An Unholy Alliance (24 page)

to use his influence to catch this evil monster who is killing our sisters, since the Sheriff is unwilling to act.’

Sybilla took a great shuddering breath and controlled herself with difficulty. ‘I was just finishing with one of the baker’s apprentices in St Botolph’s churchyard, when we heard the University Proctor and his patrol going past.

The apprentice was able to slip off the other way, but I had to hide until they had gone. The Proctor’s men usually leave us alone unless we are with scholars, but it is always best to avoid being seen when you can. It looks bad if you are seen about too often after the curfew.

‘I decided to stay where I was, hidden in the bushes.

The Proctor and his beadles were discussing that fight between two hostels last month, arguing about whether it could have been stopped if they had arrived earlier. I must have fallen asleep. When I woke, the Proctor and his men had gone. I was about to climb out of the bush when I heard a noise. At first I thought it was just a rat or a bird, but then I saw him.’

She stopped and turned great fearful eyes on

Bartholomew. ‘Go on,’ prompted Matilde.

Sybilla swallowed loudly, wiped her nose on the hem of her dress and continued. ‘He was skulking about in the bushes by the road. Then I saw Isobel coming back from one of her regulars. She kept looking behind her, and I saw that horrible black cat that the Austin Canons feed. It was following her, and she kept looking round as if she could hear it. If that vile cat had not been distracting her and making her look behind, she might have seen the monster in the bushes waiting for her. I wanted to call out, but I was too frightened.’

She stopped again and Matilde took one of her hands to encourage her to finish. ‘He leapt at her, and I saw the flash of his knife as he cut her throat. I think I must have fainted,’ she said, and was silent for a moment. ‘When I came round, Isobel was lying on the ground and the man had gone. I stayed in the bush for ages, trying to bring myself to go to her. When I did finally, she was covered in blood, and I ran. I do not remember going home. I only remember Matilde talking to me later.’

Her story finished, she wiped away fresh tears and blew her nose on a rag that Matilde handed her”.

‘You saw only one man?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking about the three he had encountered in the orchard. Are you sure there were not others?’

‘There was only him,’ said Sybilla firmly. I am certain of that. Had there been others, I would have seen them.

There was only him.’

“I was worried,’ said Matilde. “I usually see Sybilla at the market. I thought she might be ill, and so came to see her~. She has not left her home since then. I bring her food, but she cannot stay like this for ever.’

‘Did you see his face?’ asked Bartholomew.

Sybilla rubbed her-sore, red eyes. ‘It was dark, and I was quite a distance away. I did not see his face long enough to recognise him. He was wearing a dark cloak or gown, and he had the hood pulled up. All I can say is that he was not young: he was a man and not a youth. He had no beard or moustache, and he was just average.’

‘Average?’ said Bartholomew, not understanding.

‘Just like anyone else,’ Sybilla said. ‘Just average. Not tall, not short, not fat, not thin. He had two arms, he did not limp. He did not have great scars on him, or teeth that stick out. He was just normal.’

‘Would you recognise him if you saw him again?’ asked Bartholomew.

Sybilla swallowed. “I do not think so, which is why I am frightened to leave the house.’

Bartholomew stood and went to look out of the hole in the wall that served as a window. The sky had clouded over and a light drizzle had begun to fall. He watched the river flowing past a few feet away, all kinds of refuse bobbing and turning slowly in the currents.

What should he do now? He was aware of the two

women waiting for him to come up with an answer

that would solve their problems. Sybilla was right to be frightened, he thought. If the killer had any inclination she had seen him murder Isobel, he would be foolish not to come to ensure her silence. But Sybilla had provided little to elucidate the muddle of information that Bartholomew had acquired over the past few days.

All she could tell him was that the man was average. He could be anyone.

She could not stay in her home, that much was clear.

It was probably only a matter of time before the killer heard that Sybilla had run screaming from the scene of Isobel’s murder, and had refused to leave her home ever since, before he took action to ensure his identity could never be revealed. Even if he remained unaware that Sybilla had seen him, she had to be moved. She would become seriously ill if left by herself much longer.

