With distaste, he eased the first one out of its niche and laid it on the floor. It was lighter than he had expected and smaller, suggesting it had probably been a child. He reached for another, revolted by the way a skeletal hand dangled out to touch him, some of the little bones clattering to the floor in a puff of dust. Coughing, he laid it next to the first, and reached for the last one. This was large and dense and, as he pulled, its shroud caught fast on the corner of the shelf. He tugged harder, struggling to support its weight. Nothing happened. With growing urgency, he hauled as hard as he could and, with a ripping sound, it tore out of its shroud and landed on top of him, so that its grinning head was no more than the width of his hand away from his face. He gave a yell and tried to thrust it away from him, but it was too heavy. Horrified, Bartholomew saw the mouth opening wider and wider until the jaw dropped clean from the skull.
Revulsion gave him the strength he needed, and with an almighty thrust he sent the thing flying away from him, so that it landed with a sickening smash against the wall near the altar. For a few moments he was able to do nothing but stand in the gloom, and try to control his trembling. But time was of the essence if he wanted to help Cynric and Michael, and he thrust his disgust to the back of his mind and began to prise the wooden shelves away from the door. When it was clear, he hacked at the door itself. The rotten wood yielded quickly, and he soon had it open. With lurching disappointment, he saw that the passageway beyond was blocked by a pile of rubble.
Bartholomew closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall, almost oblivious to the rats that swirled around his legs and gnawed inquisitively at his boots. All he could think of was that he had failed. He opened his eyes, and saw a rat clamber over the top of the pile of masonry, and make its way into the vault. He frowned and scrambled up it, to try to peer through the gap between rubble and roof. Gingerly, he thrust the candle through it, and saw that the fall was not a large one, and that there was a flight of stairs beyond. Scarcely daring to hope, he began to claw away the rubble, until there was a space large enough for him to squeeze through.
Ignoring the way his clothes snagged on the sharp edges of stones, he squirmed over until he was on the far side, heart thumping in panic when he thought at one point that he might have misjudged, and trapped himself between the rubble and the roof. Then he was through, and skidding down the other side. His candle fizzled and went out.
There was nothing he could do but grope his way forward in the darkness, tripping and stumbling up the uneven steps, and flinching when his hands encountered something furry and warm rather than damp and smooth. Eventually, he reached another door. He felt it blindly, trying to locate the handle. Rats clawed at his boots as he grasped the metal and turned. Nothing happened. It was locked from the outside.
He forced himself to run his hands over the wood methodically to see if he could find the lock. What he found was a latch. Lifting it he pulled again, but the door remained firmly closed. About to give up in despair, it occurred to him to lift the latch and turn the handle at the same time. With a sudden creak, the door began to open. With profound relief, he stepped out into the church.
He was in the chancel, having emerged through a small door that stood to one side of the altar. He could hear the voices of Eltisley and his henchmen further down the building, and hoped that did not mean that Michael and Cynric had swallowed whatever potion Eltisley had given them, and were already dead. Clutching the crossbow quarrel, he inched toward the screen that divided the nave from the chancel, and peered round it.
Eltisley was standing at one of his benches with Isilia by his side, while Michael and Cynric, white faced and nervous, were sitting together on stools. Eltisley’s friends – five of them – were ranged behind them, three with their swords drawn, lest Cynric should try to escape.
‘And who is the father of your brat, madam?’ Michael was saying. ‘Some village lad? Or do your tastes run to lords of the manor? Grosnold, perhaps, or Deblunville?’
‘That is none of your affair,’ said Isilia, shocked. ‘Hurry up, Eltisley. Sir Thomas will wonder where I am if I am here much longer, and I wish to ensure that these meddlesome scholars are dispatched once and for all. I do not want them writing the deed that will give Hamon the estates that rightly belong to my children – I have not lived three years with that old man to end up with nothing.’
‘Science takes time, my lady,’ said Eltisley, busily mixing something that smoked with something green. ‘I am working as quickly as I can, but this will not be rushed.’
The potion was green! And Norys’s lips had been green! Had Eltisley tried his brew on the pardoner, too? Bartholomew tried to think rationally. Stoate had found Norys and Mistress Freeman dead from eating bad mussels, and had dumped Norys in some trees near Barchester. Someone had later moved him. Since few people, other than Eltisley, frequented Barchester, it stood to reason that the landlord had found the body, and stained its lips green in an attempt to test his elixir. Having experienced problems with burning and chopping up Freeman’s body, Eltisley had decided to bury Norys in the churchyard – and what more secure place than in the grave of the man Norys was accused of killing?
Eltisley was almost ready, and, judging from the thick gloves the landlord wore to protect his hands, once they had swallowed his concoction there would be very little Bartholomew could do for Cynric or Michael. He had to think quickly. He glanced around him. He was evidently in that part of the church where Eltisley kept his more volatile compounds. Large pots, crudely labelled, stood well apart from each other.
‘Do not pester him, Isilia,’ came another voice from the shadows of the nave. ‘Let him work in peace.’
Bartholomew froze as he recognised it. He heard Michael’s gasp of shock. ‘Dame Eva?’
The church was silent as Michael and Cynric gazed at the old lady in horror. In the chancel, Bartholomew’s mind whirled with unanswered questions and disconnected fragments of information. Eventually, Dame Eva spoke, amused by the monk’s shock at seeing her.
‘Of course it is me. Do you think Isilia could have managed this alone?’
‘But Eltisley…’
‘Eltisley does as I tell him. How do you think he finances his experiments? By selling ale to the local peasantry?’
‘I see,’ said Michael slowly. ‘That is why you ordered his release so quickly after Tuddenham arrested him for Unwin’s murder. You let him out so that he could continue to work for you.’
And that, thought Bartholomew, was why Dame Eva had been so solicitous toward the landlord’s wife after the tavern had ignited. It had not been simple compassion that had prompted the old lady to give Mistress Eltisley her cloak and cross; it had been remuneration for damage done in her service.
Bartholomew crouched near the screen, and saw the old lady standing in front of Michael. A steely flint in her eye suggested that Eltisley would not be allowed to fail her by letting the Michaelhouse scholars escape a second time. Bartholomew needed to act fast if he wanted his friends to live. He moved back, and began reading the labels on Eltisley’s powders and potions.
‘So, it was you,’ said Michael to Dame Eva. ‘You stole the draft of the advowson from me in the churchyard; you ordered Alcote murdered; you told Eltisley to tamper with Cynric’s bow; you arranged for Mad Megin and her dog to live here, and frighten the living daylights out of any passers-by; you told Eltisley to kill Alice Quy with one of his potions, and stage Freeman’s death to strengthen the villagers’ fear of the Padfoot legend; and you killed Deblunville.’