The Devil's Disciples

Chapter 2

Bartholomew was troubled by Langelee’s contention that half the town thought he was a warlock, but was to be granted no time to answer the accusations. A second message arrived from Arblaster, urging him to make haste. Although he would have preferred to go alone, he found himself accompanied not only by Cynric, but by Carton, too. The newest Michaelhouse Fellow did not often seek out the company of his colleagues – other than William and Mildenale – and the physician was surprised when Carton expressed a desire to join him.

‘I have business at Barnwell Priory, which you will pass en route to Arblaster’s home,’ Carton explained. ‘As you know, they are interested in buying one of Michaelhouse’s properties, and Langelee has asked me to clarify a few details. Do you mind me coming with you?’

‘No,’ replied Bartholomew warily, wondering if the friar wanted him alone so he could accuse him of heresy. Or perhaps his intention was to persuade him to take major orders. It would not be the first time a Franciscan had tried to recruit him; the Order was notoriously aggressive in grabbing new members. Unfortunately for them, Bartholomew was in love with a woman called Matilde, and had not quite given up hope that she might return to Cambridge one day and agree to become his wife. Although he had not seen her in almost two years, his feelings had not diminished, and he could hardly marry her if he became a priest.

Carton smiled his strange smile, and gestured that the physician was to precede him through the College’s front gate. ‘Good. This term has been so busy that we have had no time to talk.’

‘Right,’ said Bartholomew. He thought fast, trying to come up with a subject that would discourage Carton from interrogating him about the points William had raised in his Sermon: his association with Mother Valeria, and his willingness to consider medical theories that had not been derived from the teachings of ancient Greeks. ‘Actually, I did not know Barnwell wanted one of our houses. Which one?’

Carton looked amused. ‘It was the main topic of discussion at the last Statutory Fellows’ Meeting. Were you not listening? I suppose it explains why you were so quiet.’

The conclave had been called shortly after Thomas’s death, and Bartholomew had spent the time silently agonising over what had happened. ‘I must have been thinking about something else,’ he mumbled uncomfortably.

‘Barnwell wants the house Margery Sewale left us. There has been a lot of interest in it, and Langelee needs a complete list of potential buyers.’

‘He cannot go himself?’

Carton smiled again. ‘I volunteered. I like the canons – they always invite me to join their prayers when I visit. In fact, I would rather we sold Sewale Cottage to them instead of to any of the laymen who are after it.’

Bartholomew led the way through the tangle of alleys called the Old Jewry, passing the cottage in which Matilde had lived. He let memories of her wash over him, barely hearing Carton’s monologue on Barnwell Priory’s beautiful chapels. He remembered her pale skin, and the scent of her hair. He was still thinking about her when they passed through the town gate, and stepped on to the raised road known as the Barnwell Causeway. The Causeway was prone to floods during wet weather, and there were many tales of travellers wandering off it and drowning in the adjacent bogs. That summer, however, it stood proud of the surrounding countryside, and the marshes were bone dry. It wound ahead of them like a dusty serpent, wavering and shimmering in the heat.

As they walked, Carton began talking about a text he had read on Blood Relics, while Cynric lagged behind, bored. Bartholomew was not gripped by the complex theology surrounding the Blood Relic debate, either, but was content to let Carton hold forth. The Franciscan became animated as he spoke, and his eyes shone; Bartholomew was reminded yet again that he was a deeply religious man. Then he frowned as the friar’s words sunk in.

‘You think the blood of the Passion is not separate from Christ’s divinity?’ he asked, unsure if he had heard correctly. ‘That is the Dominicans’ basic thesis.’

Carton looked flustered. ‘Yes, I know. I was just following a line of argument, to see where it led. I was not propounding it as an accurate viewpoint. Of course Christ’s blood is separate from His divinity. Every decent Franciscan knows that.’

