An Unholy Alliance (36 page)

Cynric was disapproving that Bartholomew had allowed Hesselwell to make good his escape, and so was Michael when they told him.

‘He might come back and wreak all manner of havoc,’

said the monk crossly. ‘A self-confessed satanist and you let him go!’

‘He was terrified, Brother, and his escape will make no difference. What if he had been right and he was murdered? How would you feel then?’

‘He might have been able to tell us more about this high priest,’ said Michael. ‘He might have known what he was looking for in the orchard!’

‘He told us all he knew,’ said Bartholomew wearily, scrubbing at his face. ‘He was used by the high priest, and told virtually nothing in return.’

‘But he left that thing on my bed and you allowed him to go just like that!’ said Michael, bristling with the injustice of the situation. ‘He tried to murder Walter!’

‘He did not know the bottle was poisoned. He was told it contained a sleeping draught,’ said Bartholomew.

He held up the phial Hesselwell had given him. ‘This is perhaps the most important clue we have. When we know what it is, I will know to which of my patients I gave it, and we will know the high priest.’

Michael eyed it dubiously. ‘But what if it is one of those common concoctions you give out to dozens of people, like betony and ginger oil?’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘I use these phials for more powerful potions.’ He took out the stopper and sniffed cautiously. He recognised the compound immediately: there was only one patient to whom he had recently prescribed this medicine! Stunned, he turned to Michael.

‘Master Buckley!’ he exclaimed. ‘He needs this strong draught when the hot weather makes his skin condition unbearable!’

‘Buckley the high priest?’ said Michael, frowning in concentration. ‘It is beginning to come together. But it is well past sunset. Go and tell the Master about Hesselwell and his evil doings. Do not give him more time than you have already promised to make good his escape.’

Bartholomew began to walk across the courtyard to the Master’s room when a man walked through the gate.

He stopped dead in his tracks as Richard Tulyet the elder strode purposefully towards him. Bartholomew glanced up at the darkening sky as he did so. It seemed Hesselwell was to have more time still.

‘Doctor,’ said Tulyet quietly. ‘Is there somewhere I can talk with you and Brother Michael alone?’

Cynric led the way to the conclave, and lit some candles, stolen from Alcole’s personal supply that was secreted behind one of the wall hangings. Tulyet would say nothing until the Welshman had left, closing the door behind him.

“I should have come to see you before now,’ said Tulyet, facing Bartholomew and Michael in the flickering light, ‘but I did not know whom I could trust.’

Bartholomew knew exactly how he felt, but said

nothing.

‘You were right when you said I was a member of

the Guild of the Coming, and you were right when you said I had been at All Saints’ Church two nights ago.’

He shuddered. “I joined the Guild because the Death took my three daughters and all my grandchildren. The Church said that only those who sinned would die, but I lived and the children died. I realised the Church had lied to me, and I wanted nothing more to do with it. The Guild of the Coming offered answers that made much more sense than the mumblings of drunken priests safe in their pulpits. Sorry, Brother, but that is how it seemed.’

His story was similar to de Belem’s, and it seemed that the fears the Bishop had voiced to Bartholomew before the plague were realised: that the people would turn from the Church after the Death struck, and there would be insufficient priests and friars to prevent it.

Tulyet continued.

‘All was well at first, and I even introduced my family to the guild. But a month ago things began to change. A new high priest came to us, very different from Nicholas.’

‘Nicholas?’ said Michael in astonishment. ‘Nicholas of York, the clerk at St Mary’s?’

Tulyet nodded. ‘Only I knew his identity, but he died this last month, and it cannot matter that I tell you now.

After he died, we thought to elect one of our members as our leader, but even as we raised our hands to vote, the new high priest arrived in a puff of thick black smoke.

He said he had been sent by the Devil to lead us.’

Thick black smoke, thought Bartholomew. Smouldering grass mixed with tar, perhaps, and blown around the high priest by bellows operated by his accomplices?

‘Then the guild changed. Our ceremonies became

frightening, full of blood and evil conjurings. I wanted to take my family away, but I was told that if I did, they would die. The high priest said the murders in the town were the Devil claiming his own. My wife is old, and I sometimes visited a certain young lady. Fritha. She was the second girl to die.’

