An Unholy Alliance (10 page)

Stanmore continued his dismal analysis on the safety of roads, which had Bartholomew glancing nervously over his shoulder. But despite Stanmore’s gloom, they arrived at Michaelhouse without mishap, where Michael went to the kitchen for something to eat, and Bartholomew went straight to bed.

Early the next morning, he was awoken by an insistent knocking on his door, and Eli, the bow-legged College steward, burst in.

‘Doctor Bartholomew!’ he gasped. ‘You must come!

There is a girl dying in our orchard.’

He LED THE WAY TO THE ORCHARD that LAY behind the kitchen. Agatha knelt in the long grass, leaning over someone lying on the ground.

At a discreet distance, Master Kenyngham stood with Michael, Alcote, Cynric, and Piers Hesselwell.

As Bartholomew approached, he saw the bloodstained sheet that Agatha had used to cover the girl and knew what to expect. Yet another murder of a prostitute, except that this time the murder had not been in a churchyard, but on College property. As he knelt next to her, Agatha caught his wrist, her strong face unusually white. She glanced around to ensure she could not be overheard.

‘Only you and I know about this, Matthew,’ she said.

‘We could keep it that way.’

He gazed at her, bewildered, but she would say no more, and Bartholomew turned his attention to the girl.

He caught his breath in horror as he saw who lay beneath the sheet, and stared at Agatha in shock. She touched his arm and gestured at the figure on the ground, to bring his attention back to Frances de Belem. An attempt had been made to cut her throat, but, although there was a nasty wound there, it had failed to give her a quick death. Bartholomew had no idea how long she had been in the orchard in this condition. Her body was cold, but he could not tell whether it was from the loss of blood, or from lying in the wet grass. Her eyes were closed and blood bubbled through her white lips as she breathed.

Bartholomew sent Cynric to fetch a sense-dulling potion that he kept in a locked chest in the chamber adjacent to his own room. While Cynric was gone, Kenyngham gave last rites. When he had finished, Bartholomew dripped some of the powerful syrup

between her teeth, but hoped that she would not

regain consciousness to need it. Frances’s breathing grew more laboured, and Michael and Alcote knelt, and began intoning prayers of the dying.

Just when Bartholomew thought she would slip away, she opened her eyes and looked at him. Agatha took her hand and crooned comfortingly, while Bartholomew motioned to the clerics to keep their voices down. He leaned close to her to hear what she was trying to whisper.

“I am sorry for what I asked you to do,’ she said, her voice little more than a breath.

‘No harm was done,’ Bartholomew said. ‘But who did this to you?’

‘It was not a man,’ she said in a low voice, her eyes filling with tears. Her hand fluttered to a silver cross she wore around her neck.

When Bartholomew looked from the cross to her face, she was dead. He felt for a life beat, put his cheek close to her mouth to see if he could detect breathing, and covered her with the sheet.

Agatha leaned towards him. ‘Will you condemn her as a suicide? Or will you keep silent about what she told us yesterday?’

Before replying, Bartholomew’ pulled the sheet from her feet. She wore no shoes and there was the small circle on her left foot. Frances de Belem was too wealthy to go without shoes, so someone must have taken them.

He covered her again, and glanced at Michael. Michael faltered in his prayers as he saw what Bartholomew was doing, and Bartholomew saw Piers Hesselwell look at them strangely as he noticed the exchange.

‘She was no suicide, Agatha,’ he said softly. ‘She was murdered.’

‘What?’ queried Agatha loudly. ‘Here in Michaelhouse?

How do you know?’

‘It is not easy to commit suicide by cutting your own throat,’ said Bartholomew. And there were the circle on her foot and the missing shoes to consider, he thought.

Agatha hastily crossed herself. She let out a great sigh and muttered something about fetching the porters.

Bartholomew watched her go, the usual aggressive buoyancy gone from her step. Kenyngham and the other Fellows came to form a circle around the dead girl.

‘Does anyone know who she was?’ Kenyngham

asked.

‘Frances de Belem,’ said Bartholomew, looking up at him.

‘The merchant’s daughter?’ queried Alcote, and then smirked. ‘Ah, yes. I had forgotten how you would know that,’ he added nastily.

The Master raised his eyebrows and Alcote continued, ‘Matthew’s sister married well, and her husband is Sir Oswald Stanmore, who owns the large building next to Sir Reginald’s house. That is how Matthew knows the daughters of wealthy merchants.’

Bartholomew saw Alcote exchange smug looks with

Hesselwell. Was Alcote trying to curry favour with the new Master to advance his own career? If so, his tale-telling had failed to impress Kenyngham, who smiled benignly at Bartholomew and touched him lightly on the head.

‘Then I am afraid, Matthew, that you are probably the best man to tell her family what has happened,’ he said.

‘Does anyone know how she came to be here?’

Vacant looks answered his question until Eli spoke up. ‘Mistress Agatha found her here when she came to hang out the washing. She called for me, and I fetched you and the others.’

Bartholomew looked around at the grass. A trail of blood leading to a spot some distance away indicated that Frances had dragged herself from one place to another, perhaps in the hope of reaching Michaelhouse for help.

It had dried, suggesting that she had probably been in the orchard for several hours, and perhaps even since the night before.

‘Thank you, Eli,’ said Kenyngham, ‘but that does not explain how she came to be here in the first place. I doubt that she could have entered through the College, which means that she must have come in through the door that leads out to the lane.’

Cynric had already looked. ‘The gate is open,’ he said.

“I bar it myself at dusk each night, and so someone inside must have opened it between dusk last night and now.’

‘Well,’ said the Master, looking round at his Fellows, ‘has anyone used the back gate this morning?’

There was silence as the Fellows shook their heads and looked at each other blankly.

“I will ask the students,’ said Kenyngham. ‘Now, I suggest we return to our duties. Eli and Cynric, take Mistress de Belem to the church with the porters. Master Hesselwell, take Brother Michael to his room: he looks ill. Master Alcote, I would like you to inform the Sheriff and the Chancellor.’ As they scurried to do his bidding, he turned to Bartholomew.

‘Matthew, I do not envy you your task. Would you like me to come with you?’

Bartholomew thanked him, but felt it was a duty he should perform alone. On his way to Milne Street, he met Stanmore, already heading for the Fair with his apprentices. His good humour evaporated when he

learned Bartholomew’s news.

‘Heaven help us,’ he said softly. He grabbed

Bartholomew’s arm. ‘Let me come with you. Reginald and I have had our differences, but he may need

me now.’

It was a long time before Bartholomew felt he could leave de Belem’s house. Sir Reginald was working in the dim morning light in his solar. He stood when Bartholomew and Stanmore were shown in and came

to greet them, 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.