Immediately he began to talk about something else, but the excitement was lost from his voice. Bartholomew wondered what was wrong with him. Then it occurred to him that Carton was a good scholar, clever enough to make up his own mind about the Blood Relic debate, so perhaps he did not agree with his Order’s stance on the issues involved. Of course, if that were true, then he was wise to keep his opinions to himself, because William and Mildenale would not approve of dissenters.

Not long after, Bartholomew looked up to see Spaldynge sauntering towards them. A servant staggered along behind him, laden down with pots; the Clare man had gone to the priory to buy honey for his College. There was no way to avoid him on the narrow path and, with weary resignation, Bartholomew braced himself for another barrage of accusations. Sure enough, Spaldynge opened his mouth when he was close enough to be heard, but Carton spoke first.

‘I have been meaning to talk to you, Spaldynge,’ he said. ‘It seems we have a mutual acquaintance – Mother Kirbee and I hail from the same village. She told me she still mourns her son.’

The blood drained from Spaldynge’s face. ‘What?’

‘Mother Kirbee,’ repeated Carton. Bartholomew glanced at him, and was unsettled to note that the expression on his face was cold and hard. ‘Her boy was called James.’

Spaldynge stared at Carton, his jaw working soundlessly. Then he pushed past the Michaelhouse men without another word and began striding towards the town, head lowered. He moved too fast for his servant, who abandoned his efforts to keep up when one of the jars slipped from his hands and smashed. Spaldynge glanced around at the noise, but did not reduce his speed.

Bartholomew watched in surprise, then turned to Carton. ‘What was all that about?’

‘I do not care for him.’ Carton’s voice was icy, and there was a glint in his eye that the physician did not like. ‘He rails against medici for failing to cure his family, but does not consider the possibility that he was to blame. Perhaps he was being punished for past sins.’

Bartholomew regarded him uneasily. He had heard other clerics say plague victims had got what they deserved, but he had not expected to hear it from a colleague – a man of education and reason.

‘Fifteen years ago, Spaldynge was accused of stabbing James Kirbee,’ said Carton, when he made no reply. ‘The charge was dropped on the grounds of insufficient evidence, but that does not mean he was innocent. I suspect Spaldynge’s family paid the price for his crime when the plague took them.’

Bartholomew frowned. ‘Are you sure? About the murder, I mean. I have never heard this tale–’

‘Of course I am sure,’ said Carton irritably. ‘How can you even ask such a question, when you saw for yourself how he took to his heels when I confronted him with his misdeed?’

‘He did look guilty,’ acknowledged Bartholomew cautiously. ‘But–’

‘Sinners!’ interrupted Carton bitterly. ‘They brought the Death down on us the first time, and they will do it again. And Spaldynge is one of the worst.’

Bartholomew was not sure how to respond. He was stunned – not only to learn what Spaldynge had done, but by the fact that Carton was ready to use it against him.

‘Did you test that powder from Thomas’s room?’ Carton asked, changing the subject before the physician could take issue with him. Bartholomew supposed it was just as well, given that neither would be willing to concede the other’s point of view and the discussion might end up being acrimonious. ‘Was it poison?’

‘The experiment is still running. Where did you find it again?’

‘In a chest under his bed. I thought it might explain why he died so suddenly, because I still do not believe you killed him. No one should blame you, and it is time you stopped feeling guilty about it.’

Bartholomew blinked, baffled by the man and his whirlwind of contradictions – from spiteful bigot to sympathetic friend in the space of a sentence. Then they arrived at Barnwell Priory, and Carton left to knock on the gate, relieving the physician of the need to think of a response. Once he had gone, Cynric came to walk at Bartholomew’s side. The book-bearer squinted at the sun.

‘The Devil is responsible for all this hot weather. Father William said so.’

There was something comfortingly predictable about Cynric’s superstitions – far more so than Carton’s bewildering remarks. Bartholomew smiled, relieved to be back in more familiar territory.