He put his head in his hands while Michael and

Bartholomew exchanged glances.

‘The new high priest asked questions, too,’ Tulyet continued. ‘He wanted to know about town politics, my business as a tailor, and with whom I traded.’

The high priest had questioned Hesselwell too,

thought Bartholomew, about Michaelhouse.

‘Do you know who the high priest is?’ asked

Bartholomew gently.

Tulyet raised his head, his eyes haunted. ‘No. None of us do. But I have a terrible fear of who it might be.’

‘Is that why you have come?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘To tell us who you think it is?’

Tulyet nodded. “I do not know who else I can tell, and I must do something. He is going to claim another victim!’ He took a deep breath. ‘The high priest is Sir Reginald de Belem.’

‘De Belem!’ exclaimed Michael. ‘But that cannot be.

Frances was his daughter. He would not have killed his own daughter!’ Or Isobel, the woman who visited him on certain nights, was his clearly unspoken thought.

And de Belem was the high priest of the Guild of Purification anyway, Bartholomew thought, or so he claimed. Hesselwell had said he did not believe the Guild of Purification existed - but it would have been an easy matter to put about rumours of meetings, and to splash blood on the altar of St John Zachary’s Church occasionally. And Stanmore had said there were only five people at the last meeting-perhaps the high priest of the Guild of the Coming and a few trusted helpers attending a meeting, the only purpose of which was to maintain the illusion that the Guild of Purification existed.

Bartholomew rubbed a hand through his hair. But

they had already surmised that it was Gilbert who had killed Nicholas, so how did all this tie together? And the medicine the high priest gave to Hesselwell belonged to Buckley. Was there more than one high priest in all this business, just as there might be more than one killer of the women? Was it Buckley, Gilbert, or de Belem in the orchard with Hesselwell and the big man? Who was in the roof with Hesselwell, throwing birds and bats down at the coven? And why had de Belem told Bartholomew he was grand master of the Guild of Purification if no such organisation existed?

Tulyet gnawed at his lip. “I have been over this again and again, but all the evidence points to de Belem. I am certain he is the high priest’

‘We thought it might be your son,’ said Michael

bluntly.

‘Richard?’ said Tulyet, aghast. ‘Why would you think that?’

‘Because he has made no attempt to catch the killer of these women, and because he has thwarted the efforts of others to do so,’ said Michael.

Tulyet leaned back in his chair wearily. ‘My son is not in a position to do anything,’ he said.

‘Why not?’ said Michael. ‘He is the Sheriff.’

‘Because de Belem has Richard’s son,’ said Tulyet, putting his head in his hands. ‘If he makes any moves against the guild, de Belem will kill him.’

‘You mean his baby?’ asked Bartholomew, horrified.

‘The one born last year?’

Tulyet nodded. ‘My only grandchild born after the Death. The only child Richard will ever have, as you told him yourself, Doctor.’

‘But how do you know it is de Belem?’ insisted

Michael.

Tulyet took a deep breath, and composed himself

before starting. ‘Shortly after Richard’s baby was snatched, he had a note warning him that his son would be killed if his investigations into the guilds did not cease immediately. Because Richard thought the guilds were connected with the killer of the women, he had to stop looking into that too. Richard is the only member of my family who refused to join the Guild of the Coming, because he did not want to be put in a position where his loyalty to members of the guild might conflict with his office as Sheriff.’

So that explained Tulyet’s behaviour, thought

Bartholomew, and why he was so vocal in threatening him and Michael. He was not threatening them so much as telling the spies of the high priest that he was not cooperating. It also explained his increasing agitation.

‘Does Richard believe de Belem is committing these murders?’ asked Bartholomew.

Tulyet nodded. ‘He told me that the victims had

circles on the soles of their feet. He assumed it was the killer claiming that the murders were committed by members of the Guild of Purification. When he began to investigate, his baby was snatched.’

Bartholomew frowned. But if de Belem were the killer, why did he encourage Bartholomew to investigate the death of Frances? He shook his head impatiently. It made no sense.

