'As I said to Master de Wetherset,' said Bartholomew, still pacing, "I suspect Nicholas's coffin was meant to be opened before his burial, not after.'
De Wetherset sighed. 'You are right-we know nothing to be a danger to anyone. Unless we know something that may seem unimportant to us that means a great deal to them.'
He had a point, and Bartholomew stopped wandering for a moment to consider it. After a few moments, he resumed his pacing, frustrated.
"I can think of nothing,' he said. 'The only way forward that I can see is to look into the murders of the town women. We know their deaths involve the University now that we have discovered the woman's body in Nicholas's coffin. There are no witnesses that can identify the killer.
Rumours are spreading that the murderer is Froissart, but we know that cannot be so.'
De Wetherset watched Bartholomew pace, and turned to Michael. "I understand you visited Ely,' he said. 'Do you have the keys?'
Michael produced them and de Wetherset fetched the old locks from a cupboard in the wall. He carried them carefully and placed them on the table on top of a piece of cloth. Michael selected a key, donned the heavy gloves, carefully inserted it into the lock, and waggled it about.
'It always was a bit sticky,' said the Chancellor, watching from a distance.
Michael jiggled the key a little more, and stepped back in alarm as the tiny blade popped further out, revealing jagged edges. Michael, his hands a little unsteady, took a grip on the key again and twisted it back and forth, but nothing happened. 'It does not fit,' he said. 'The lock must have been exchanged.'
'Wait!' said Bartholomew, moving towards the table from the window-seat where he had been watching.
The others looked at him. 'How do you know it was sticky?' he asked de Wetherset. 'You said Buckley usually opened it.' — . 'Well, he did, usually,' said de Wetherset. 'But he was sometimes ill, so I would open it. I always struggled with the damn thing, although Buckley never had a problem.'
'When was the last time you opened it personally?' asked Bartholomew.
De Wetherset blew out his cheeks. 'Heavens,' he said.
"I cannot recall… perhaps during spring. Why do you ask?'
Bartholomew's mind began to whirl. 'Open it now,' he demanded.
'Why?' said de Wetherset. 'Brother Michael has already shown the key does not fit.'
Bartholomew snatched the key from the table and handed it to de Wetherset. 'You try.'
The Chancellor looked puzzled, but donned the gloves and inserted the key in the lock gingerly. Unlike Michael, de Wetherset steadied the lock with his other hand, and after a few moments of jiggling, there was a loud snap and the lock sprung open.
De Wetherset and Harling stared at it, while Michael looked at Bartholomew, a sardonic smile tugging the corners of his mouth.
'Tell us what flash of inspiration suddenly occurred to make you suggest that,' he said.
Bartholomew sat on a stool next to the table and peered at the lock. 'It is old,' he said, 'and the tower is damp. I suspect that the lock's insides are rusty. Buckley opened it almost every day, and was probably used to the way it sticks; so familiar, in fact, that he did not need to fiddle like you did just now, Master de Wetherset. Similarly, you know better how to manipulate the thing than Michael, who was unable to open it at all. I think the small blade that killed the friar has been hidden in the lock for years.
Over time, the mechanism has become faulty and rusty.
I suspect it would have killed you, Master de Wetherset, had you opened it more recently.'
Harling looked puzzled. 'So you are saying that this nasty device has been in place since the locks were bought from Italy twenty years ago, and that it has become faulty over the last few months because it has become worn.'
De Wetherset looked at the lock in horror. 'Are you telling me that if Buckley had not been available to unlock the chest recently with his gloved hands and his familiarity with the thing, I might have suffered the same fate as the friar?'
Bartholomew nodded. 'That is exactly what I am telling you,' he said. 'And I think if you were to show a locksmith the other two locks, you would find similar mechanisms not far behind this one in terms of increasing unreliability.'
De Wetherset looked sick, but went to the door and called for Gilbert whom he dispatched to send for Haralda the Dane, the town's leading locksmith.
Harling tried to stop him. 'I must caution you to keep this matter a secret. Bartholomew's explanation seems a plausible one. Why can we not leave it at that? And anyway, it is Sunday, and you cannot encourage the locksmith to work on the Lord's day.' "I want to be certain,' said de Wetherset. 'If Matthew is wrong, we may draw the wrong conclusions from this wretched business and a murderer may walk free. I am quite sure the Lord will overlook Haralda's sin if it is to prevent the more heinous crime of murder.'
Harling opened his mouth to argue, but de Wetherset eyed him coldly, and nothing was said. Harling turned away in anger, and went to the window. Bartholomew was surprised at Harling's objections. So what if the town got to know the University had discovered three poisoned locks?
It might act as a deterrent to anyone considering burgling the chest a second time. It seemed to Bartholomew that Harling's other objection — that Haralda would be working on the Sabbath — was a second thought grasped at in desperation. After all, by his very presence in his office on a Sunday, it might be considered that Hailing was working, too. Perhaps he had other reasons for wanting the presence of the poisoned locks kept a secret.
While they waited for Haralda, Bartholomew sat on the damp cushions in the window-seat and watched Harling more closely. He was certainly agitated, and paced up and down as Bartholomew had done earlier.
Bartholomew saw Michael observing too, and knew that he was not the only one to note Harling's tension.
It was not long before Gilbert ushered the tall Dane into the Chancellor's office. Haralda's eyes immediately lit on the locks on the table, and he let out an exclamation of delight.
'Ah! Padua locks!' he said. "I have not seen one of these in many a year. May I?'
They are poisoned!' cried Michael, springing forward to stop him from touching them.
Haralda looked at him pityingly. 'Of course they are poisoned/ he said. 'They are Padua locks. Clever devices. I assume these are the reasons you have invited me here?'
De Wetherset nodded, while Hailing began to gnaw on his fingernails. Bartholomew was impressed at the Dane's command of English. When he had arrived six or seven years ago, he had conducted his business almost exclusively in French. Now, he not only spoke perfect English, but had acquired a gentleman's accent, not a local one. Bartholomew commented on it as he watched the locksmith work.
'I was taught by a lady,' he said proudly.
Bartholomew was puzzled, unable to imagine what kind of lady would be willing to coach a rough man like Haralda the Dane. Then the answer came to him.
The Lady Matilde?' he asked.
The Dane grinned at him conspiratorially. The very same,' he said.
Cambridge was indeed a small town, thought Bartholomew. De Wetherset apparently did not agree.
'Lady Matilde?' he said, frowning as he thought. 'I do not believe I know her. Is she the wife of one of the knights at the Castle?'
'She does not live at the Castle,' said Bartholomew, and changed the subject before it got him into trouble.' What can you tell us about the locks, Master Haralda?'
'They are old,' said the Dane. He slipped on a pair of thin but strong gloves and unrolled a piece of cloth containing some tiny tools. He carefully picked up one of the locks in his paw-like hands. 'Yes, this one is broken, see?' He pointed to the blade and waggled it with his finger, laughing at the exclamations of horror from Gilbert and de Wetherset.