Free An Unholy Alliance by Susanna Gregory

anything about it, and, if he did, he would suggest to Sheriff Tulyet that he might consider asking questions about the murders in the churches of St John Zachary and All Saints’-next-the-Castle.
     
    Michael was waiting for him in the yard and reluctantly Bartholomew followed him out of the gates to interview the clerks. The sun was hot and Bartholomew shed his black scholar’s tabard and stuffed it in his bag. He knew he could be fined by the Proctors for not wearing it, but considered the comfort of wearing only leggings and a linen shirt worth the possible expense. Brother Michael watched enviously and pulled uncomfortably at the voluminous folds of his own heavy gown.
    At St Mary’s Church, they saw that the body of the dead friar had been laid out in the Lady Chapel. Bartholomew walked over to it and looked again at the small cut at the base of his thumb that had caused his death.
    Michael sought out the lay-brother who had locked the church the night before, a mouselike man with eyes that roved in different directions. He was clearly terrified.
    Bartholomew led him away to talk, but the man’s eyes constantly strayed in the direction of the dead friar.
    ‘What time did you lock the church last night?’ asked Bartholomew gently.
    The man audibly gulped and seemed unable to
    answer. Michael became impatient.
    ‘Come on! We do not have all day!’
    The man’s knees gave out and he slid down the base of a pillar and crouched on the floor, casting petrified glances around him. Bartholomew knelt next to him.
    ‘Please try to remember,’ he said. ‘It is important.’
    The man reached out and grabbed his sleeve, pulling him close to whisper in his ear. ‘At dusk,’ he said, glancing up at the imposing figure of Michael with huge eyes. Michael raised his eyes heavenward, and went to gather together the other clerks with whom they would need to talk, leaving Bartholomew alone to question the lay-brother.
    ‘At dusk,’ the man repeated, watching Michael’s
    retreating back with some relief. “I doused the candles and went to see that the catches on the windows were secure. I put the bar over the sanctuary door as usual, and checked that the tower door was locked.’
    ‘How did you do that?’ asked Bartholomew.
    The lay-brother made a motion with his hands that indicated he had given it a good shake. ‘Then I made sure the sanctuary light was burning and left. I locked the door behind me and gave the keys to Father Cuthbert.’
    ‘Why did Father Cuthbert not lock the church himself?’
    asked Bartholomew.
    ‘He does when he can. But he has pains in his ankles sometimes, so I lock up when he cannot walk.’
    Bartholomew nodded. He had often treated Father
    Cuthbert for swollen ankles, partly caused by the great pressure put on them by his excess weight, and partly, Bartholomew suspected, caused by a serious affinity for fortified wines.
    ‘Did you notice anything unusual?’ he asked.
    The man shook his head hesitantly, and Bartholomew was certain he was lying.
    ‘It would be better if you told me what you know,’ he said quietly. He saw sweat start to bead on the man’s upper lip. Then, before he could do anything to stop him, the man dived out of Bartholomew’s reach and scuttled out of the church. Bartholomew ran after him and saw him disappear into the bushes in the churchyard.
    He followed, ignoring the way the dense shrubs scratched at his arms. There seemed to be a small path through the undergrowth, faint from lack of use, but a distinct pathway nevertheless. Bartholomew crashed along it and suddenly found himself in one of the dismal alleys that lay between the church and the market-place, his feet skidding in the dust as he came to a halt.
    This was one of the poorest areas of the town, a place where no one valuing his safety would consider entering after dark. The houses were no more than rows of wooden frames packed with dried mud. One or two of the better ones had ill-fitting doors to keep