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 brother-in-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.'
8
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.
'And if the lock has been changed, it must mean that de Wetherset's key must also have been changed — the key that only leaves the chain around his neck when it is given to the mysteriously absent Buckley.'
'So de Wetherset says,' said Bartholomew. 'But how do we prove that the poisoned blade was not put onto the lock only the day before the friar was killed?'
'Because Buckley locked the chest and the tower at dusk just a few minutes before the lay-brother locked the church. If the device was put there during the day, then Buckley would have been poisoned by it.'
'He wore gloves, remember?' said Bartholomew. He shook his head. 'Have you noticed that everyone we want to talk to, who might be able to help us, has disappeared?
The lay-brother, Janetta, Froissart's family, Master Buckley. Even Nicholas, and he is supposed to be dead!'
Michael studied him in the gloom. 'What is wrong, Matt?' he asked. 'You are not usually so morose. Are you worried about de Wetherset?'
'No. I expect he is merely trying to safeguard the University's secrets by deceiving you over the book. But I am fed up with all this. The more I try to fathom it all out, the less I understand. It is something to do with those damn covens, I am sure. One of them is meeting tonight, and Cynric thinks I am going with him to spy.
Meanwhile this killer is still free, and Tulyet seems to be doing nothing to catch him.'
Michael sighed. 'One thing at a time, Matt. We will go to see the Chancellor, and then we will try to reason all this out. We are supposed to have some of the finest minds in the country. We must be able to solve this riddle.'
Bartholomew was not so sure. He tried to put it out of his mind during Prime, but found he could not. He thought about Sybilla and wondered if she would be safe at Stanmore's premises. He found himself looking at the wall painting where the goat-devil tossed people into the burning pit, and wondered whether Wilson's tomb, when he finally had it built, would hide it.
Father William was noted for the speed of his masses, but he was not matched by Aidan, who stammered and stuttered, and lost his place as he read. At one point he knocked the paten off the altar and the pieces of bread intended for communion scattered over the floor.
Bartholomew saw Gray and Deynman start to laugh, making Alcote look at them sharply. As William and Aidan scrabbled to recover the bread, Bartholomew saw that Hesselwell was asleep. He watched, fascinated, as the lawyer slipped further and further down his seat until it tipped with a loud bang that echoed like thunder through the church.
Hesselwell looked startled, but returned the Master's deprecating look with a guileless smile that made it look as if the clatter had been caused by someone else. Gray and Deynman were having serious trouble in containing their laughter, and Bartholomew could see that if they did not control themselves, Alcote would fine them. Opposite, Harling watched in icy disapproval, making it clear that he regarded the students' behaviour as typical of Michaelhouse scholars. Kenyngham was blissfully oblivious to it all, his hands clasped in the sleeves of his monastic gown and his eyes fixed on the ceiling as he chanted. Jonstan, standing next to Harling, looked from the students to Kenyngham, and smothered a smile.
Finally, order was restored and mass continued, but it was late by the time they finished. Since it was Sunday, there were no lectures, and the scholars were expected to read or spend time in silent contemplation. Bartholomew saw no reason why his students should not read something medical. He hailed Gray and Bulbeck and told them to read specific sections of Galen's Prognostics until midday, at which point they were free to spend their time as they pleased. He gave Gray the keys so that he could unlock the valuable tome from where it was chained to a wall in Bartholomew's storeroom, and read it aloud to the others in a corner of the hall.