He could not. take her to Michaelhouse. Even for the best reasons, the Master would not allow him to bring a young prostitute to the College. He could give her money to find other lodgings in the town, but Cambridge was a small town and it was almost impossible to hide in it.

There was only one thing for it. He would have to impose upon Oswald Stan more. He had done it before, when Rachel Atkin’s son had been killed in a town riot, and Stanmore had benefited by gaining a very talented seamstress. However, Bartholomew thought wryly, Stanmore would not benefit from Sybilla unless he intended to open a brothel.

He told Sybilla to gather up what she would need for a stay at Stanmore’s premises, and went outside to wait.

Matilde followed him to the river bank, oblivious to the drizzle that fell like gauze upon her luxurious hair.

‘It is kind of you to do this,’ she said.

‘I need not tell you that you must inform no one where she is,’ he said. ‘And you must not visit her until the killer is found, lest he follow you there. And do not come back here yourself. The killer may mistake you for Sybilla if he comes.’

Matilde gave him a smile. ‘Agatha said you were a good man. There are not many who would take such trouble over a couple of whores,’ she said. He looked away, embarrassed.

‘There are quite a number of women like us,’ she continued, ‘and we talk a lot. It is imperative that we do: we need to know who might be rough, who might refuse to pay, who might be diseased. We hear other things, too, through our lines of communication. I heard that you blundered into Primrose Alley a few days ago.’

‘Primrose Alley?” Bartholomew had never heard of it.

‘Behind St Mary’s,’ said Matilde. ‘Not an appropriate name for such a place, but I imagine that is why it got it.

Anyway, I heard that you were escorted out by Janetta of Lincoln.’

Bartholomew was amazed. He seemed to be the only person in Cambridge without vast arrays of informants to tap into when he needed to know something. Stanmore had his own legion of spies; the Chancellor and the Bishop seemed to do well for information when they needed it; and even the town prostitutes appeared to know his every move.

Matilde touched his arm, seeing his reaction. ‘It was Janetta we were interested in, not you,’ she said. ‘She arrived in Cambridge about a month ago and immediately assumed a good deal of influence in Primrose Alley with the rough men who have lived there since the Death.

We did not know how much power she had accrued, until we heard that she was able to call off the louts that were attacking you, with a single word. We believe she was one of us in Lincoln, but she denies it to any who ask, and does not practise here. We do not usually share our information with outsiders, but you are helping us, and I would like to help you with a warning: have nothing to do with that woman.’

‘I need to talk to her,’ Bartholomew said. ‘She may be able to give me information that might lead to the killer.’

‘I would not trust any information gained from her,’

said Matilde, ‘although it would not surprise me to know that she had some to give. Who is she to have such command over those rough men within a month? She is a living lie from her fake smile to her false hair.’

‘False hair?’ said Bartholomew, surprised, thinking of Janetta’s thick cascade of raven black hair.

‘Yes,’ said Matilde firmly. ‘That black hair that you doubtless admired is none of her own. Perhaps she is grey and wants to retain the appearance of youth. Who knows her reason? But I know a wig when I see one.’

Bartholomew lent Sybilla his tabard and cloak, and pulled the hood up over her head to hide her face. He gave her his bag to carry, hoping that in the failing light she would pass for one of his students.

She trailed behind him, giving an occasional sniff.

Matilde had already slipped away after giving him a final warning about Janetta of Lincoln. Bartholomew thought about her advice. He had thought it odd at the time that Janetta had such control over what seemed to be an unruly gang of men. She had arrived a month ago. Nicholas of York had died or disappeared a month ago, and the unknown woman buried in his place. The woman with no hair. He frowned. Had the woman’s

hair fallen out after she died, had she worn a wig like Janetta, or did Janetta’s wig belong to the woman in Nicholas’s coffin?

Bartholomew concentrated, barely aware of Sybilla behind him. Were the events related? Was the arrival of Janetta connected to the death, or disappearance, of the man who was writing the controversial book? He rethought Sybilla’s story and Matilde’s warning, but, try as he might, he could make no sense of them, nor tie them in with the information he already had.

