An Unholy Alliance mb-2 Read online

  Bartholomew nudged the Benedictine monk in the ribs. ' "Brother Michael, the Bishop's man",' he repeated in an undertone. 'A fine reputation to have, my friend.'

  Michael glowered at him. A year and a half before, he had agreed to become an agent of the Bishop of Ely, the churchman who had jurisdiction over the University since Cambridge had no cathedral of its own. Michael was to be alert to the interests of the Church in the town, and especially to the interests of the Benedictines, since Ely was a Benedictine monastery. There was a small hostel for Benedictines studying at the University, but the four monks that lived there were more concerned with their new-found freedom than the interests of their Order.

  Bartholomew began to feel uncomfortable. The chest was where all the University's most important documents were stored, and the series of locks and bolts that protected it in the church tower was rumoured to be formidable. So who had broken through all that security?

  What sinister plot had the University embroiled itself in this time? And perhaps more to the point, how could Bartholomew prevent it from sucking him in, too?

  The Church of St Mary the Great was an imposing building of creamy-white stone that dominated the High Street. Next to its delicate window tracery and soaring tower, St Michael's looked squat and grey. Yet, Bartholomew had heard that there were plans to rebuild the chancel and replace it with something grander and finer still.

  Bartholomew had barely caught up with the clerk when they reached St Mary's. Standing to one side, wringing his hands and throwing fearful glances at the tower was St Mary's priest, Father Cuthbert, an enormously fat man whom Bartholomew treated for swollen ankles. A small group of clerks huddled around the door talking in low voices. The Chancellor, Richard de Wetherset, stood in the middle of them, a stocky man with iron-grey hair, who exuded an aura of power. He stepped forward as Bartholomew and Michael approached, allowing himself a brief smile at Michael's breathlessness.

  'Thank you for being prompt, gentlemen.' He turned to Harling. 'Master Jonstan is already here, Richard. I was loathe to disturb you when you had been up all night.'

  Harling inclined his head. 'But I am Senior Proctor, and should be present at a matter that sounds so grave.'

  De Wetherset nodded his thanks, and beckoned Bartholomew, Michael, and Harling out of earshot of the gathered clerks. "I am afraid someone has been murdered in the tower. Doctor, I would like you to tell me a little more about how and when he died, and you, Brother, must report this incident accurately to our Lord the Bishop.'

  He began to walk through the churchyard, raising a hand to prevent the gaggle of clerks, and Cynric, from following them. Michael and Harling followed quickly, Father Cuthbert and Bartholomew a little more slowly. Bartholomew felt his stomach churn. At times, the University could be a seething pit of intrigue, and Bartholomew had no wish to become entangled in it. It would demand his time and his energies when he should be concentrating all his efforts on his teaching and his patients. The plague had left Cambridge depleted of physicians, and there was an urgent need to replace those who had died all over the country. Bartholomew considered the training of new physicians the most important duty in his life.

  St Mary's was still dark inside, and the Chancellor took a torch from a sconce on the wall and led the way to the tower door at the back of the building.

  They followed him up the winding stairs into a small chamber about half-way up the tower. Bartholomew glanced around quickly, looking for the fabled chest, but the chamber was empty. Michael emerged from the stair-well, wheezing unhealthily, and Cuthbert's ponderous footsteps echoed until he too stood sweating and gasping in the chamber.

  De Wetherset beckoned them close and shut the small wooden door so that they would not be overheard.

  "I do not want the details of this incident to become common knowledge,' he said, 'and what I am about to tell you mustremain a secret. You know that the University chest is kept in the tower here. To reach it, you must open three locked and bolted doors, and you must be able to open three locks on the chest itself. These locks were made in Italy and are, I am told, the finest locks in the world. Only I have the keys and either I, or my deputy, are always present when the chest is unlocked.'

  He paused for a moment, and opened the door quickly to listen intently. He closed it again with a sigh and continued. 'You may consider all these precautions rather excessive to protect indentures and accounts, but the truth is that one of my best clerks, Nicholas of York, was writing a history of the University. He was quite frank, and recorded everything he uncovered, some of which could prove embarrassing if revealed in certain quarters.