‘The only clue Richard had as to his son’s kidnappers was the note,’ continued Tulyet. ‘He noticed there were traces of yellow dye on the parchment.’

‘And because de Belem is a dyer, you think he wrote it?’ asked Michael incredulously. ‘There are other dyers in the town, too!’

‘No, there are not,’ said Bartholomew. Stanmore had become tedious on the subject since the plague: de Belem held a monopoly on dyes. He was not only the sole dyer in the town, he was the only one for miles.

‘But that is not sufficient evidence,’ said Michael, shrugging his shoulders.

“I have not finished,’ said Tulyet, tiredness in his voice. ‘The day before her death, Isobel Watkins came to see Richard. She was de Belem’s whore, and she told Richard that she had wandered where she should not have in de Belem’s house and had discovered a dead goat and caged birds and bats. But what frightened her most was that she thought she had heard the cry of a baby.’

‘Birds and bats?’ said Bartholomew, thinking about the ceremony in All Saints’.

Tulyet met his eyes. ‘Crows and big black bats, she said.

And a dead goat. As you know, the goat is the symbol of our guild. Two nights ago at the ceremony you appear to have observed, birds, bats, and a dead goat made their appearance. I did not connect the contents of de Belem’s house with the horrible ceremony in All Saints’

until yesterday. It terrified me to the point where I simply forced it from my mind, and I did not think properly.’

‘But why did Richard not demand to search de Belem’s house for his baby?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Once he had his son back, de Belem would be powerless to blackmail him, and Richard could pursue his investigation of the murderer and the guilds.’

“I said he should, but his wife was against it. She was afraid the baby would be killed as soon as Richard entered the house,’ said Tulyet. ‘Richard delayed, Isobel died, and, despite the fact that Richard has been watching the house, no baby has been heard since.’

Bartholomew leaned back against the wall and rubbed his chin. De Belem was a dyer, which meant that he would have ready access to certain chemicals, and would know which ones would explode, burn, or give off smoke.

Added to the bats and birds, the evidence was powerful.

He thought of the high priest’s performance in All Saints’. He had been of a height and build similar to de Belem’s. It could have been a good many other people too* however. But what about Frances? Bartholomew recalled his grief when he had broken the news of her death. Surely he had not killed her himself? What had she said on the night she died? That it was ‘not a man’.

Was it because de Belem had been wearing his red mask as he had in the church, perhaps the same red mask that Bartholomew had seen in the Michaelhouse orchard?

‘So what do we do now?’ Michael asked Tulyet.

Tulyet’s face fell. “I hoped you would know,’ he said.

He looked out of the window. ‘It is getting dark and the high priest promised another murder. Richard’s anguish has made him increasingly unstable over the last few days.

I cannot allow him to be involved any further until he has the baby back. You are my last hope,’ he said with sudden despair.

‘How long has the baby been gone?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Almost four weeks,’ said Tulyet. ‘He is a bonny babe, strong and healthy. Not like the yellow weakling you saw when he was born. But he still needs his mother.’

Bartholomew mused. About a month. The same time

that Nicholas feigned his death, and the woman had been placed in his coffin; the same time that de Belem had made himself the new high priest of the Guild of the Coming; and about the same time that Janetta had been in town.

‘We should question de Belem,’ said Michael.

‘Discreetly.’

‘But if you go to de Belem, and he has even the

slightest inkling of what you know, he might harm my grandchild,’ said Tulyet.

‘He asked us if we would investigate the death of his daughter,’ said Bartholomew reasonably. ‘He cannot be suspicious of us. We will go to him tonight. The longer we wait, the more likely it is that the child will come to harm.’

‘But what of the risk?’ cried Tulyet. ‘What if you make a mistake?’

‘What if the child dies because he is in the care of a man who does not know about children?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Do you think he might die from neglect?’ asked Tulyet anxiously.

Bartholomew raised his hands. ‘It is in de Belem’s interest to keep the child alive, but he will not be as well cared for as if he were at home.’

Tulyet sat in an agony of indecision, looking from Michael to Bartholomew with a stricken expression.

‘This cannot go on,’ said Michael gently. ‘A child needs its mother. And we cannot allow another murder to happen when we know what we do. Think of Fritha.’