‘I do not think so. Our killer works alone.’
‘And how are you suddenly so certain, pray?’
‘Simple logic, Brother. If there were two or more, working together, then one would hold the victim still while the other did the cutting. The grazing on the face and ear indicates that the victims were held down by means of a foot or a knee on their heads. There would be no reason to use feet and knees while there were hands to spare. Ergo, these murders look like the work of a single man.’
‘And you are prepared to stake your life on this reasoning?’ asked Michael doubtfully.
‘We have no choice. At the very least we have to investigate. We have been bemoaning the fact that the mystery seems to deepen with every fact we uncover, but here is an opportunity to catch the man himself.’
‘Of course, whatever we uncover in there might have nothing to do with the killer,’ Michael pointed out. ‘It could be someone with an unnatural penchant for bones in the dark.’
‘True,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And in that case, we have nothing to fear.’
‘Nothing much!’ exclaimed Michael. ‘I do not want to catch that sort of person red-handed, thank you very much. He would probably try to kill us just to keep his foul obsession a secret.’
Tapping Michael sharply on the shoulder to give him encouragement, the physician began to edge towards the Bone House, taking care to tread carefully and to keep to the shadows. As they moved, he saw the flicker at the upper window a third time, and suspected that someone was walking back and forth, carrying a candle. It could not have provided much light, because the glimmer at the bottom of the window shutter was very slight and would not have been seen by anyone unless he happened to be looking at the Bone House at fairly close quarters. Whoever was inside doubtless imagined himself perfectly safe from discovery.
‘How many doors does this place have?’ whispered Bartholomew.
‘One, of course,’ replied Michael scornfully. ‘It is not somewhere that requires multiple entrances and exits.’
‘And how many windows?’
‘I do not know,’ whispered Michael crossly. ‘Two, I suppose – one on the upper floor, and one on the lower. But you have been in there yourself. Why are you asking me?’
‘It is your priory. You know it better than me.’ Bartholomew stood back to assess the building, piecing together what he could see with what he remembered. ‘Does it comprise a single chamber on the ground floor with a ladder leading to a single loft on the upper floor?’
‘I have only been inside it once and that was with you,’ grumbled Michael. ‘But yes, I think so. The bones are on the ground floor, while the loft is probably empty.’
‘Except for whoever is up there at the moment. I will go in through the door, while you stand at this corner and make sure that no one escapes through either window.’ He unlooped his medical bag from his shoulder and removed his heavy childbirth forceps, holding them in his right hand, as he would a club. Then he stuck one of his surgical knives in his belt.
‘Are you insane?’ demanded Michael, eyeing his preparations in alarm. ‘I was right in the first place: we should not do this alone. If we fail, the consequences do not bear thinking about. We cannot afford to let this man – or these men – escape and continue the bloody work.’
‘But he may be gone by the time we fetch Cynric and Meadowman,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘And it would be a terrible thing to let this opportunity pass.’
‘It will be no opportunity at all if we are the next victims!’
‘But there may be no more victims if we can catch him,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘We cannot risk him escaping now we have him cornered.’
‘Very well,’ said Michael, clearly reluctant. ‘But I am not staying out here alone. Hand me that spade. If I encounter anyone inside, who so much as moves, I shall knock his brains out with it.’
He grasped the stout spade that leaned against the wall of the Bone House, and prepared to follow Bartholomew inside. The physician reached out and silently unlatched the door. As it swung open to reveal the black maw of the charnel house, he began to have second thoughts himself about the wisdom of the plan. Michael was almost certainly right about the killer’s cold ruthlessness, and they should have Cynric and Meadowman with them. He turned to admit as much to the monk, but Michael prodded him in the back, urging him to go ahead before he lost his nerve. Taking a deep breath that was tinged with the musty, wet smell of rotting bone, Bartholomew took a step forward into the house of the dead.
Inside the Bone House, the darkness was absolute after the starlight. Bartholomew and Michael waited for a few moments until their eyes became accustomed to the gloom. The skulls still sat in their eerie rows on shelves, and the dark mass of the pile of long bones could be seen on one side. To the other was the barrel that contained fragments of fingers, toes and crania.
Bartholomew peered around him, ignoring the dead inhabitants of the room and looking for its living occupant. He exchanged a glance with Michael, and then nodded to the ladder that ascended into the darkness of the upper floor. Michael shook his head vehemently, indicating that they should wait until whoever it was came down. Bartholomew hesitated, then nodded agreement. It would be difficult to climb a creaking ladder undetected, and the killer would merely strike at his head as soon as he was high enough. Michael was right: if they waited, then they would have the advantage. Treading silently, he eased into the darkest shadows with Michael next to him.
It seemed that whoever was upstairs had not detected their presence. They could hear his feet on the boards of the floor as he moved. Bartholomew shivered, suddenly chilled in the dankness. The walls were of wood, but they were thick, to keep their contents from the unwelcome attentions of dogs. The bones had been dug from damp earth, so there was a musty wetness in the atmosphere that was oppressive. Something dripped on his shoulder, and he imagined that while the walls were strong, the thatched roof was in a poor condition. Since the purpose of the Bone House was to deter animals that might make off with the bones, no one would be overly concerned about a leaking roof.
He and Michael waited in the shadows for what seemed like an age. The physician’s legs and back began to grow stiff from standing, and the drowsiness he had experienced earlier returned. If he had been sitting down, he would have fallen asleep. Next to him, Michael shifted uncomfortably, and Bartholomew wondered whether he should send the monk to fetch Cynric and Meadowman after all. When he whispered the suggestion into Michael’s ear, the monk shook his head vehemently. Although he sensed that they were making a mistake, Bartholomew was grateful for the reassuring presence of Michael at his side. A second drip of water from the roof above was loud in the silence.
Humans, living and dead, were not the only species that inhabited the Bone House. Tiny claws skittered across the floor and rustled in and out of the bones. While the thick walls kept out larger scavengers, rats had found gaps in the planking and had insinuated themselves inside. Bartholomew closed his eyes and listened, certain he could hear small teeth crunching.
After an eternity, there was increased activity from the floor above. The footsteps moved clear across the floor, and then someone began to descend the ladder. He carried a candle, and was moving cautiously, as if wary of falling. Bartholomew made out a pair of feet, then a swinging cloak that hid the clothes that were worn beneath. He strained his eyes, trying to determine whether he knew the person, and whether a monastic habit or secular clothes were being worn. But it was too dark, even with the candle, and Bartholomew could only make out the vaguest of shapes. When the person was halfway down the stairs, Bartholomew jumped in alarm as Michael issued a shriek of victory and dashed from his hiding place to make a grab for the mysterious figure.