  This book, you understand, will not be randomly distributed, but is intended to be a reliable, factual report of our doings and dealings. One day, people may be interested to know these things.'

  He looked hard first at Michael and then at Bartholomew. 'The events of last year, when members of the University committed murder to make their fortunes, are recorded, along with your roles in the affair. And there are other incidents too, which need not concern you. The point is, a month ago Nicholas died of a fever, quite unexpectedly. I was uneasy at the suddenness of his death, and in the light of what has been discovered this morning, I am even more concerned.'

  'What exactly has happened this morning?' asked Michael. Bartholomew began to feel increasingly uncomfortable as the Chancellor's revelations sank in.

  "I came at first light this morning, as usual, to collect the documents from the chest I would need for the day's business. I was accompanied by my personal clerk, Gilbert. That group of scribes and secretaries you saw outside waited in the church below. Even in the half-light, we could see there was something wrong.

  The locks on the chest were askew and the lid was not closed properly. Gilbert opened the chest and inside was the body of a man.'

  'Gilbert has already told us as much,' said Bartholomew.

  'But how did the body come to be in the chest?'

  The Chancellor gave the grimmest of smiles. 'That, gentlemen, is why I have asked you to come. I cannot imagine how anyone could have entered the tower, let alone open the locks on the chest. And I certainly have no idea how the corpse of a man could appear there.'

  'Where is the chest?' asked Michael. 'Not up more stairs I hope.'

  The Chancellor looked Michael up and down scathingly, and left the room. They heard his footsteps echoing further up the stairs, and Michael groaned.

  The room on the next floor was more comfortable than the first. A table covered with writing equipment stood in the window, and several benches with cushions lined the walls. In the middle of the floor, standing on a once-splendid, but now shabby, woollen rug, was the University chest. It was a long box made of ancient black oak and strengthened with iron bands, darkened with age. It reminded Bartholomew of the elaborate coffin he had seen the Bishop of Peterborough buried in years before. Guarding the chest and the room was the Junior Proctor, Alric Jonstan, standing with his sword drawn and his saucer-like blue eyes round with horror. Bartholomew smiled at him as they waited for the others. Jonstan was far more popular than Harling, and was seemingly a kinder man who, although he took his duties seriously, did not enforce them with the same kind of inflexible rigour as did Harling.

  De Wetherset stood to one side as Michael and Cuthbert finally arrived, and then indicated that Bartholomew should approach the chest. Bartholomew bent to inspect the wool rug, but there was nothing there, no blood or other marks. He walked around the chest looking for signs of tampering, but the stout leather hinges were pristine and well-oiled, and there was no indication that the lid had been prised open.

  Taking a deep, but silent, breath, he lifted the lid. He looked down at the body of a man in a Dominican habit, lying face down on the University's precious documents and scrolls. Jonstan took a hissing breath and crossed himself.

  'Poor man!' he muttered. 'It is a friar. Poor man!'

  'Have you touched him?' asked Bartholomew of the Chancellor.
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  De Wetherset shook his head. 'We opened the chest, as I told you, but, when I saw what was inside, I lowered the lid and sent Gilbert to fetch you.'

  Bartholomew knelt and put his hand on the man's neck. There was no life beat, and it was cold. He took the body by the shoulders while Michael grabbed the feet. Carefully, they lifted it out and laid it on the rug next to the chest. The Chancellor came to peer in at the documents. He heaved a sigh of relief.

  'Well, at least they are not all covered in blood,' he announced fervently. He began searching among the papers and held up a sheaf triumphantly. 'The history!

  I think it is all here, although I will check, of course.'

  He began to rifle through the ream of parchments at the table in the window, muttering to himself.

  Bartholomew turned his attention back to the body on the floor. It was a man in his fifties with a neatly cut tonsure. His friar's robe was threadbare and stained.

  Bartholomew began to try to establish why he had died.

