'What is wrong?' asked Michael, his face white in the dark church.
Bartholomew pointed to the dead girl's foot. 'That mark,' he said. "I saw a circle like that on the foot of the last dead girl, Fritha. I thought it was just chance — there was so much blood — but Isobel has a mark that is identical.'
'Do you think it is the killer's personal signature?' asked Michael, with a shudder. "I assume all three women were killed by the same person.'
Bartholomew frowned. 'Perhaps, yes, if there were a similar mark on the foot of the first victim. I did not see her body.'
'God's teeth, Matt,' said Michael, his voice unsteady.
'What monster would do this?' He clutched at one of the pillars, unable to tear his eyes away from the body in the coffin. He began to reel, and Bartholomew, fearing that the monk might faint, took him firmly by the arm and led him outside.
They sat together on one of the ancient tombstones in the shade of a yew tree. A woman's anguished cries suggested that Cynric had already found Isobel's family and that they were nearing the church. Next to Bartholomew, Michael was still shaking.
'Why, Matt?' he asked, looking to where a man led his wailing wife into the church, escorted solicitously by the friar.
Bartholomew stared across the churchyard at a row of young oak trees, their slender branches waving in the breeze. 'That is the third girl to be killed,' he said.
'Hilde, Fritha, and Isobel, and all of them murdered in churchyards.'
The Fair had resulted in a temporary increase in prostitution. The town burgesses had called for the Sheriff to rid the town of the women, but Bartholomew believed the prostitutes were providing a greater service to the town than the burgesses appreciated: as long as they were available, scholars and itinerant traders from the Fair did not pester the townsmen's wives and daughters. Bartholomew suspected Michael felt much the same, although such a position was hardly tenable publicly for a Benedictine Master of Theology.
They sat for a while until Michael regained some of his colour, and watched the crowd in the churchyard. When the Sheriffs men arrived, it became ominously silent.
Bartholomew frowned. 'What is all that about?'
They watched as the soldiers tried to disperse the crowd. 'There are rumours in the town that the Sheriff is not doing all he might to investigate the murders of Hilde and Fritha,' said Michael. 'As Sheriff, his duty is to try to prevent prostitution, and it is said that he considers the murderer to be doing him a favour by killing these women.'
'Oh, surely not, Brother!' said Bartholomew in disbelief.
'What Sheriff would want a killer in his town? It will do nothing to make it peaceful.'
'True enough,' said Michael. 'But it is said that the killer fled to St Mary's Church and claimed sanctuary. The Sheriff set a watch on the church, but the killer escaped, and now it looks as though he has struck again.'
'How is it known that this man was the killer?' asked Bartholomew curiously.
'He is supposed to have killed his wife before fleeing,' said Michael. 'It is rumoured that the Sheriff deliberately set a lax watch on the church so that the killer could continue his extermination of the prostitutes.'
'Do you think there is any truth in these stories?' asked Bartholomew, watching the soldiers, frustrated with the sullen crowd, draw their swords to threaten the people away.
'It is true that a man killed his wife and claimed sanctuary at St Mary's, and it is true that he escaped during the night despite the Sheriff's guards. Whether he is also the killer of Hilde, Fritha, and now Isobel, is open to debate.'
The crowd, faced with naked steel, reluctantly began to disperse, although there were dark mutterings.
Bartholomew was surprised that the crowd was sympathetic to the prostitutes. There were those who claimed that the plague had come because of women like them, and they faced a constant and very real danger from attack.
'Come on, Brother,' Bartholomew said, rising to his feet. 'We must pay a visit to the ailing Master Buckley.
Perhaps he will explain everything, and this University chest business will be over and done with before more time is wasted.'
Michael assented and they walked in silence up the High Street, each wrapped in his own thoughts. Michael could not stop thinking about the face of the dead girl, while Bartholomew, more inured to violent death, was still angry that he was being dragged into the sordid world of University politics and intrigue.
Towards King's Hall the houses were larger than those near St Botolph's, some with small walled gardens.
Many homes had been abandoned after the plague, and the whitewash was dirty and grey. Others were well maintained, and had been given new coats of whitewash in honour of the Fair, some tinged with pigs' blood or ochre to make them pleasing shades of pink, yellow, and orange. But all were in use now that the Fair had arrived.
The street itself was hard-packed mud, dangerously pot-holed and rutted. Parallel drains ran down each side of it, intended to act as sewers to take waste from homes. By leaning out of the upper storeys of the houses, residents could throw their waste directly into the drains, but not everyone's aim was accurate, and accidents were inevitable. Scholars especially needed to take care when walking past townspeople's houses in the early mornings. On one side of the street, Bartholomew saw a group of ragged children prodding at a blockage with sticks, paddling barefoot in the filth. One splashed another, and screams of delight followed as the spray flew. The physician in him longed to tell them to play elsewhere; the pragmatist told him that they would find somewhere equally, if not more, unwholesome.
King's Hall was an elegant establishment that had been founded by Edward II more than thirty years before.
The present King had continued the royal patronage, and it was now the largest of the Cambridge Colleges.
The centre of King's Hall was a substantial house with gardens that swept down to the river. Bartholomew and Michael asked for the Warden, who listened gravely to Michael's news, and took them to Master Buckley's room himself.
'Many of the masters have a room to themselves now,' the Warden said as they walked. 'Before the Death, we were cramped, but since that terrible pestilence claimed more than half our number, we rattle around in this draughty building. I suppose time will heal and we will have more scholars in due course. Master Kenyngham tells me that Michaelhouse has just been sent six Franciscans from Lincoln, which must be a welcome boost to your numbers.'
Bartholomew smiled politely, although he was not so certain that the arrival of the Franciscans was welcome.
So far, all they had done was to try to get the other scholars into debates about heresy and to criticise the Master's tolerant rule.
The Warden led them up some stairs at the rear of the Hall and knocked on a door on the upper floor.
There was no answer.
'Poor Master Buckley was most unwell last night,' said the Warden in a whisper. "I thought it might be wise to allow him to sleep this morning and recover his strength.'
'What was wrong with him?' asked Bartholomew, exchanging a quick glance of concern with Michael.
The Warden shrugged. 'You know him, Doctor. He is never very healthy and the summer heat has made him worse. Last night, we had eels for supper, and he always eats far more than his share, despite your warnings about his diet. None of us were surprised when he said he felt ill.' He knocked on the door again, a little louder.
With a growing fear of what he might find, Bartholomew grasped the handle of the door and pushed it open. The three men stood staring in astonishment. The room was completely bare. Not a stick of furniture, a wall hanging, or a scrap of parchment remained. And there was certainly no sign of Master Buckley.