exasperation, and went to stand near the window to bring his anger under control.
'Can you test the lock to make certain it is poisoned?'
Michael asked Bartholomew.
Bartholomew looked at him distastefully and stifled a sigh. 'Will one of your clerks do that?' he asked de Wetherset.
'How?' asked de Wetherset, looking at the lock in renewed revulsion.
'Test it on a rat or a bird. If the poison killed the friar through that tiny cut, then the poor animal, being considerably smaller, should die fairly quickly.'
Bartholomew felt a sudden, unreasonable anger towards the friar whose death was about to cause such upheaval in his life. What was the man doing in the tower anyway? He could only have been there to steal or to spy. Bartholomew watched de Wetherset issue instructions to Gilbert to test the lock on a rat, and gestured to Michael that they should go.
'Wait!' the Chancellor commanded, standing as they made to leave. 'I must ask that you observe utmost discretion over this business. That a man has died in the University chest cannot be denied, but I do not wish anyone to know about the University history that was being written.'
Michael nodded acquiescence, bowed, and walked out, while Bartholomew trailed after him, feeling dejected. He was going to become entangled in the unsavoury world of University politics a second time, and be forced to question the motives of his friends and family.
Outside, Michael rubbed his hands together and beamed. 'What shall we do first?' he asked, and Bartholomew realised that the fat monk was relishing their enforced duties. Michael had always loved University affairs, and thrived on the petty politics and plots that were a part of College life. He saw Bartholomew's doleful expression and clapped him on the shoulder.
'Come, Matt,' he said reassuringly. 'This is not like the other business. There are no threats to those we love, and your Philippa is safely away visiting her brother. This has nothing to do with Michaelhouse. It is just some minor intrigue that has gone wrong.'
Bartholomew was unconvinced. 'I should have gone with Philippa,' he said bitterly, 'or followed her brother's lead and moved away from this vile pit of lies and deception to London.'
'You would hate London,' Michael laughed. 'You make enough fuss about the filth and dirt here. In London it would be ten times worse, and they say that the River Thames is the dirtiest river in England. You would hate it,' he said again, drawing his morose friend away from the shadows of the church and into the bright sunlight to where Cynric waited for them.
They began to walk down the High Street towards King's Hall to visit Master Buckley. The streets were busier than usual because of the Fair, and houses that had stood empty since the plague were bursting at the seams with travellers. A baker passed them, his tray brimming with pies and pastries, while two beggars watched him with hungry eyes.
With an effort, Bartholomew brought his mind back to what Michael was saying about the dead friar. Michael, strolling next to him, began to run through the possibilities surrounding the friar's death, for Cynric's benefit. They turned suddenly as they heard a wail. A woman tore towards them, her long, fair hair streaming behind her like a banner. Bartholomew recognised her as Sybilla, the ditcher's daughter, and one of the town's prostitutes. Her mother, brothers, and sisters had died in the plague, and her father had allowed her to follow any path she chose, while he took his own comfort from the bottles of wine she brought him. Bartholomew caught her as she made to run past.
'What has happened?' he said, alarmed by her tear streaked face and wild, frightened eyes.
Tsobel!' she sobbed. Tsobel!'
'Where?' asked Bartholomew, looking down the street.
'Has she been hurt?'
He exchanged glances with Brother Michael. They were both aware of the murder of two of the town's prostitutes during the last few weeks. Bartholomew had seen the body of one of them, her eyes staring sightlessly at the sky and her throat cut.
Sybilla was unable to answer and Bartholomew let her go, watching as she fled up the High Street, her wailing drawing people from their houses to see what was happening. Bartholomew and Michael, concerned for Isobel, continued in the direction from which Sybilla had come, until they saw people gathering in St Botolph's churchyard.
Two women bent over someone lying on the ground, and Bartholomew and Michael approached, the monk stifling a cry of horror as he saw the blood-splattered figure. Bartholomew knelt next to Isobel's body and gently eased her onto her back. Her throat was a mess of congealed blood, dark and sticky where it had flooded down her chest.
Michael squatted down next to him, his eyes tightly closed so he would not have to look. He began to mutter prayers for the dead, while Bartholomew wrapped her in her cloak. Cynric disappeared to report the news to the Sheriff and to locate the dead woman's family.
When Michael had finished, Bartholomew picked up the body and carried it into the church. A friar, who had been in the crowd outside, helped put her into the parish coffin and cover her with a sheet. While the friar went to clear the churchyard of ghoulish onlookers and to await Isobel's family, Bartholomew looked again at the body, while Michael peered over his shoulder.
The sheet was not long enough to cover the dead girl's feet and Bartholomew saw that someone had taken her shoes. Her feet were relatively clean, so she had not been walking barefoot. He looked a little more closely and caught his breath as he saw the small red circle painted in blood on her foot.
'What is wrong?' asked Michael, his face white in the dark church.
Bartholomew pointed to the dead girl's foot. 'That mark,' he said. 'I saw a circle like that on the foot of the last dead girl, Fritha. I thought it was just chance — there was so much blood — but Isobel has a mark that is identical.'
'Do you think it is the killer's personal signature?' asked Michael, with a shudder. 'I assume all three women were killed by the same person.'
Bartholomew frowned. 'Perhaps, yes, if there were a similar mark on the foot of the first victim. I did not see her body.'
'God's teeth, Matt,' said Michael, his voice unsteady.
'What monster would do this?' He clutched at one of the pillars, unable to tear his eyes away from the body in the coffin. He began to reel, and Bartholomew, fearing that the monk might faint, took him firmly by the arm and led him outside.
They sat together on one of the ancient tombstones in the shade of a yew tree. A woman's anguished cries suggested that Cynric had already found Isobel's family and that they were nearing the church. Next to Bartholomew, Michael was still shaking.
'Why, Matt?' he asked, looking to where a man led his wailing wife into the church, escorted solicitously by the friar.
Bartholomew stared across the churchyard at a row of young oak trees, their slender branches waving in the breeze. 'That is the third girl to be killed,' he said.
'Hilde, Fritha, and Isobel, and all of them murdered in churchyards.'
The Fair had resulted in a temporary increase in prostitution. The town burgesses had called for the Sheriff to rid the town of the women, but Bartholomew believed the prostitutes were providing a greater service to the town than the burgesses appreciated: as long as they were available, scholars and itinerant traders from the Fair did not pester the townsmen's wives and daughters. Bartholomew suspected Michael felt much the same, although such a position was hardly tenable publicly for a Benedictine Master of Theology.
They sat for a while until Michael regained some of his colour, and watched the crowd in the churchyard. When the Sheriffs men arrived, it became ominously silent.
Bartholomew frowned. 'What is all that about?'
They watched as the soldiers tried to disperse the crowd. 'There are rumours in the town that the Sheriff is not doing all he might to investigate the murders of Hilde and Fritha,' said Michael. 'As Sheriff, his duty is to try to prevent prostitution, and it is said that he considers the murderer to be doing him a favour by killing these women.'