  He could see no obvious signs, no blows to the head or stab wounds. He sat back perplexed. Had the man committed suicide somehow after lying in the chest? 'Do you know him?' he asked, looking around at the others.

  Jonstan shook his head. 'No. We can check at the Friary, though. The poor devils were so decimated by the Death that one of their number missing will be very apparent'

  Bartholomew frowned. "I do not think he was at the Friary,' he said. 'His appearance and robes are dirty, and the new Prior seems very particular about that. I think he may have been sleeping rough for a few days before he died.'

  'Well, who is he then? And what did he want from the chest? And how did he die?' demanded the Chancellor from across the room.

  Bartholomew shrugged. "I have no idea. I need more time. Do you want me to examine him here or in the chapel? I will need to remove his robes.'

  The Chancellor looked at Bartholomew in disgust.

  'Will it make a mess?'

  'No,' Bartholomew replied, startled. "I do not believe so.'

  'Then do it here, away from prying eyes. I will post Gilbert at the bottom of the stairs to make sure you are not disturbed. Father Cuthbert, perhaps you would assist him?' He turned to Bartholomew and Michael. 'If you have no objections, I will not stay to watch.' De Wetherset brandished the handful of documents. "I must put these in another secure place.'

  'Another secure place?' quizzed Michael under his breath to Bartholomew.

  De Wetherset narrowed his eyes, detecting Michael's tone, if not his words. 'Please report to me the moment you have finished,' he said. He beckoned for Harling and Jonstan to follow him, and left, closing the door firmly behind him.

  Bartholomew ran a hand through his unruly hair.

  'Not again!' he said to Michael. "I want to teach and to heal my patients. I do not want to become embroiled in University politics!'

  Michael's face softened, and he patted his friend on the shoulder. 'You are the University's most senior physician since the Death. The fact that you have been asked here to help means no more than that. You are not being recruited into the University's secret service!' "I should hope not,' said Bartholomew with feeling.

  'If I thought that were the case, I would leave Cambridge immediately, and set up practice somewhere I would never be found. Come on. Help me get this over with.

  Then we can report to de Wetherset and that will be an end to it.'

  He began to remove the dead man's robe. The stiffness meant that he was forced to cut it with a knife. Once the robe lay in a bundle on the floor, Bartholomew began to conduct a more rigorous examination of the body.

  There was no sign of violence, no bruises or cuts, and no puncture marks except for a cut on the left hand that was so small that Bartholomew almost missed it. He inspected the fingernails to see if there were any fibres trapped there, but there was only a layer of black dirt. The hands were soft, which implied that the man had been unused to physical labour, and a small ink-stain on his right thumb suggested that he could write. Bartholomew turned the hand to catch the light from the window, and the small callus on the thumb confirmed that the man had been a habitual scribe.

  Bartholomew leaned close to the man's mouth and carefully smelled it, ignoring Michael's snort of disgust.

  There was nothing to suggest he had taken poison. He prised the man's mouth open and peered in, looking for discoloration of the tongue or gums, or other signs of damage. There was nothing. The man had several small ulcers on one side of his tongue, but Bartholomew thought that they were probably more likely caused by a period of poor nutrition than by any subtle poisons.

  He turned his attention to the man's throat, but there was nothing to imply strangulation and no neck bones were broken. He looked at one of the man's hands again.

  If he had died because his heart had seized up, his fingernails, nose and mouth should show some blueness.

  The man's fingernails were an unhealthy waxy-white, but certainly not blue. His lips, too, were white.

  Eventually, Bartholomew sat back on his heels. "I have no idea why he died,' he said, perplexed. 'Perhaps he came here to steal and the excitement burst some vital organ. Perhaps he was already ill when he came here.

  Perhaps he was already dead.'

  'What?' said Michael, his eyes wide with disbelief. 'Are you suggesting that someone brought a corpse up here in the middle of the night and left it?'

  Bartholomew grinned at him. 'No. I am merely following the rules of the deceased Master Wilson and trying to solve the problem logically.'