‘William told me the Devil is getting ready to unleash the next bout of plague on us, too,’ he said. ‘So he must be very busy.’

Irony was lost on Cynric, who nodded sagely. ‘The Devil is powerful enough to do both and comb the beards of Bene’t’s goats. Carton is a strange fellow, do you not think? He is not the man he was. In fact, he has changed so much that there is talk about him in the town.’

‘I do not want to hear it, Cynric,’ warned Bartholomew. He had never approved of gossip.

‘You should, because it affects Michaelhouse. It is his stance on sin – he condemns it too loudly.’

Bartholomew did not understand what his book-bearer was saying. ‘I should hope so. He is a priest, and that is what they are supposed to do. If he spoke for it, I would be worried.’

‘You are missing my point. He condemns it too loudly – and it makes me think it is a ruse.’

Bartholomew regarded him blankly, still not sure what he was trying to say. So much for being in familiar territory. ‘A ruse?’

‘For what he really thinks,’ elaborated Cynric. Because it is said in the town that Carton is the Sorcerer.’

Bartholomew was used to his book-bearer drawing wild conclusions from half-understood facts, but this was a record, even for him. He regarded Cynric in astonishment, not knowing how to begin disabusing him of the notion, but aware that unless the belief was nipped in the bud fairly smartly, it would flower into something permanent.

‘No,’ he managed eventually. ‘Carton is not a heretic, and you cannot say–’

‘He has always been interested in witchery,’ interrupted Cynric. ‘We used to spy on the covens together, the ones that meet in St John Zachary or All Saints-next-the-Castle – I have been keeping an eye on them since the Death, as you know. Then he stopped coming, just like that. It was because he joined one, see. And he was so good at it that they made him their master. It is true!’

‘It is not,’ said Bartholomew, appalled that Cynric should have devised such a monstrous theory on such a fragile thread of ‘evidence’.

‘Think about it logically,’ persisted Cynric. ‘All the Fellows were asleep when Margery was hauled from her grave and the blood was left in our font – except Carton. I happened to notice his bed was empty as I walked past his room.’

‘I was not asleep then, either,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘And it was very hot last night. I am sure Carton was not the only one who got up in search of cooler air.’

‘He was,’ declared Cynric, with absolute certainty. ‘Similarly, you were all teaching when Bene’t’s goats went missing, but Carton was busy elsewhere – alone. And who was the only man to go out on the night Danyell died and his hand was chopped off – other than you? Carton!’

‘Coincidence,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There will be perfectly rational explanations for all this.’

‘There will,’ agreed Cynric. ‘And they are that he is the Sorcerer – the man whose dark power grows stronger every day, and who aims to seduce decent, God-fearing men away from the Church.’

‘Is that the Sorcerer’s intention, then?’ asked Bartholomew, changing the tack of the discussion. He knew from past debates that Cynric would never accept that his ‘logic’ might be flawed, and did not want to argue with him. ‘To promote his coven at the expense of the Church?’

The book-bearer nodded with great seriousness, then pointed to a small blemish on the palm of his hand. ‘Along with banishing warts. I had one myself, so I bought one of his remedies, and you can see it worked. He is not all bad, I suppose.’

‘Lord!’ muttered Bartholomew, at a loss for words. He was beginning to wish he had made the journey alone, and wondered whether the heatwave was responsible for some of the peculiar thinking that was afflicting his Michaelhouse cronies.

‘Here is Arblaster’s house,’ said Cynric, regarding it with disapproval. ‘It is recently painted, which tells you he has money to squander while decent folk must eke a living in the fields.’

‘He probably paid someone to do the work,’ countered Bartholomew, getting a bit tired of the book-bearer’s flamboyant opinions. ‘Which means he provided employment for–’

‘Great wealth is all wrong,’ interrupted Cynric firmly. ‘And against God’s proper order.’

