Michael rubbed some crumbs across the table idly as he thought. 'You could be right,' he said. "It would be too easy to dismiss the covens from our enquiries. And de Belem can only have knowledge of his own guild, not that of his rivals. I suggest we treat Master de Belem's information with scepticism.'
He turned back to the remains of his meal, and Bartholomew, chewing on a bacon rind that flavoured the chicken, began to mull over the evidence yet again.
If Isobel made regular visits to de Belem at night, it would have been simple for the murderer to lie in wait for her. Did Frances also have a regular time when she slipped out of the house to meet her lover? But why Michaelhouse? Was she meeting her lover there, the scholar, as Brother Alban had claimed? Perhaps it was her lover who had killed her.
And what had Frances meant when she had said her killer was not a man? He drew circles on the wet table with his finger, lost in thought. She must have glimpsed her killer wearing a mask — either a red hood like the man in the orchard, or one of a goat's head like the dead woman in Nicholas's coffin. He wondered whether the killer was from Michaelhouse, but reasoned that was unlikely. The three people he had seen in the orchard were leaving after their search, not returning to their rooms, and he and Michael had already established that an insider would not have needed to drug Walter to go about his business at night because he would have known Walter slept on duty. What had the murderer lost in the orchard? If it were the Guild of the Coming who were committing the murders, then it must have been they who had attacked him and set the College gate afire.
But Sybilla was certain that one man had killed Isobel.
And was Nicholas of York still alive somewhere as the mastermind behind all this? It was odd that the first murder coincided with his death. Was it he who left the goat's head in Michael's room to warn him away?
And what of the friar? Was he a member of the Guild of Purification killed by the Guild of the Coming, or perhaps a member of the fanatic Guild of the Holy Trinity rifling through the University history seeking out details of the covens? But Bartholomew and Michael had already shown that he was a stranger to the town and was unfamiliar with the daily rituals of St Mary's Church.
Perhaps they should go back to the chest, and see whether there were any other documents there that related to these guilds which might explain why the deaths in St Mary's Church seemed to be connected to the murders of the women.
And where was Buckley? And why had Janetta and Froissart's family gone to ground? Bartholomew felt his head begin to reel. As soon as he felt he was beginning to make some progress, he merely raised more questions. He wondered suddenly how his students were proceeding. He should be with them, helping to train them to be good physicians, not sitting in beer gardens in the rain being warned against becoming involved in something that seemed to grow more sinister with each passing moment. He stood abruptly.
' I can see only one way forward,' said Michael, following him out. 'We must spy on the Guild of the Coming at All Saints' tonight and see what we can discover.'
Bartholomew turned his face to the falling rain, feeling it cool his face. "I am tempted to go to the Chancellor and turn everything over to him. We are scholars, not witch hunters. And anyway,' he added wryly, 'it is Sunday.'
Michael looked sharply at him. 'Are you giving up?
Are you going to let evil men tell us what we can and cannot do in our own town?'
Bartholomew closed his eyes. 'How did we become embroiled in all this, Michael?' he asked softly. "I can make no sense at all of the information we have, and the more we learn, the less clear everything becomes.
I do not mind telling you that I find the whole business frightening.' "I share your fears, but I also think that we will be in danger whether we continue to investigate or not.
Everything we do will be held suspect from now on, and whoever left the head for me knows what we are doing. I believe the only way we will ever be safe is to unravel this mystery and unmask its villains. And you owe it to Frances de Belem, who might have been your wife had you not chosen another path/ Michael saw his friend's hesitation and added firmly, Tonight we will go to watch this coven meet at All Saints'.'
'Is there no other way?' groaned Bartholomew, shifting uncomfortably in his sopping cloak. 'Perhaps we should just go straight to Tulyet/ 'And say what?' demanded Michael. 'Ask him which member of his guild is murdering the town's whores? Is it his father or just one of his friends? Come on, Matt!
We would get nowhere there, and the last time we took him on, I ended up in bed with a dead animal, and you were threatened with imprisonment in the Castle dungeons.'
'Will you tell de Wetherset what we intend to do?' said Bartholomew. Then at least someone will know the truth if we are caught and disappear, like Buckley and Nicholas. And ask him if Master Jonstan will come too. This is more in his line of duty than ours.'
'We will not be caught,' said Michael. 'Not with Cynric with us. Asking for Jonstan is a good idea, although I think I will request that the Chancellor does not reveal his plans to Harling. I do not trust that man.'
As Bartholomew and Michael walked home together, the rain became harder, the wind blowing it horizontally in hazy sheets. Bartholomew shivered and pulled his cloak closer round him. The High Street became a river of mud, and water oozed out of the drains and collected in the pot-holes and ruts. The streets were deserted, everyone either at home or in the noisy taverns. Passing St Mary's churchyard, Bartholomew saw something move out of the corner of his eye. He stopped and peered forward, clutching at Michael's sleeve.
There is someone at Nicholas's grave,' he whispered.
Michael stiffened, and together they crept forward.
'Who is it?' breathed Michael. Bartholomew peered through the rain. It was a man of medium height dressed in a priest's robe that was too large. As they inched forward, the man spun round, and seeing them coming, turned and fled. Bartholomew tore after him, leaping over the tombstones and mounds of grass. The man skidded in the mud and almost fell. Bartholomew lunged forward and grabbed a handful of his gown, but lost his balance as the man knocked his hand away. As he scrabbled to regain his footing, the man rushed past him, heading diagonally away from where Michael stood.
As Bartholomew scrambled to his feet, he saw Michael dive full-length towards the fleeing man and gain a hold on the hem of his gown. The man was stopped dead in mid-stride. In an effort made great by terror, he tried to run again, tearing free from Michael. Bartholomew saw him reach the High Street and turn left towards the Trumpington Gate.
Robes billowing, the man began to gain speed down the empty street, Bartholomew in hot pursuit. Bartholomew began to gain on him. And then disaster struck. A heavy cart carrying kegs of beer pulled ponderously out of Bene't Street. The man skipped to one side, skidded in the mud, regained his balance and ran on. But Bartholomew collided heavily with the cart. The horse, panicked by the sudden movement, reared and kicked.
One of the kegs fell from the cart and smashed, and Bartholomew went sprawling into the mud.
He covered his head with his hands, hearing the horse's hooves thudding into the ground next to him, and tried to scramble away, but the mud was too slippery. Just as he was certain his head would be smashed by the horse's flailing hooves, one of his arms was seized, and he was hauled away with such force that he thought it had been yanked from its socket. Hooves pounded the spot where he had been moments earlier.