as soon as the gates were opened to allow the academics out for church.
He thought about the area where she died. There was Michaelhouse, of course, and opposite there was Physwick Hostel. King's Hall was a short distance to the north, while Garret Hostel, Clare College, Gonville Hall, and Trinity Hall were to the south. But Michaelhouse and Physwick Hostel were the closest.
It seemed de Belem could tell them no more, and they waited with him until the Sheriffs deputy arrived.
De Belem agreed to speak to him only reluctantly.
Bartholomew was nervous of leaving de Belem with the Sheriffs man in view of the merchant's evident contempt for the Sheriffs competence, but, as he pondered, de Belem's sister arrived full of concern and sympathy, and Bartholomew knew she would prevent any misunderstandings.
They stopped at Stanmore's business premises next door, before Stanmore left for the Fair and Bartholomew returned to his teaching duties at Michaelhouse.
Stanmore ordered that a fire be built in the solar, for, despite the fact that it was summer, the day seemed chilly. He and Bartholomew sat in front of the flames and sipped some mulled ale.
'Have you heard about witchcraft being on the increase in Cambridge?' Bartholomew asked, partly to change the subject from Frances and partly for information.
Stanmore had a network of informants who kept him up to date with the various happenings in the town.
There have been rumours, yes,' said Stanmore. 'A religion where fornication, drunkenness, and violent acts are regarded as acceptable will have a certain appeal to people frustrated with being urged to practise moderation and told that the injustices of their lives are God's will.' He stared into the fire. * 'What about in Cambridge?' Bartholomew tried to get comfortable on the wooden chair.
'I have heard that lights have been seen moving about All Saints' Church in the depths of the night.
Many superstitious people think that part of the town is haunted. If you had not burned down those houses with the people still in them, the site of that settlement would not be so feared.'
''The people were dead, Oswald!' said Bartholomew, angry at the misrepresentation of fact. 'And no one wanted the task of taking the bodies to bury them in the plague pit! What would you have done? Left them there to rot and further infect the town?'