Bartholomew was tempted to point out that if Cynric felt so strongly about ‘God’s proper order’, he should not be wearing pagan amulets around his neck. But he said nothing, and instead studied the cottage that so offended the Welshman’s sense of social justice. It was larger than he expected, with a neat thatch and fat chickens scratching in the garden. Tall hedges surrounded a field that released a foul smell; he supposed it was where Arblaster composted the commodity that had brought him his fortune. Seven black goats were tethered under a tree by the river. While they waited for the door to be answered, Cynric jabbed the physician with his elbow and pointed at them.

‘Bene’t College lost seven black goats,’ he said meaningfully.

Bartholomew rubbed a hand over his eyes. ‘So Carton is the Sorcerer, and Arblaster – a respectable merchant – steals the University’s livestock? What other tales can you concoct? That Master Langelee has a penchant for wearing our laundress’s clothes?’

‘No, but your colleague Wynewyk does,’ replied Cynric, without the merest hint that he was jesting. ‘They are too large for him, but he makes do.’

Bartholomew was relieved when the door opened, saving him from more of Cynric’s unsettling conversation. A woman stood there, small and pretty. She wore a red kirtle – a long gown – with a close-fitting bodice that accentuated her slender figure. Her white-gold hair was gathered in plaits at the side of her face, held in place with an elegant silver net called a fret. Her dark blue eyes were slightly swollen, showing she had been crying.

‘Doctor Bartholomew,’ she said with a wan smile. ‘I recognise you from the public debates in St Mary the Great. It is good of you to come, especially as we are Doctor Rougham’s patients, not your own. I am Jodoca, Paul Arblaster’s wife.’

Bartholomew recognised her, too, because even scholars in love with women they had not seen for two years could not fail to notice such pale loveliness. His students talked about Jodoca in reverent tones, and had voted her the town’s most attractive lady. He nodded a friendly greeting and stepped inside, grateful to be out of the sun at last.

The house smelled of honey-scented wax, and a servant was on her knees in the hearth, polishing the stones. Silken cloths covered the table and there were books on a shelf above the window. Bartholomew could see by the embossing on the covers that they were philosophical tracts, indicating that someone was interested in honing his mind. The house and its contents told him the Arblasters were wealthy folk who paid heed to the finer points of life. It told Cynric so, too, and he looked around him disparagingly.

‘I have been so worried about Paul,’ Jodoca went on. ‘I am at my wits’ end.’

‘What is wrong with him?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘The flux?’

She nodded miserably, then turned to Cynric. ‘There is new ale in the pantry, and it must have been an unpleasantly hot walk for you. My maid will show you where it is kept.’

Cynric beamed in surprise, and Bartholomew was under the impression that the book-bearer might be prepared to overlook her disgusting wealth if polite consideration was shown to servants.

‘I have been watching for you from the upstairs window,’ said Jodoca, looking back at Bartholomew. ‘For one awful moment, I thought you were going to see the canons at Barnwell first. I saw one of you go in, and was afraid I might have to run over and drag you out again.’

‘That was Carton,’ provided Cynric, willing to be helpful in return for his ale. ‘Michaelhouse is selling a cottage, and he has gone to discuss terms with the Prior. But we came straight here, because your summons sounded so urgent.’

‘It is urgent,’ said Jodoca, fighting back tears. ‘I am frightened for Paul. We are used to dung, being in the business and all, but this flux is too horrible, even for us.’

‘I will be in the pantry, then,’ said Cynric, evidently thinking this was more detail than he needed. He had disappeared before Jodoca could add anything else.

Bartholomew allowed Jodoca to haul him along a corridor to a pleasant chamber at the back of the house. Here, the odour was rather less pleasant. The patient was sitting in bed, surrounded by buckets. He was pale and feverish, but not so ill that he could not do some writing. A ledger was on his knees, and he was recording figures in it. He smiled when Bartholomew was shown in.