When they arrived at Starrmore’s business premises, most of the buildings were already in darkness and Stanmore had returned to Trumpington. Bartholomew bundled Sybilla into the small chambers behind the main storerooms, the place where Rachel Atkin worked, before anyone could see her. As he burst in unannounced, he stopped in astonishment. Cynric stood up, from where he had been sitting by Rachel on the hearth. He put down his goblet of wine and grinned sheepishly, caught in the act of his courting. It was late, and the other women had gone home, leaving Cynric to enjoy the company of Rachel alone.

Bartholomew was ashamed of himself for not knocking and giving the poor woman a chance to compose herself, but Rachel was unabashed. She looked curiously at Sybilla, still wearing Bartholomew’s gown. Bartholomew found his tongue.

‘Can Sybilla stay with you for a few days?’ he asked, suddenly feeling awkward. ‘I promise I will clear it with Oswald as soon as I can see him.’

‘As you please,’ Rachel said in her pleasant low voice.

She helped Sybilla remove the heavy tabard and cloak.

‘It appears Sybilla is in trouble, and she will not be turned away.’

At the kindness in her voice, Sybilla began to weep again, and Bartholomew took the opportunity to leave.

Sybilla could tell Rachel her story and Rachel would have the sense and the discretion to deal with her accordingly.

Bartholomew felt Cynric slip up behind him as he left.

‘Sorry, Cynric. I should have knocked,’ he said.

Cynric grinned at him. ‘No matter, lad. We were just talking.’ He became serious. ‘Your brotherin-law saw me as I was going to Rachel’s room, and told me to tell you that the Cuild of the Coming are meeting tomorrow night at All Saints’.’ He rubbed his hands gleefully, oblivious to Bartholomew’s expression of dismay. ‘Another

night expedition, eh boy? You and I will get to the bottom of all this yet.’

DAWN THE NEXT DAY WAS DUEL AND GREY, THE hot weather of the past few weeks replaced by a chill dampness. It was the turn of the

Franciscan Fellows, William and Aidan, to prepare the church, and Bartholomew was able to stay in bed longer than he had the previous week. He thought about Sybilla, hidden away in fear of her life, and the dead women, especially Frances de Belem, and he felt depressed by the fact that he even had a witness to one murder, but was still no further forward with uncovering the killer’s identity. He considered de Wetherset too, concealing documents from Michael that might help them to reason out some of the jumble of information that they had accumulated.

When he heard the Benedictines moving about in the room above, he reluctantly climbed out of bed to wash and shave in the cold water left for him by Cynric the night before, hopping about on the stone floor in his bare feet. He groped around in the gloom for his shirt, shivering in the cool air. The bell was already ringing by the time he was ready, and he had to run to catch up with the others. Michael told him in an undertone that they had been asked to meet with the Chancellor that morning. Bartholomew groaned, his scanty morning humour evaporating.

Michael jangled some keys at him. ‘We can try these, out,’ he said. ‘The Bishop gave them to me yesterday.’

Bartholomew took them from him. There were three large keys and three small ones, all on a rusting metal ring. ‘Why are there six keys?’ he asked. ‘There are only three locks.’

Michael shrugged. ‘The Bishop said they had been deposited with his predecessor. There is another University chest at the Carmelite Friar) containing duplicates of all documents. Did you know that? I thought not. I suspect that is a secret few other than de Wetherset know. Anyway, the scroll with the keys was dated November 1331. They have lain untouched at the bottom of one of the Abbey strong-boxes for almost twenty years! Can you believe that?’

Bartholomew wondered whether they were the right keys.

No such doubts assailed Michael, who cracked his knuckles cheerfully. ‘Now we will get some answers. If they fit, it means that the lock was tampered with and the poison device installed recently; if they do not fit, it means the lock was changed completely.’

‘And what does that tell us?’ grumbled Bartholomew.

Michael shrugged. ‘We will know whether someone

planted that device deliberately to kill.’

‘But if it were changed, it tells us only that it was done at some point between November 1331 and

last Monday,’ said Bartholomew, ignoring warning glowers from Alcote for talking in the procession.

‘And that provides us with little information that will be of use/

‘It was your idea to check the Bishop’s keys,’ said Michael, crestfallen by Bartholomew’s negative attitude.