without even listening to his reasons. Harling had black hair that was always neatly slicked down with animal grease, and his scholar's tabard was immaculate.
The messenger was waiting for them outside. It was lighter than in the church, and Bartholomew recognised the neat, bearded features of the Chancellor's personal clerk, Gilbert.
'What has happened?' asked Michael, intrigued. 'What is so important that it could not wait until after mass?'
'A dead man has been found in the University chest,'
Gilbert replied. Ignoring their looks of disbelief, he continued, 'The Chancellor ordered me to fetch Brother Michael, the Bishop's man, and Matthew Bartholomew, the physician.'
'Not the plague!' whispered Bartholomew in horror.
He grabbed Gilbert's arm. 'How did this man die?'
Gilbert forced a smile. 'Not the plague. I do not know what killed him, but it was not the plague.'
Harling pursed his lips. 'This sounds like business for the Proctor.'
Gilbert raised his hands. 'The Junior Proctor is already there. He said you had been on duty last night, and you should not be disturbed until later.'
He turned, and set a lively pace towards St Mary's Church, so that the obese Michael was huffing and sweating within a few moments.
Bartholomew nudged the Benedictine monk in the ribs. ' 'Brother Michael, the Bishop's man',' he repeated in an undertone. 'A fine reputation to have, my friend.'
Michael glowered at him. A year and a half before, he had agreed to become an agent of the Bishop of Ely, the churchman who had jurisdiction over the University since Cambridge had no cathedral of its own. Michael was to be alert to the interests of the Church in the town, and especially to the interests of the Benedictines, since Ely was a Benedictine monastery. There was a small hostel for Benedictines studying at the University, but the four monks that lived there were more concerned with their new-found freedom than the interests of their Order.
Bartholomew began to feel uncomfortable. The chest was where all the University's most important documents were stored, and the series of locks and bolts that protected it in the church tower was rumoured to be formidable. So who had broken through all that security?
What sinister plot had the University embroiled itself in this time? And perhaps more to the point, how could Bartholomew prevent it from sucking him in, too?
The Church of St Mary the Great was an imposing building of creamy-white stone that dominated the High Street. Next to its delicate window tracery and soaring tower, St Michael's looked squat and grey. Yet, Bartholomew had heard that there were plans to rebuild the chancel and replace it with something grander and finer still.
Bartholomew had barely caught up with the clerk when they reached St Mary's. Standing to one side, wringing his hands and throwing fearful glances at the tower was St Mary's priest, Father Cuthbert, an enormously fat man whom Bartholomew treated for swollen ankles. A small group of clerks huddled around the door talking in low voices. The Chancellor, Richard de Wetherset, stood in the middle of them, a stocky man with iron-grey hair, who exuded an aura of power. He stepped forward as Bartholomew and Michael approached, allowing himself a brief smile at Michael's breathlessness.
'Thank you for being prompt, gentlemen.' He turned to Harling. 'Master Jonstan is already here, Richard. I was loathe to disturb you when you had been up all night.'
Harling inclined his head. 'But I am Senior Proctor, and should be present at a matter that sounds so grave.'
De Wetherset nodded his thanks, and beckoned Bartholomew, Michael, and Harling out of earshot of the gathered clerks. 'I am afraid someone has been murdered in the tower. Doctor, I would like you to tell me a little more about how and when he died, and you, Brother, must report this incident accurately to our Lord the Bishop.'
He began to walk through the churchyard, raising a hand to prevent the gaggle of clerks, and Cynric, from following them. Michael and Harling followed quickly, Father Cuthbert and Bartholomew a little more slowly. Bartholomew felt his stomach churn. At times, the University could be a seething pit of intrigue, and Bartholomew had no wish to become entangled in it. It would demand his time and his energies when he should be concentrating all his efforts on his teaching and his patients. The plague had left Cambridge depleted of physicians, and there was an urgent need to replace those who had died all over the country. Bartholomew considered the training of new physicians the most important duty in his life.
St Mary's was still dark inside, and the Chancellor took a torch from a sconce on the wall and led the way to the tower door at the back of the building.
They followed him up the winding stairs into a small chamber about half-way up the tower. Bartholomew glanced around quickly, looking for the fabled chest, but the chamber was empty. Michael emerged from the stair- well, wheezing unhealthily, and Cuthbert's ponderous footsteps echoed until he too stood sweating and gasping in the chamber.
De Wetherset beckoned them close and shut the small wooden door so that they would not be overheard.
'I do not want the details of this incident to become common knowledge,' he said, 'and what I am about to tell you mustremain a secret. You know that the University chest is kept in the tower here. To reach it, you must open three locked and bolted doors, and you must be able to open three locks on the chest itself. These locks were made in Italy and are, I am told, the finest locks in the world. Only I have the keys and either I, or my deputy, are always present when the chest is unlocked.'
He paused for a moment, and opened the door quickly to listen intently. He closed it again with a sigh and continued. 'You may consider all these precautions rather excessive to protect indentures and accounts, but the truth is that one of my best clerks, Nicholas of York, was writing a history of the University. He was quite frank, and recorded everything he uncovered, some of which could prove embarrassing if revealed in certain quarters.
This book, you understand, will not be randomly distributed, but is intended to be a reliable, factual report of our doings and dealings. One day, people may be interested to know these things.'
He looked hard first at Michael and then at Bartholomew. 'The events of last year, when members of the University committed murder to make their fortunes, are recorded, along with your roles in the affair. And there are other incidents too, which need not concern you. The point is, a month ago Nicholas died of a fever, quite unexpectedly. I was uneasy at the suddenness of his death, and in the light of what has been discovered this morning, I am even more concerned.'
'What exactly has happened this morning?' asked Michael. Bartholomew began to feel increasingly uncomfortable as the Chancellor's revelations sank in.
'I came at first light this morning, as usual, to collect the documents from the chest I would need for the day's business. I was accompanied by my personal clerk, Gilbert. That group of scribes and secretaries you saw outside waited in the church below. Even in the half-light, we could see there was something wrong.
The locks on the chest were askew and the lid was not closed properly. Gilbert opened the chest and inside was the body of a man.'
'Gilbert has already told us as much,' said Bartholomew.
'But how did the body come to be in the chest?'
The Chancellor gave the grimmest of smiles. 'That, gentlemen, is why I have asked you to come. I cannot imagine how anyone could have entered the tower, let alone open the locks on the chest. And I certainly have no idea how the corpse of a man could appear there.'
'Where is the chest?' asked Michael. 'Not up more stairs I hope.'
The Chancellor looked Michael up and down scathingly, and left the room. They heard his footsteps echoing further up the stairs, and Michael groaned.
The room on the next floor was more comfortable than the first. A table covered with writing equipment stood in the window, and several benches with cushions lined the walls. In the middle of the floor, standing on a once-splendid, but now shabby, woollen rug, was the University chest. It was a long box made of ancient black oak and strengthened with iron bands, darkened with age. It reminded Bartholomew of the elaborate coffin he had seen the Bishop of Peterborough buried in years before. Guarding the chest and the room was the Junior Proctor, Alric Jonstan, standing with his sword drawn and his saucer-like blue eyes round with horror. Bartholomew smiled at him as they waited for the others. Jonstan was far more popular than Harling, and was seemingly a kinder man who,
