Just as he was beginning to turn dizzy from lack of air, the weight lifted and he was dragged to his feet. As he leaned over, gasping for breath, he saw something large move through the undergrowth away from him, but when he looked a second time, there was nothing except two or three waving branches that indicated something had passed between them.
'Matthew Bartholomew! You go where you are uninvited and you run away from where you are welcome!' said Janetta, thick black hair falling like gauze around her face. She nodded to the two men holding him, and his arms were released. "I thought you wanted to talk to me.'
Bartholomew, still trying to catch his breath, looked wildly around him. The men were withdrawing silently, although he knew they would reappear rapidly if she called for them. Within seconds, they were alone, although he knew they were being watched closely.
'Well?' she said, still smiling at him. 'What do you want?'
He thought of Matilde's words of warning, and tried to collect his confused thoughts.
'Master Tulyet told us that you were a witness to the murder of Froissart's wife,' he said. "I wanted to ask you about that.'
'He told you what?' she said, her eyes opening wide with shock.
Bartholomew sat on a tombstone and watched Janetta suspiciously.
"I have never spoken to this Tulyet,' pro tested Janetta.
"I know of him by reputation, of course. But I have never spoken to him.'
'But why would he lie?' asked Bartholomew, his thoughts whirling.
Janetta sat on the tombstone next to him, although she was careful to maintain a good distance between them. "I have no idea. I do not know how he would even know my name.'
'Did you know Froissart?' "I know him,' she said. She shuddered suddenly. 'Do you know what people are saying? That Froissart is the one who is killing the whores.'
'Tulyet does not believe that,' said Bartholomew.
That is because Tulyet almost had Froissart in his hands when he claimed sanctuary in the church, and his men allowed him to escape. What does that tell you about Tulyet?' Janetta spat.
'Do you believe Froissart is the killer?'
Janetta let out a deep breath and looked up at the darkening sky. "I think that is likely.'
'On what grounds?'
Janetta turned to him with her slow smile. 'Questions!
You are like the inquisition!' She leaned down, and picked a stem of grass that she began to chew. 'Froissart is a rough man who drinks heavily and is violent to his wife and sister.
You are lucky he was not one of the ones who caught you in our alley last week.'
'Why did he flee to the church for sanctuary if there was no murder?' asked Bartholomew. In the darkening gloom, the scars on her jaw were almost invisible, and he wondered why she did not make an attempt to hide them with the powders she used on her cheeks.
"I did not say there was no murder. I said I did not witness it, and I did not speak to Tulyet.
Marius Froissart's wife was murdered about two weeks ago.'
'So did Froissart kill her?' asked Bartholomew. This woman was worse than Boniface with her twisting and turning of words.
"I could not say. I did not witness it, as I have just said.'
Bartholomew was becoming exasperated. He forced himself not to show his impatience, knowing it would probably amuse her. He smiled. 'But what do you think?' he insisted as pleasantly as he could.
"I imagine he killed her,' she said, turning to face him.
'Where are the rest of his family?'
They have fled the town because people believe Froissart is the killer. His family will not be safe here until Froissart is caught. People believed they were hiding him, and they left at my suggestion.'
'Where are they?' he asked.
"I do not know, and if I did, it would remain my secret,' she said, her smile not reaching her eyes. They have suffered enough.'
Bartholomew thought for a moment. 'Do you know a Father Lucius?'
Janetta looked amazed. 'A priest? Priests do not come to Primrose Alley!'
'What about high priests?' said Bartholomew, watching her carefully.
'High priests? You mean bishops?' she asked.
"I mean priests of satanism,' said Bartholomew, still eyeing her intently.
'Satanism?' She made an exasperated sound and flashed him a quick smile. 'You must think I am without wits: I keep repeating everything you say. Now, satanism.
It is certainly practised in the town. But the poor only mumble the odd blasphemy and steal holy water to feed to their pigs. The rich summon great demons from hell.
If you are wanting high priests, Doctor, do not look to our community, look to the merchants and the lawyers.
And even the wealthier of the scholars.'
She mused for a moment. 'Why are you involved in all this? You are not a Proctor. Can you not see that this business is dangerous? Powerful men are involved who would kill you without a second thought. Leave this business for others to sort out.'
Bartholomew looked at her as she sat, her face shadowed. Another warning to stay away? 'Do you know where I might find the lay-brother who locked the church on the night of the friar's death?' he asked finally.
She sighed. 'So you will not heed my warning?'
Bartholomew did not reply, but waited for her to answer his question. She sighed again. The lay-brother you were chasing in our lane? No. That was the last any of us saw of him. You frightened him clean off the face of the earth.'
Bartholomew stood to leave. It was dark, and, although he would not have admitted it to Janetta, he did not feel safe with her in the churchyard. He wondered why she had picked this time and place to meet him, and felt uneasy. Was she watching his every move? Had she taken the arsenic from his bag and substituted it with white sugar? Was it Janetta who had left the goat's head on Michael's bed to warn him as she was warning Bartholomew now? 'You have been most helpful, Mistress Janetta,' he said. 'But please remember next time that it should not be necessary for your friends to sit on me to make me stay.'
A spark of anger glinted in her eyes so fast that Bartholomew thought he had imagined it, before it was masked by her enigmatic smile. He smiled, bowed, and walked purposefully away. His nerves tingled as he waited for figures looming out of the bushes that would block his escape. But there was nothing. He walked unmolested to the High Street and home to Michaelhouse.
When the sturdy gates of the College were barred behind him, he went straight to find Michael. The monk had just gone to bed, but was uncomplaining when Bartholomew dragged him from his sleep. They went to Bartholomew's room, where they would not disturb Michael's room-mates. Once Michael had settled himself comfortably on a stool, Bartholomew related the details of his meeting with Janetta.
'Oh Lord, Matt! I do not like that woman.'
He listened without further interruption until Bartholomew had finished his story and then sat thinking in silence.
"I think your other whore friend is right. I feel this Janetta is untrustworthy. Why did you not ask her about her scars?'
That would not have been polite,' said Bartholomew.
'Why should I question her about a crime for which she had already paid?'
'You are too gentle,' said Michael. "I suppose that and your curly black hair are the reasons you seem to have half the whores in Cambridge demanding your company. Janetta, Sybilla, "Lady" Matilde. What would the Franciscans say if they were to find out?'
'Michael, please,' said Bartholomew irritably. Think about what Janetta told me instead of troubling your monkish brain with unmonkish thoughts of prostitutes.