An Unholy Alliance (27 page)

‘Did you see his body or attend his funeral? Did you notice anything untoward?’

The clerk looked at him as though he were insane.

“I saw his body in his coffin the night before we buried him, but I fail to see why you ask.’ He sank back into the shadows as the other clerk returned from depositing his candles. ‘The friar died a few days ago, and Nicholas has been in his grave for weeks.’

Bartholomew sighed. ‘Then do you know anything

about the Guild of the Coming or the Guild of the Purification?’

The man crossed himself so violently that Bartholomew could hear his hand thumping hollowly against his ribs.

‘You should not speak those names in this holy church!’

he hissed. ‘And do not try to find out about them. They are powerful and would kill you like a fly if they thought you were asking questions/

‘But they are small organisations with only a few members,’ said Bartholomew, quoting Stanmore’s information, and trying to allay the clerk’s fears.

‘But they have the power of the Devil behind them!

They do his work as we do God’s.’

Bartholomew already knew the two guilds might harm him or Michael if they thought they were coming too close to their secrets. When he glanced up again, the man had melted away into the shadows. He thought about what the clerk had said. Either two people were locked in the church that night, or the friar had let someone else in. But what was even more apparent was that the second person must have had a set of keys to the church, or how would the doors have been locked the following morning?

Bartholomew rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Buckley had to be involved. Perhaps he had not murdered the friar, as Bartholomew had considered possible, but did he lock the doors to the tower after the friar had died and he had put him in the chest? And then did he leave the church, lock it behind him, and flee the town with all his property? And was he also responsible for putting the murdered woman in Nicholas of York’s coffin? In which case, he might also be the killer of the other women.

Even stranger was the case of Nicholas of York. The clerk and de Wetherset claimed they had seen Nicholas dead, which implied that someone must have made off with his body, first replacing it with the woman’s. But what reason might anyone, even a coven, have for such an action? Bartholomew closed his eyes and leaned back against the tomb. But what if Nicholas were not dead?

Perhaps he had feigned death, spending the day lying in his coffin while his colleagues kept vigil, and then broke out during the night. Perhaps the woman had helped him. Had Nicholas then repaid her by killing her and putting her in his place? Had she come to snatch his body away for some diabolical purpose and been foiled in the attempt? Perhaps Nicholas was the killer, a man assumed to be dead, and so not an obvious suspect.

And what of Tulyet’s role in all this? The townspeople believed Froissart was the killer, but deaths had occurred after he was murdered and hidden in the belfry. Perhaps Tulyet was the murderer. He had reacted oddly to the mention of goats, and was doing nothing to catch the killer, although he could not know Froissart was dead.

Perhaps it had been Tulyet who had snatched Nicholas’s body for some satanic ritual.

Bartholomew opened his eyes and saw that the rain had eased. Michael was singing a Kyrie with another monk, their voices echoing through the church, Michael’s rich baritone a complement to the monk’s tenor.

Bartholomew let their music wash over him, savouring the way their voices rose and fell together, growing louder and then softer in perfect harmony with each other. The faint smell of wet earth began to drift in through the open windows, momentarily masking the all-pervasive aroma of river. All was peace and stillness until a cart broke a wheel outside, and angry voices began to intrude.

“I am hungry,’ announced Michael as they walked back to College in the light rain following the thunderstorm.

‘Cynric foolishly told Agatha about that trick we played on you with the shadows, and she is refusing to allow me into the kitchen. We could sit in the garden behind the Brazen George and have something to eat while we talk.’

Bartholomew looked askance. ‘What are you thinking of, monk? First, it is a Sunday, and second, you are well aware that scholars are not permitted in the town taverns.’

‘What better day than a Sunday to celebrate the Lord’s gift of excellent wine?’ asked Michael cheerily. ‘And I did not suggest entering a tavern, physician, merely the garden.’

‘Michael, it is raining,’ said Bartholomew, laughing.

