'But if your clerk has been dead for a month, I will be able to tell you nothing about his death,' Bartholomew protested. 'Even if there were once a small cut on his hand, like the one on the friar, the flesh will be corrupted, and I doubt I will be able to see it.'
De Wetherset winced in distaste. 'Perhaps. But you will not know until you look, and I require that you try.'
He leaned towards Bartholomew, his expression earnest.
'This is important. I must know whether Nicholas came to harm because of the book I ordered he write about the University.'
Bartholomew held his gaze. 'You must be aware of the stories that say the plague came from the graves of the dead,' he said. 'It is a risk 'Nonsense,' snapped de Wetherset. 'You do not believe that story, Doctor, any more than I do. The plague is over.
It will not come again.'
'How do you know that?' demanded Bartholomew, irritated at the man's complacency. 'How do you know someone at the Fair is not sickening from the plague at this very moment?'
'It has passed us over,' said de Wetherset, his voice rising in reply. 'It has gone north.'
'There are people at the Fair who have come from the north,' countered Bartholomew, becoming exasperated.
'How do you know they have not brought it back with them, in their clothes, or in the goods they hope to sell?'
'Well, which is it, Doctor?' said de Wetherset triumphantly, detecting a flaw in Bartholomew's argument.
'Is it carried by the living, or in the graves with the dead?
You cannot have it both ways.'
'My point is that I do not know,' said Bartholomew, ignoring Michael's warning looks for arguing with the Chancellor. 'No one knows! How can we take such a risk by exhuming your clerk? Will you endanger the lives of the people of Cambridge, of England, over this?'
De Wetherset snorted impatiently. 'There is no risk!
Nicholas died of a summer ague, not the plague. I saw his body in his coffin before he was buried. Your peculiar ideas about cleanliness are making you over-cautious.
You will exhume the body in two or three days' time when I have the necessary licences. Now, what do you plan to do about this friar?'
Michael pulled thoughtfully at the thin whiskers on his flabby cheek, while Bartholomew threw up his hands in exasperation, and went to stand near the window to bring his anger under control.
'Can you test the lock to make certain it is poisoned?'
Michael asked Bartholomew.
Bartholomew looked at him distastefully and stifled a sigh. 'Will one of your clerks do that?' he asked de Wetherset.
'How?' asked de Wetherset, looking at the lock in renewed revulsion.
'Test it on a rat or a bird. If the poison killed the friar through that tiny cut, then the poor animal, being considerably smaller, should die fairly quickly.'
Bartholomew felt a sudden, unreasonable anger towards the friar whose death was about to cause such upheaval in his life. What was the man doing in the tower anyway? He could only have been there to steal or to spy. Bartholomew watched de Wetherset issue instructions to Gilbert to test the lock on a rat, and gestured to Michael that they should go.
'Wait!' the Chancellor commanded, standing as they made to leave. "I must ask that you observe utmost discretion over this business. That a man has died in the University chest cannot be denied, but I do not wish anyone to know about the University history that was being written.'
Michael nodded acquiescence, bowed, and walked out, while Bartholomew trailed after him, feeling dejected. He was going to become entangled in the unsavoury world of University politics a second time, and be forced to question the motives of his friends and family.
Outside, Michael rubbed his hands together and beamed. 'What shall we do first?' he asked, and Bartholomew realised that the fat monk was relishing their enforced duties. Michael had always loved University affairs, and thrived on the petty politics and plots that were a part of College life. He saw Bartholomew's doleful expression and clapped him on the shoulder.
'Come, Matt,' he said reassuringly. 'This is not like the other business. There are no threats to those we love, and your Philippa is safely away visiting her brother. This has nothing to do with Michaelhouse. It is just some minor intrigue that has gone wrong.'
Bartholomew was unconvinced. "I should have gone with Philippa,' he said bitterly, 'or followed her brother's lead and moved away from this vile pit of lies and deception to London.'
'You would hate London,' Michael laughed. 'You make enough fuss about the filth and dirt here. In London it would be ten times worse, and they say that the River Thames is the dirtiest river in England. You would hate it,' he said again, drawing his morose friend away from the shadows of the church and into the bright sunlight to where Cynric waited for them.
They began to walk down the High Street towards King's Hall to visit Master Buckley. The streets were busier than usual because of the Fair, and houses that had stood empty since the plague were bursting at the seams with travellers. A baker passed them, his tray brimming with pies and pastries, while two beggars watched him with hungry eyes.
With an effort, Bartholomew brought his mind back to what Michael was saying about the dead friar. Michael, strolling next to him, began to run through the possibilities surrounding the friar's death, for Cynric's benefit. They turned suddenly as they heard a wail. A woman tore towards them, her long, fair hair streaming behind her like a banner. Bartholomew recognised her as Sybilla, the ditcher's daughter, and one of the town's prostitutes. Her mother, brothers, and sisters had died in the plague, and her father had allowed her to follow any path she chose, while he took his own comfort from the bottles of wine she brought him. Bartholomew caught her as she made to run past.
'What has happened?' he said, alarmed by her tear streaked face and wild, frightened eyes.
Tsobel!' she sobbed. Tsobel!'
'Where?' asked Bartholomew, looking down the street.
'Has she been hurt?'
He exchanged glances with Brother Michael. They were both aware of the murder of two of the town's prostitutes during the last few weeks. Bartholomew had seen the body of one of them, her eyes staring sightlessly at the sky and her throat cut.
Sybilla was unable to answer and Bartholomew let her go, watching as she fled up the High Street, her wailing drawing people from their houses to see what was happening. Bartholomew and Michael, concerned for Isobel, continued in the direction from which Sybilla had come, until they saw people gathering in St Botolph's churchyard.
Two women bent over someone lying on the ground, and Bartholomew and Michael approached, the monk stifling a cry of horror as he saw the blood-splattered figure. Bartholomew knelt next to Isobel's body and gently eased her onto her back. Her throat was a mess of congealed blood, dark and sticky where it had flooded down her chest.
Michael squatted down next to him, his eyes tightly closed so he would not have to look. He began to mutter prayers for the dead, while Bartholomew wrapped her in her cloak. Cynric disappeared to report the news to the Sheriff and to locate the dead woman's family.
When Michael had finished, Bartholomew picked up the body and carried it into the church. A friar, who had been in the crowd outside, helped put her into the parish coffin and cover her with a sheet. While the friar went to clear the churchyard of ghoulish onlookers and to await Isobel's family, Bartholomew looked again at the body, while Michael peered over his shoulder.
The sheet was not long enough to cover the dead girl's feet and Bartholomew saw that someone had taken her shoes. Her feet were relatively clean, so she had not been walking barefoot. He looked a little more closely and caught his breath as he saw the small red circle painted in blood on her foot.