An Unholy Alliance

Michael gave a snort of derision. 'De Wetherset will have nothing to do with that! What shall we do about this guild business?' "I am not sure,' said Bartholomew. 'We should hand the information to the Sheriff, since he is supposed to be looking for the murderer of these women.' He turned to Michael. 'Do you think the two are connected? The murder of the women and the murder of the friar?'

'On what grounds?' asked Michael, surprised. 'Four victims with slit throats and one poisoned by a lock on the University chest; four ladies of ill-repute and one mendicant friar? No, Matt, I cannot see that they are connected.'

'Frances de Belem was not a lady of ill-repute,' said Bartholomew. 'She was the daughter of a respectable merchant' He stopped suddenly. "I wonder if de Belem belongs to a guild.'

Michael waved a dismissive hand. 'Now you are grasping at straws. Of course he is a member of a guild. "The Honourable Guild of Dyers, probably.'

'But he might also be a member of another guild unrelated to his trade. Oswald is and so is Roger Alcote.'

'Are they?' said Michael, surprised. 'Your brotherin-law did not mention that when we were talking just now. And Alcote? Scholars are forbidden to join guilds.'

'Oswald is a member of the Guild of the Annunciation.

Why do you think he became a burgess when Tulyet was Mayor? And Oswald once told me Alcote is also a member. Membership of these organisations is supposed to be secret, but if I wanted to know who is involved, all I would need to do would be to watch who went into the church on the day of their services. It would not be difficult to ascertain who was a member and who was not'

'Good lord!' said Michael, his eyes gleaming. 'All this intrigue going on that I knew nothing about. This makes it all far more interesting.'

'Perhaps, but it does not help with the dead friar. The only way forward I can see is to find that lay-brother and see if we can make him tell us what he knows,' said Bartholomew. "I do not feel inclined to go back to that alley again, so I suggest we ask de W'etherset to tell his clerks to trace him.'

' Do you think the lay-brother knows something?' asked Michael.

Bartholomew nodded slowly. 'Oh yes. I am certain of it. And we do not have the faintest idea what happened to Evrard Buckley,' he continued. 'Why did he disappear?

And why did he take all his furniture with him?'

Michael raised his eyebrows thoughtfully. 'It could not have been easy moving all those belongings in the middle of the night from King's Hall,' he said.

'Maybe,' said Bartholomew. 'Buckley has roomed alone since the plague carried off his colleagues, and his window opens directly onto the garden that runs down to the river. "The window is large, and, unless he had some really enormous pieces of furniture, I think there would have been no problem in lowering them down to the ground by rope.'

'He must have had help,' said Michael. 'Or it would have taken an age to do.'

'We should have something to report to de Wetherset,' said Bartholomew, 'and doubtless your Bishop will be wanting some news. We should walk round the back of King's Hall to see if we can see anything.'

Michael was not impressed with the idea, but went anyway. Bartholomew was right in saying that the Bishop would want answers, and it would be Michael's responsibility to give him some. They walked down to the river and along the towpath. A barge was being docked at the wharves, three exhausted horses having dragged it through the night to be ready to trade its wares at the Fair. "The smell by the river was powerful.

Stale eels that had not been sold the previous day lay in grey-black heaps on the bank, being squabbled over by gulls. All along the river people were dumping night waste into the water, while further downstream a group of children splashed and played in the shallows.

Bartholomew saw one of Stanmore's apprentices bartering for threads, and a small group of women were admiring a collection of coloured ribbons. Walking past them, and heading in his direction, was Janetta of Lincoln. Bartholomew saw the sun glint on her blue-black hair, and memories of his experience in the alleyway came flooding back to him. For a reason he could not immediately identify, he decided he did not want to speak to her.

Bartholomew pulled at Michael's sleeve. 'Come on,' he said, 'we do not have all day.'

'What is the matter with you?' grumbled Michael, objecting to this increase in his pace when the air was already beginning to grow thick and humid with the promise of heat to come.

It was too late. Janetta had seen him and came forward with the enigmatic smile he remembered from the day before, showing under her cascade of black hair. Michael stopped dead in his tracks and eyed her suspiciously.

'So, Matthew Bartholomew. Good morning to you.'

Bartholomew nodded to her, hiding his bitten hand under his scholar's robe. He instinctively knew that she would ask him about it, and he did not want to tell her about the incident in the orchard. In fact, he did not want to tell her anything at all. * Janetta laughed at his cautious response. "I trust I find you well?' she said, looking him up and down and appraising him coolly.

Did she know about his skirmish last night? Was she surprised to see him intact? Or was she merely thinking about her rescue of him from the alleyway? 'Very well. And you?' he asked guardedly.

'In fine health,' she said. 'And now, Doctor, I have a great many things to do, and I cannot stand around gossiping all day like a scholar!'

She sauntered away, walking slowly, as if she were in no particular hurry to get back to her 'great many things'.

'And we cannot stroll around idly like harlots,' retorted Michael, nettled by her comment She evidently heard his remark, for she turned around and wagged a finger at him, smiling, although Bartholomew thought he detected a flash of anger in her eyes.

'Who was that?' Michael asked, staring after her.

'Janetta of Lincoln,' Bartholomew answered, embarrassed by Michael's retort.

'Ah, yes,' said Michael. 'You did not tell me she was a convicted felon.'

'What?' said Bartholomew, startled. 'How do you know that?'

'Did you not notice those scars on her face? There was a judge at Lincoln who liked to sentence prostitutes to that punishment. He reasoned that it would force them to turn from prostitution because they would be unable to secure clients. He was only in office a short time, but he made a name for himself locally because of the sentences he gave to petty offenders.'

'Petty offenders?' said Bartholomew. 'Then perhaps she was convicted of a crime other than prostitution.'

Michael shook his head. 'He only scarred women like that for the crime of harlotry. She was a whore, Matt, and was convicted and punished for it. You mark my words.'

'What happened to the judge?' asked Bartholomew.

'Killed in a brothel,' said Michael, laughing. 'Full of women with scarred faces, I expect! I would say your Janetta of Lincoln was almost certainly one of his victims.'

'That might explain why she left Lincoln. If this judge's punishments are not common knowledge, perhaps she thought she might be able to live here without her past being known,' mused Bartholomew.

'"The only reason I know is because I saw similar scars on the face of a woman in a group of travelling singers,' said Michael. "I asked her how she came by them, and she told me about the judge.'

Bartholomew looked doubtfully at him, wondering how the fat monk had managed to embark upon such an intimate conversation with a female travelling entertainer. Michael caught his glance and waggled his eyebrows before changing the subject. 'Let's go and look at this grass.'

As Bartholomew had predicted, the walls bore marks that Buckley's furniture had been passed out of the window. They also found the grass below it was trampled, and there were ruts made by a cart. But there was also something else.