‘We cannot sit in a tavern garden in the rain. People would think we had had too much to drink! And the Brazen George will be closed because it is Sunday.’

‘Not true,’ said Michael. The town has given a special dispensation for the taverns to open on Sundays during the Fair. Otherwise what do you think all these visiting merchants, traders, and itinerants will do, wandering the streets with nowhere to go? If the taverns were closed, they would form gangs and roam the streets looking for trouble. The town council was wise when it ignored the pious whinings of the clerics and granted licences for the taverns to open on Sundays until the Fair is over.’

Bartholomew glanced up and saw a figure coming

towards them, his head bowed against the spitting rain.

Michael saw him too, and hailed him.

‘Master de Belem!’

The merchant looked up, his eyes glazed and his face sallow. His thick, dark hair was straggly and he looked thinner and older than when Bartholomew had last seen him. He glanced up and down the street carefully, and then back at the scholars.

“I must talk to you, but not here. Where can

we meet?’

The garden at the rear of the Brazen George,’

said Michael before Bartholomew could stop him. ‘It is secluded and the landlord will respect our privacy/

The merchant nodded quickly. ‘Go there now and I will follow in a few minutes. I do not want anyone to know that we have been together.’

Michael gave Bartholomew a triumphant look and

led the way to the tavern. He stopped at the small stable next door to it, pretending to admire the horses.

When he was certain no beadles were watching, he shot down a small passageway and let himself into a tiny garden. The bower would be pleasant on a

sunny day: it had high limewashed walls over which vines crept, and two or three small tables were set among rambling roses. But it was raining, and as the wind blew, great drops of water splattered down from the leaves.

Bartholomew sighed and pulled his hood further

over his head, looking for a spot that might be more sheltered.

Within moments, the landlord came out, wiping his hands on a stained apron, and not at all surprised to see them.

‘Brother Michael! Welcome! What can I fetch for

you?’

Two goblets of your excellent French wine, some

chicken, some of that fine white bread, cinnamon toast, and the use of your garden for some private business.’

The landlord spread his hands. ‘If only I could, Brother, but white flour is not to be had at any cost, and we have no bread. But there is chicken and wine, and you are welcome to the garden for your private business.’

Michael looked disappointed, but nodded his agreement.

The landlord hurried away to do his bidding.

Bartholomew was surprised that the monk would break the University’s rules so flagrantly. ‘From that, I assume this is not your first visit?’

Michael beamed and led him over to a table under some trees where they were at least sheltered from the wind, if not the rain. De Belem slipped through the door, latching it carefully behind him.

“I am sorry for the secrecy, but it is for your own safety.

I am a marked man, and it would do you no good to be seen with me,’ he said, as he came to join them at the wet table.

‘Marked by whom?’ asked Bartholomew.

“I do not know,’ he said, putting his elbows on the table and resting his face in his hands. ‘But they have already killed my daughter.’

‘ How do you know that?’ asked Bartholomew curiously.

De Belem raised his head. ‘Allow me to explain. After my wife was taken by the Death, I lost my faith. Half the monks and priests in the land were taken, and I thought if God would not protect His own, why would He bother with me? I said as much to one of my colleagues, and a few days later I received an invitation to attend a meeting of the Guild of Purification. I did not know what it entailed, but I went because I was disillusioned and lonely. The Honourable Guild of Dyers was full of bickering because of a shift in the balance of power after the plague, and I felt I would have nothing to lose by joining another organisation.’

He paused and looked up into the swaying branches above. Bartholomew said nothing. Stanmore had already told him that de Belem was a member of the Guild of Purification.

The guild pays allegiance to Satan,’ de Belem

continued. ‘You are scholars, so you know Lucifer’s story. He was an angel and was cast out of Heaven.

His halo fell to his feet, and so our symbol is a circle - his fallen halo.’

