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about the murder of the prostitutes. As always, Bartholomew was amazed at how the old man managed to acquire his information. He never left the College, yet always seemed to be the first to hear any news from outside. Occasionally, Bartholomew found his love of gossip offensive, but tried to be tolerant since the poor man had little else to do. Although he could still read, Alban’s elbow7 prevented him from producing the splendid illustrated texts for which he had once been famous. Bartholomew occasionally saw the old man leafing wistfully through some of his magnificent work, and felt sorry for him.
    ‘There will be yet more murders,’ Alban said with salacious enjoyment. ‘Just you see. The Sheriff is less than worthless at tracking this criminal down.’
    ‘And I suppose you know who the murderer is,’ asked Bartholomew drily, finding the discussion distasteful. He poured more oil into the palm of his hand, and continued to massage it into the swollen joint.
    Alban scowled at him. ‘Cheeky beggar,’ he muttered.
    ‘No, I do not know who the murderer is, but if I were your age, I would find out!’
    ‘And how would you do that?’ said Bartholomew,
    more to side-track Brother Alban from his lurid and fanciful descriptions of the killer’s victims than to solicit a sensible answer.
    “I would go to the churches of St John Zachary or All Saints’-next-the-Cas tie, and I would find out,’ said Alban, tipping his head back and fixing Bartholomew with alert black eyes.
    ‘Why those churches?’ said Bartholomew, nonplussed.
    The old monk sighed heavily and looked at Bartholomew as he might an errant student. ‘Because they have been decommissioned,’ he said.
    After the plague, the fall in the population meant that there were not enough people to make use of all existing churches, and many had been decommissioned. Some were pulled down, or used as a source of stone; others were locked up to await the day when they would be used again. Two such were St John Zachary and All Saints’-next-the-Castle. At the height of the plague, the entire population north of the river next to the Castle had died. Bartholomew had burned down the pathetic hovels there so that they would not become a continuing source of infection for the town. People claimed that the site of the settlement and All Saints’ Church were haunted, and few people went there.
    ‘So?’ said Bartholomew, his attention to the conversation wavering as he concentrated on Alban’s arm.
    ‘Do you know nothing?’ said Alban, more than a touch of gloating in his voice.
    Bartholomew flexed the old man’s elbow. “I know that your arm is improving.’ He was pleased. The old man could bend it further than he had been able to a week ago, and seemed to be in less pain. Typically, Alban was more interested in his gossip.
    ‘There are works of the Devil performed in the
    churches,’ he crowed, ‘and I am willing to wager you will find out from them who is killing these whores.’
    ‘Works of the Devil!’ scoffed Bartholomew dismissively.
    ‘Always the excuse for the crimes of people!’
    “I mean witchcraft, Matthew,’ said Alban primly. ‘It goes on in those two churches, and a good many others too, I imagine. I do not need to tell you why. People are wondering why they should pray to a God that did not deliver them from the Death, and so they are turning to other sources of power. It is the same all over England.
    The murder of these harlots is symptomatic of a sickening society.’
    Bartholomew finished his treatment of Alban’s arm and left the old man’s chatter with some relief. He had heard about the increase in witchcraft, but had given it little thought. Brother Michael had mentioned it once or twice, and it had sparked a fierce debate one night among the Franciscans, but Bartholomew had not imagined that it would occur in Cambridge. Perhaps Alban was right; he often was with his gossip. Bartholomew decided to ask whether Cynric knew