any longer.'
Harling pursed his lips in a thin, white line and looked away, so de Wetherset answered.
'Master Harling became a member of the Guild of the Coming when he took over as my deputy. I am ashamed to say that a Physwick Hostel scholar was a member, and Richard persuaded him to take him to one of the meetings. He joined to gather information to help you.'
Bartholomew looked sceptical, and Harling's eyes glittered in anger. 'My motives were purely honourable,' he said in a tight voice. 'As Vice-Chancellor, it was only a question of time before I took over from Master de Wetherset. I did not want to inherit a University riddled with corruption and wickedness, so I undertook to join the coven so that any University involvement in this business could be stamped out.'
'Only I knew of Harling's membership,' said de Wetherset. 'I considered it too dangerous even for Gilbert to know.'
'So what did you discover?' asked Bartholomew, looking at the still-angry Harling.
'Very little,' he said. 'Only that the high priest often had an enormous man with him, and there was the woman, whom I now understand was Gilbert.'
'Yes, I saw him at de Belem's house!' said Buckley.
'A great lumbering fellow that shuffled when he walked, and whose face was always covered by a mask.'
'There was something odd about him,' Harling continued.
'His movements were peculiar — uncoordinated — but at the same time immensely strong. Frankly, he frightened me.'
'Are you suggesting that this man might be the killer?' asked Michael.
Bartholomew's mind raced. He remembered the huge man whom he had struggled with in the orchard, and who had probably knocked him off his feet in St Mary's churchyard when Janetta had wanted to speak with him.
Hesselwell had mentioned a large man, too.
Harling shrugged. 'I can think of no other, now that it appears that Gilbert and de Belem cannot be responsible.'
Bartholomew and Michael took their leave and walked to the Barnwell Gate.
'Damn!' said Michael, banging his fist into his palm.
'The high priest claimed that another victim would be taken-before new moon, and we were so convinced that it was de Belem that we did not consider the possibility of another.'
Bartholomew rubbed tiredly at his mud-splattered hair. 'We have been stupid,' he said. 'Logically, neither de Belem nor Gilbert could have killed Isobel. Gilbert was in the church waiting for the friar, and de Belem was off kidnapping Buckley. Of course this large man could be a ruse of Harling's to deflect suspicion from him.'
'What?' said Michael. 'Do you think Harling is the killer?'
Bartholomew spread his hands. 'Why not? We have little enough evidence, but it can be made to fit to him. First, he is a self-confessed member of a coven, whatever his motive for joining. Second, he would have had a good deal to gain if Buckley had not returned to reclaim his position, so why should he not be in league with de Belem to keep Buckley out of the way? Third, I do not like him!'
'Oh, Matt!' said Michael, exasperated. 'That is no evidence at all! I do not like him either, but he says he joined the guild after Buckley's disappearance, and I hardly think de Belem would be so foolish as to trust him immediately with the information that he had the previous Vice-Chancellor as prisoner in his house!'
They walked in silence until Bartholomew saw the large figure of Father Cuthbert puffing towards them.
Although the day was not yet hot, Cuthbert's face was glistening with sweat and dark patches stained his gown from his exertions.
'Good morning,' said Cuthbert breathlessly, drawing up for a welcome pause. 'I have been out visiting before the sun gets too hot. Have you heard the news? Another murder at the Barnwell Gate, the same as the others.'
'How do you know it was the same as the others?' asked Bartholomew. He saw Michael's glance of disbelief and tried to pull himself together. Now he was suspecting everyone! There was no way the cumbersome Father Cuthbert would be able to catch a nimble prostitute.
'Master Jonstan told me,' said Cuthbert. 'I have been to visit him. He has not been himself since the death of his mother.'
'His mother died?' said Bartholomew. 'We had not heard. I am sorry to hear that. He talked about her a lot'
'Yes, they were close,' said Cuthbert. 'But it was as well she died. She was bed-ridden for many years.'
He ambled off, waving cheerily, and Bartholomew turned to watch him as he stopped to talk to a group of dirty children playing with an ancient hoop from a barrel.
'No,' said Michael, firmly taking his arm and pulling at him to resume walking. 'Not Father Cuthbert. He is too old and too fat, and you are clutching at straws.'
Bartholomew stopped abruptly and took a fistful of Michael's habit. 'Not Father Cuthbert,' he said, his mind whirling. 'Alric Jonstan.'
Michael stared at him, eyes narrowed, and pulled absently at a stray strand of hair. 'Jonstan told Cuthbert the murder was the same as the others, but how would he know?' he began slowly. He shook Bartholomew's hand from his robe impatiently. 'It does not fit, Matt!
Jonstan lives near the Barnwell Gate and probably heard the alarm when the body was found and went to see. As Proctor, he probably saw the other victims.'
'His mother!' exclaimed Bartholomew suddenly.
'When Jonstan sprained his ankle, he said his mother would look after him. Cuthbert just said she was bed- ridden.'
'He probably said that so you would not worry about him,' said Michael.
'Father?' yelled Bartholomew, running after the fat priest. 'When did Master Jonstan's mother die?'
Cuthbert turned, surprised at Bartholomew's tense face and the question out of the blue. He scratched one of his chins and thought. 'Mistress Jonstan passed away… four, perhaps five weeks ago Bartholomew sped back to Michael. 'Come on!' he cried.
Michael lunged at him. 'His mother died four weeks ago? So what?'
Bartholomew struggled to free his tabard from Michael's grip. 'He was talking about her as if she were still alive last week. The man is unhinged.'
'Grief does things to people other than make them into murderers,' said Michael, gently maintaining his hold on his friend's clothes. 'Matt, you cannot go charging into Jonstan's home and accuse him of committing these foul crimes with the evidence you have. It is all circumstantial.'
'Think!' said Bartholomew, exasperated. 'Tulyet'smen patrolled the streets and so did the Proctors and their beadles. Jonstan was out in the dark quite legitimately about University business. He would become familiar with others who regularly stole around in the night- the prostitutes, over whom he had no jurisdiction because they are not members of the University. I am willing to wager anything that the murders were committed on days when it was Jonstan's turn to do night patrol.
For heaven's sake, Michael!' he yelled, 'Sybilla saw the Proctor and his men the night of Isobel's murder.'
Michael began to waver. 'But what about the Guild of the Holy Trinity…?'
Bartholomew shook his head dismissively. 'That is irrelevant. All the other murders were committed in churchyards of the High Street, and now this one is committed at the Barnwell Gate, near Jonstan's home, from which he cannot move because he has a sprained ankle.'
Michael relinquished his hold of Bartholomew's gown with a flourish. 'Have it your way. I remain sceptical. We will visit Master Jonstan. You can say you came to look at his foot, and that way, if we find you are wrong, we will at least have an excuse for being there.'
They walked the short distance to the Barnwell Gate.
Tulyet was still there, looking exhausted. He indicated a sheeted body in despair.
'I thought we had it all worked out,' he said. 'And now this. Is there no bottom to this pit of wickedness?'