Michael pursed his lips, and the three men were silent while the landlord brought the chicken and wine. De Belem huddled inside his hood. Discreetly, the landlord kept his eyes fixed on the food, and did not attempt to look at de Belem, leaving Bartholomew to wonder how many other such meetings Michael had conducted on his premises.

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De Belem continued when the landlord had left. The religious, or,’ he said, casting a rueful glance at Michael, ‘ the irreligious side of it held little appeal for me. But these people were united in a common bond of friendship and belief. It is difficult to explain, but I felt a fellowship with them that I had not felt since before the Death. I was even made the Grand Master.’

‘You are the Grand Master of the Guild of Purification?’

said Bartholomew, stunned. Michael looked at him with round, doleful eyes, as though he found the mere mention of satanic dealings offensive to his vocation.

“I was,’ continued de Belem. ‘Not now. In fact, I am no longer even a member, although it is too late to make a difference.’

He paused before continuing.

‘I imagine you might think that someone from the Guild of Purification might have killed Frances, but I know that it is not so. Whatever you might believe about us, we do not kill or make sacrifices of living things. Like any other guilds, we join together for fellowship. The difference, perhaps, is that we speak as we feel, and have no priests to warn us of the fires of hell and to look ever for heresy.’

Bartholomew thought about the Franciscans at

Michaelhouse, and their obsession with heresy, and did not wonder that some people were attracted to such an organisation. Michael appeared shocked.

De Belem continued. ‘We met in disused churches, but did them no harm. The Guild of the Coming is perhaps a little more ritualistic than the Guild of Purification, but we do not kill: the deaths of those women and Frances were nothing to do with us. Someone else is responsible.’

‘Like who?’ asked Michael.

‘Like the fanatics in the Guild of the Holy Trinity,’

said de Belem. ‘They are always railing about how the Death was brought by sinners like prostitutes and greedy merchants.’

‘What makes you think they killed Frances?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘ Because I was sent a note telling me that Frances would be murdered because I was a member of a coven,’ said de Belem in a whisper.

‘Do you still have it?’ asked Michael.

De Belem shook his head. ‘It so distressed me, I threw it in the fire. I was foolish. If I had kept it, we might have been able to glean clues as to the identity of her killer.’

‘But why did you not tell me of this note before?’

asked Bartholomew. ‘Such as when you asked me to investigate Frances’s murder.’

De Belem closed his eyes. “I simply did not think of it until after you left. You must recall you had brought devastating news, and I was not thinking clearly/

‘Do you think notes were sent to the families of the other women?’ asked Bartholomew. He had been assuming that the murders of the women were random killings, but de Belem’s information suggested there might be a pattern to them. If there were a pattern, they might yet be able to solve the mystery.

“I do not know. Frances and Isobel were the only ones who meant something to me.’

Isobel?’ said Michael, through a mouthful of chicken.

The whore?’

Bartholomew kicked him under the table. De Belem turned sad eyes on Michael. ‘A whore, yes, if you would.

She came to my house twice every week and left before first light so Frances would not know. I should have insisted that she stayed until it was light that day.

Isobel’s life should have been worth more to me than my reputation with a wild daughter.’

Bartholomew leaned his folded arms on the table

and studied the wet wood, thinking about what de Belem had told them. He was saying that at least two of the murders had been attacks against the satanists, deliberate assassinations intended to strike at specific people. He thought back to what Stanmore had told him the night he had gone to Trumpington: that he thought Richard Tulyet the elder might be a member of the Guild of the Coming.

‘Did you tell the Sheriff about the note you received?’

he asked.

De Belem nodded. ‘He said he would look into it, but of course he found nothing.’

‘Will you tell us the names of the other members of the guild so we might question them?’

A faint smile crossed de Belem’s face. “I cannot. It might put them at risk. The two guilds are innocent of the murders, and this maniac must be brought to justice. Tulyet is worthless, and you are my only hope of seeing Frances and Isobel avenged. If the guilds were the murderers, Frances and Isobel would be here now, and we would not be talking.’