An Unholy Alliance by Susanna Gregory

lane.’
    Cynric had already looked. ‘The gate is open,’ he said.
    “I bar it myself at dusk each night, and so someone inside must have opened it between dusk last night and now.’
    ‘Well,’ said the Master, looking round at his Fellows, ‘has anyone used the back gate this morning?’
    There was silence as the Fellows shook their heads and looked at each other blankly.
    “I will ask the students,’ said Kenyngham. ‘Now, I suggest we return to our duties. Eli and Cynric, take Mistress de Belem to the church with the porters. Master Hesselwell, take Brother Michael to his room: he looks ill. Master Alcote, I would like you to inform the Sheriff and the Chancellor.’ As they scurried to do his bidding, he turned to Bartholomew.
    ‘Matthew, I do not envy you your task. Would you like me to come with you?’
    Bartholomew thanked him, but felt it was a duty he should perform alone. On his way to Milne Street, he met Stanmore, already heading for the Fair with his apprentices. His good humour evaporated when he
    learned Bartholomew’s news.
    ‘Heaven help us,’ he said softly. He grabbed
    Bartholomew’s arm. ‘Let me come with you. Reginald and I have had our differences, but he may need
    me now.’
     

It was a long time before Bartholomew felt he could leave de Belem’s house. Sir Reginald was working in the dim morning light in his solar. He stood when Bartholomew and Stanmore were shown in and came
    to greet them, surprised but courteous. He was a man in his early fifties, powerfully built, with thick hair that showed no trace of grey. Bartholomew had been with his wife when she had died during the plague a little over a year before.
    De Belem stared in disbelief when Bartholomew told him why they had come, and then shook his head firmly.
     
    ‘“The killer takes whores,’ he said. ‘Frances was not a whore. You are mistaken: it is not her.’
    Bartholomew, feeling wretched, met his eyes. ‘I am not mistaken,’ he said gently.
    ‘But she is not a whore!’ protested de Belem.
    ‘“The murderer did not know that,’ said Stanmore, with quiet reason. ‘It was probably dark, and he saw a girl in the streets alone. He must have jumped to the wrong conclusion.’
    ‘How was she killed?’ de Belem demanded suddenly, looking at Bartholomew. ‘You were with her when she died, you say?’
    ‘With a knife,’ said Bartholomew, reluctant to go into detail while de Belem still dealt with the shock of his news.
    ‘Her throat cut?’ persisted de Belem.
    Bartholomew nodded. There was no point in denying it if de Belem already knew from local gossip.
    ‘Did she say anything?’ said de Belem, ashen-faced.
    ‘Was she aware of what had happened to her?’
    Bartholomew raised his hands in a gesture of uncertainty.
    ‘What she said made no sense,’ he said. “I had
    given her some syrup to dull her senses and she was probably delirious.’
    ‘What did she say?’ asked de Belem, his voice
    unsteady.
    ‘That whoever killed her was not a man,’ said
    Bartholomew reluctantly.
    De Belem looked bewildered and shook his head
    slowly, as if trying to clear it. ‘What does that mean?’
    he said. ‘What was it? An animal? A devil?’
    Bartholomew could think of nothing to say. “The wound on her throat had been inflicted by a knife, of that he was certain, and Frances’s killer was unquestionably human.
    Was Brother Alban right, and were the murders of the women part of some satanic ritual?
    ‘Do you have any ideas about why Frances may have been killed?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Did she have any arguments with anyone recently?’
    De Belem shook his head again, helplessly. ‘We were not close,’ he said, ‘although I loved her dearly. Since my wife died, I have immersed myself in my work, and left her to her own devices. But I can think of no one who meant her harm.’
    He paused and put his head in his hands. Stanmore reached out and patted his shoulder.
    ‘Will you catch him for me?’ de Belem