'It was meant to be a goat. And I am sure you will appreciate there was little time for practice under the circumstances,' Bartholomew added drily.
Michael gave a reluctant smile. They took their leave of the Stanmores and walked back to Michaelhouse. De Wetherset had posted a clerk at the Trumpington Gate to bring them to him when they arrived. He was waiting in his office with Buckley and Harling at his side.
Bartholomew smiled at the grammar master, pleased to see that he had regained some colour in his face, and his eyes had lost the dull, witless look they had had the night before. De Wetherset, however, looked grey with shock.
"I am sorry,' he said. He must be shaken indeed, thought Bartholomew, to admit being wrong. 'When did you begin to suspect Gilbert?'
'Only yesterday,' said Michael, 'although the clues to Gilbert's other identity were there all along. It is ironic that Gilbert heard us discussing the probability that Master Buckley was the culprit, while all along, it was he.'
De Wetherset put his face in his hands, while Buckley patted him on the shoulder consolingly. Bartholomew wondered how he could ever have considered the possibility that this bumbling, gentle old man would have hidden bodies in chests and stolen from the University.
He stole a quick glance at Harling. He stood behind de Wetherset, his face impassive, although his fingers picked constantly at a loose thread on his gown. Now Buckley was back, he would have to relinquish his position as Vice-Chancellor.
Michael tried to encourage the dejected Chancellor.
'It is over now. No one stole the book, so the University's secrets are safe. Even from me,' he added guilelessly, making de Wetherset favour him with a guilty glance. 'I must say that it has caused me to wonder whether such a book should exist at all, given that it could become a powerful tool in the hands of wicked men.'
De Wetherset pointed at a pile of grey ashes in the hearth, twitching gently in the draught from the door.
'There is Nicholas's book. You are right, Brother. Master Buckley and I decided that if the book were gone, no one will be able to use it for evil ends. But I am afraid you are wrong when you say it is over. There was another murder last night. A woman was killed near the Barnwell Gate.'
Bartholomew looked sharply at Harling, but his face betrayed nothing.
'But that is not possible!' said Michael. 'We knew where de Belem and Gilbert were all of last night'
'De Belem and Gilbert do not know the identity of the killer,' said Buckley. "I heard them talking about it.'
'Well, who is it then?' exploded Michael.
Bartholomew watched Harling intently.
'And of which guild were you a member, Master Harling?' he asked quietly.
Harling gazed at him in shock before he was able to answer. 'Guild? Membership of such organisations is not permitted by the University!'
'No more lies, Richard,' said de Wetherset wearily.
'Brother Michael and Doctor Bartholomew have served me well in this business. I will not have them deceived any longer.'
Harling pursed his lips in a thin, white line and looked away, so de Wetherset answered.
'Master Harling became a member of the Guild of the Coming when he took over as my deputy. I am ashamed to say that a Physwick Hostel scholar was a member, and Richard persuaded him to take him to one of the meetings. He joined to gather information to help you.'
Bartholomew looked sceptical, and Harling's eyes glittered in anger. 'My motives were purely honourable,' he said in a tight voice. 'As Vice-Chancellor, it was only a question of time before I took over from Master de Wetherset. I did not want to inherit a University riddled with corruption and wickedness, so I undertook to join the coven so that any University involvement in this business could be stamped out.'
'Only I knew of Harling's membership,' said de Wetherset. "I considered it too dangerous even for Gilbert to know.'
'So what did you discover?' asked Bartholomew, looking at the still-angry Harling.
'Very little,' he said. 'Only that the high priest often had an enormous man with him, and there was the woman, whom I now understand was Gilbert.'
'Yes, I saw him at de Belem's house!' said Buckley.
'A great lumbering fellow that shuffled when he walked, and whose face was always covered by a mask.'
'There was something odd about him,' Harling continued.
'His movements were peculiar — uncoordinated — but at the same time immensely strong. Frankly, he frightened me.'
'Are you suggesting that this man might be the killer?' asked Michael.
Bartholomew's mind raced. He remembered the huge man whom he had struggled with in the orchard, and who had probably knocked him off his feet in St Mary's churchyard when Janetta had wanted to speak with him.
Hesselwell had mentioned a large man, too.
Harling shrugged. "I can think of no other, now that it appears that Gilbert and de Belem cannot be responsible.'
Bartholomew and Michael took their leave and walked to the Barnwell Gate.
'Damn!' said Michael, banging his fist into his palm.
'The high priest claimed that another victim would be taken-before new moon, and we were so convinced that it was de Belem that we did not consider the possibility of another.'
Bartholomew rubbed tiredly at his mud-splattered hair. 'We have been stupid,' he said. 'Logically, neither de Belem nor Gilbert could have killed Isobel. Gilbert was in the church waiting for the friar, and de Belem was off kidnapping Buckley. Of course this large man could be a ruse of Harling's to deflect suspicion from him.'
'What?' said Michael. 'Do you think Harling is the killer?'
Bartholomew spread his hands. 'Why not? We have little enough evidence, but it can be made to fit to him. First, he is a self-confessed member of a coven, whatever his motive for joining. Second, he would have had a good deal to gain if Buckley had not returned to reclaim his position, so why should he not be in league with de Belem to keep Buckley out of the way? Third, I do not like him!'
'Oh, Matt!' said Michael, exasperated. 'That is no evidence at all! I do not like him either, but he says he joined the guild after Buckley's disappearance, and I hardly think de Belem would be so foolish as to trust him immediately with the information that he had the previous Vice-Chancellor as prisoner in his house!'
They walked in silence until Bartholomew saw the large figure of Father Cuthbert puffing towards them.
Although the day was not yet hot, Cuthbert's face was glistening with sweat and dark patches stained his gown from his exertions.
'Good morning,' said Cuthbert breathlessly, drawing up for a welcome pause. "I have been out visiting before the sun gets too hot. Have you heard the news? Another murder at the Barnwell Gate, the same as the others.'
'How do you know it was the same as the others?' asked Bartholomew. He saw Michael's glance of disbelief and tried to pull himself together. Now he was suspecting everyone! There was no way the cumbersome Father Cuthbert would be able to catch a nimble prostitute.
'Master Jonstan told me,' said Cuthbert. "I have been to visit him. He has not been himself since the death of his mother.'
'His mother died?' said Bartholomew. 'We had not heard. I am sorry to hear that. He talked about her a lot'
'Yes, they were close,' said Cuthbert. 'But it was as well she died. She was bed-ridden for many years.'
He ambled off, waving cheerily, and Bartholomew turned to watch him as he stopped to talk to a group of dirty children playing with an ancient hoop from a barrel.
'No,' said Michael, firmly taking his arm and pulling at him to resume walking. 'Not Father Cuthbert. He is too old and too fat, and you are clutching at straws.'
Bartholomew stopped abruptly and took a fistful of Michael's habit. 'Not Father Cuthbert,' he said, his mind whirling. 'Alric Jonstan.'