  'Well, that suggestion, my dear doctor, has less logic than Wilson's crumbling bones could present,' said Michael. 'How could someone smuggle a corpse into the church and leave it here? I can accept that someone might hide below and then sneak up here after all was secured for the night, but not someone carrying a corpse!'

  'So, the friar hides in the church, picks three locks to reach this room, picks three locks to open the chest, lies face-down in it, and dies. Master Wilson would not have been impressed with your logic, either,' retorted Bartholomew.

  'Perhaps the friar came up here as you suggested and died suddenly,' said Michael.

  'And closed the lid afterwards?' asked Bartholomew, raising his eyebrows. 'De Wetherset said it was closed with the friar inside. I think it unlikely that he closed it himself.'

  'You think another person was here?' asked Michael, gesturing round. 'What evidence do you have for such a claim?'

  'None that I can see,' replied Bartholomew. He went to sit on one of the benches and Michael followed him, settling himself comfortably with his hands across his stomach.

  'Let us think about what we do know,' the monk said.

  'First. It is likely that this man hid in the church and then made his way up to the tower after the church had been secured. We can ask the sexton what his procedures are for locking up.'

  'Second,' said Bartholomew, "I think this man was a clerk or a friar, as he appears, and that he has been sleeping rough for a few nights as attested by his dirty clothes. Perhaps he had undertaken a journey of several days' duration, or perhaps he had spent some time watching the church in preparation for his burglary.'

  'Third,' Michael continued, 'you say he appears to have suffered no violence. He may have died of natural causes, perhaps brought on by the stress of his nocturnal activities.'

  Bartholomew nodded slowly. 'And fourth,' he concluded, 'the locks seem to have been picked with great skill.'

  'But there are no tools,' said Michael. 'He must have needed a piece of wire at the very least to pick a lock.'

  Bartholomew went to the chest and rummaged around, but there was nothing. 'So either he hid the tools before he died, or someone took them.'

  'If there was another person here with him to take the tools and close the lid, that person could have killed him,' said Michael.

  'But there is no evidence he was murdered,' said Bartholomew.

  They sat in silence for a while, mulling ove
r what they had deduced.

  'And there is the question of the Chancellor's scribe, Nicholas of York,' said Bartholomew. 'De Wetherset says he is now suspicious of his death — a death that appeared to be natural, but now seems too timely. Two deaths that seem natural, connected with the University chest?' He frowned and drummed on the bench with his fingers.

  Michael looked at him hard. 'What do you mean?' he said.

  'Although I can find nothing that caused the death of this man, I am reluctant to say it was natural. I suppose it is possible he could have suffered a fatal seizure, fell in the chest, and the lid slammed shut. But what of the missing tools? And anyway, people who have such seizures usually show some evidence of it, and I can see no such evidence here.'

  'So what you are saying,' said Michael, beginning to be frustrated, 'is that the friar does not seem to have been killed, but he did not die naturally. Marvellous!

  Where does that leave us?'

  Bartholomew shrugged. "I have just never seen a man die of natural causes and his body look like the friar's.'

  'So what do we tell the Chancellor?' said Michael.

  Bartholomew leaned his head back against the whitewashed wall and studied the ceiling. 'What we know,' he said. 'That the man was probably an itinerant friar, that he probably had some considerable skill as a picker of locks, that he died from causes unknown, and that there was probably another person here.'

  'That will not satisfy de Wetherset,' said Michael, 'nor will it satisfy the Bishop.'

  'Well, what would you have us do, Michael? Lie?' asked Bartholomew, also beginning to be frustrated. He closed his eyes and racked his brain for causes of death that would turn a man's skin waxy white.

  'Of course we should not lie!' said Michael crossly.

  'But the explanation we have now is inadequate.'

  'Then what do you suggest we do?' demanded Bartholomew. He watched Michael gnaw at his thumbnail as he turned the problem over in his mind. It gave him an idea, and he went to look at the tiny cut on the friar's thumb. He sat cross-legged on the floor and inspected it closely. It was little more than a scratch, but it broke the skin nevertheless. He let the hand fall and sat pondering the chest. It suddenly took on a sinister air as his attention was drawn to the locks.