been Gilbert?'
'No,' said Bartholomew. 'Froissart would have been a fool to allow anyone into the church. I suspect Gilbert, with his keys, hid himself in the crypt, and it was he who let this Father Lucius into the church, not Froissart. Froissart was probably already garrotted, and Father Lucius was necessary to help Gilbert haul his body into the belfry and secure it there.'
'Froissart garrotted, Nicholas garrotted,' said Michael.
'Gilbert must have killed them both. It almost fits, but we still do not know why all this happened.'
'And we never will so long as de Wetherset plays his own games and is less than honest with us about this book,' said Bartholomew.
Michael's shoulders sagged in defeat. 'Cynric is coming for you,' he said, seeing the small Welshman walking towards them. 'I will go to try to placate the Chancellor, and persuade him to send the Proctors after Gilbert.'
Bartholomew went to meet Cynric, who had a request that he visit the wounded soldier at the Castle. Cynric accompanied him, shyly confiding that he had an hour to spare before he was expected to meet Rachel Atkin at Stanmore's business premises.
The sergeant Bartholomew had met the night before was waiting for him, and he was conducted across the bailey to the hall. The small chamber was flooded with light, the window shutters thrown open, and it was thronging with men. They parted to let him through.
The injured soldier sat up in bed and held up his arm where he had removed the bandage Bartholomew had tied, showing a neat wound with no trace of infection.
Bartholomew bent to inspect it. 'It is healing well,' he said, as he tied another cloth around it. 'But you must give it time, or it will break open again.' 'It is a miracle!' proclaimed the soldier. 'Father Philius pronounced I would die, and Robin of Grantchester wanted to saw off my arm. But you came and I am healed!' 'It is no miracle,' said Bartholomew nervously. One thing he dreaded were rumours of miraculous cures.
First,*he would have half the country coming to him pleading for help, and, second, his colleagues would believe none of it, and he would likely find himself proclaimed a heretic.
The soldier smiled at him. 'Well, miraculous then,' he said. 'You saved my life, and you saved my arm. I will yet be as good an archer as my father.' He smiled up at the sergeant. Bartholomew, pleased at the young man's rapid recovery, left, with instructions not to overtax his strength too quickly. The sergeant followed him out across the courtyard.
'You looked sorrowful last night,' he said, 'and I thought you might like some happy news.' He seized Bartholomew firmly on the shoulders. 'You saved my son. I wish we could do something for you, and catch this killer.'
'Do you know anything that might help?' asked Bartholomew.
The sergeant shook his head. 'Nothing. And believe me, I would tell you if I knew. The Sheriff had discovered virtually nothing before he stopped investigating. He is not even looking into these stolen carts now.'
'Oswald Stanmore's carts?' asked Bartholomew.
The soldier inclined his head. There is a strange business. Those were not random attacks, but carefully planned manoeuvres. I know the work of soldiers when I see it, and there were soldiers involved in those robberies right enough. Good ones too.'
Bartholomew was startled. Did that mean that Tulyet was using part of his garrison to strike at the traders and steal their goods? Was that why he was failing to investigate the crimes in his town?
As they left, Bartholomew almost collided with Tulyet himself.
'You!' the Sheriff snarled. 'What do you want here?' 'I am just leaving, Master Tulyet,' Bartholomew replied politely, not wishing to become embroiled in an argument that might prompt Tulyet to arrest him.
Then leave!' Tulyet shouted. 'And do not return here without my permission.'
Bartholomew studied him. Tulyet was younger than Bartholomew, but looked ten years older at that momen t.
His face was sallow and there were dark smears under his eyes. His eyes held a wild look that made Bartholomew wonder whether the man was losing his faculties. Was he the murderer, knowing he would have to commit another crime because he had been so ordered at the ceremony at All Saints'? As a physician, Bartholomew could see signs that the man was losing his sanity and reason.
Without a word, Bartholomew left, Cynric following, When they were out of the Castle, Cynric heaved a sigh of relief.
'I have heard around town that he is losing his mind.
They say it is because he cannot catch Froissart. I thought he might order us locked up for some spurious reason.
He has arrested several others and accused them of being Froissart.'
Bartholomew reflected for a moment. Perhaps they should tell Tulyet that Froissart was dead after all, to save innocent people from being arrested. But then, Bartholomew reasoned, what good would that do? And if Tulyet were the real killer, Bartholomew might be signing his own death warrant by telling him that Froissart was dead.
Engrossed in his thoughts, he jumped when Cynric seized his arm in excitement. He looked around. They were near All Saints' Church, which stood half-hidden by the tangle of bushes and low trees that were un tended around it.
'Someone is in the church!' exclaimed Cynric, Before Bartholomew could stop him, Cynric had disappeared into the swathe of green. Bartholomew followed cautiously, making his way to the broken door and peering round it. Cynric was right. A person was there, bending to inspect the dark patches on the floor — a figure in a scholar's tabard like his own. Bartholomew looked around quickly. The man appeared to be alone, so he slipped through the door and made his way towards him, ducking from pillar to pillar up the aisle.
Was this the high priest, visiting the church to make certain he had left nothing, even after his careful removal of his accoutrements before he departed? He stopped as he trod on a piece of wood that had fallen from the roof, and a sharp crack echoed around the derelict church.
The man looked up, startled at the loud noise.
'Hesselwell!' Bartholomew exclaimed.
On hearing his name, Hesselwell turned and fled, without waiting to see who had spoken. Bartholomew raced after him, throwing caution to the wind. Hesselwell reached the altar and stumbled as he reached the steps.
Behind the altar was a large window and Hesselwell grabbed the sill with both hands to haul himself through.
Bartholomew lunged at him as he was about to drop down the other side, and pulled as hard as he could.
Both fell backwards, Hesselwell kicking and struggling like a madman.
Bartholomew gripped the flailing wrists and leaned down with all his weight. Pinned to the floor, Hesselwell was helpless.
'You!' he said to Bartholomew, his eyes wide with terror. 'It was you!'
Bartholomew was taken aback. Hesselwell began to struggle again, his face white with terror, but stopped when he saw Cynric come to stand over them, and sagged in resignation.
'What are you talking about?' said Bartholomew. 'What was me?' 'I should have guessed!'
'Guessed what?' Bartholomew was becoming exasperated.
He released Hesselwell and watched as Cynric pulled the terrified scholar to his feet, keeping a firm grip on his arm. Hesselwell stood with his shoulders bowed and his tabard covered in dirt and flakes of rotten wood from the floor.
'What were you doing here?' asked Bartholomew, brushing off his own tabard. 'What were you looking for?'
Hesselwell tried to pull himself together, his eyes flicking over Bartholomew as though assessing whether he was armed. 'I wanted to know if the blood was real,'
Hesselwell said. 'Or if it was dye.'
'You are a member of the Guild of the Coming?' asked Bartholomew, Hesselwell's actions suddenly making sense to him.
Hesselwell looked at him askance. 'You know I am,' he said.