‘At last! I was beginning to think you might not come. It is a long way from town, and I understand you do not own a horse. It is a pity. Nags are good sources of dung.’

Arblaster was a large, powerful man with thick yellow hair that sprouted from his head in unruly clumps. He was a burgess, and Bartholomew had seen him taking part in various civic ceremonies, when the hair had been carefully wetted down in an attempt to make it lie flat. It usually popped up again as soon as it was dry, showing that attempts to tame it were a waste of time. Bartholomew knew little about him, other than the fact that he purchased large quantities of aromatic herbs to prevent the odour of his wares from entering his home: the apothecary claimed Arblaster was a bigger customer than all three of the town’s physicians put together.

‘I thought he was going to Barnwell Priory first,’ said Jodoca, plumping up his pillows. ‘But that was Carton, going to discuss house business with Prior Norton.’

‘I suppose Barnwell is interested in Sewale Cottage,’ said Arblaster. ‘Greedy devils! They will own the entire town soon.’

Bartholomew went to feel the speed of the dung-merchant’s pulse, already sure Arblaster was not as ill as his wife seemed to think. ‘When did you first start to feel unwell?’

‘Last night. It was probably the goat we had for dinner. I told Jodoca it was off.’

‘And I told you to leave it, if you thought it was tainted,’ Jodoca replied, sitting on the bed and stroking her husband’s hair affectionately. ‘I have a summer cold, and could not taste it.’

‘Goat manure is not as good as horse,’ said Arblaster, smiling genially at the physician. ‘Does your College own cows? If so, I will give you a good price for their muck.’

Bartholomew regarded him askance. He was not used to patients touting for dung in the middle of consultations. ‘I think we send it to our manor in Ickleton,’ he said, to bring the discussion to an end. ‘What else did you eat yesterday?’

‘Nothing. People despise dung, but it is the stuff on which our country is built. Without it, there would be no crops, which means no food and no people. We owe a lot to muck.’

Bartholomew did not find it easy to acquire the information he needed to make an accurate diagnosis, and by the time he had finished, he had learned more about manure and its various properties than was pleasant. The stream of information came to a merciful end when Arblaster was seized with a sudden need to make use of one of the buckets. The exercise left him exhausted.

‘Two inmates from Barnwell hospital died of this flux last week,’ he said breathlessly. ‘I do not want Jodoca to join them in their graves – I have heard how fast it can pass from person to person.’

‘There is no reason she should become sick,’ said Bartholomew. He was tempted to explain his theory that rotten meat was responsible for the illness, but the brisk walk in the searing sun and the taxing discussions with Cynric and Carton had sapped his energy; he did not feel like embarking on a lengthy medical debate. ‘And besides, the hospital inmates are old men. Jodoca is a young woman, and so is less likely to succumb.’

‘You mean I will die, then?’ asked Arblaster in an appalled whisper. ‘Because I am a man who is approaching forty years of age?’

Bartholomew was aware that tiredness was robbing him of his wits; he should have known better than to make remarks that might be misinterpreted. ‘Of course not. I can give you medicine that will make you feel better by morning. It contains–’

‘My sickness is the Devil’s work,’ interrupted Arblaster, fear in his eyes now. ‘I had an argument with Mother Valeria a week ago – she tried to overcharge me for a spell and I refused to pay. She must have cursed me. That is why I lie dying.’

‘You are not dying,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘And Valeria does not put curses on people.’

‘She does, boy,’ countered Cynric, who was watching from the doorway, a jug of ale in his hand. ‘She is very good at it, which is why you should never annoy her. She likes you now, but that could change in an instant. It would be safer if you had nothing to do with her, as I have told you before.’

‘God’s teeth!’ muttered Bartholomew, wondering how Cynric came by his information. He did not have the energy for it, regardless. He turned back to the business in hand, removing angelica and barley from his bag, and dropping them into a pot of water that was bubbling on the hearth. ‘Mistress Jodoca, your husband needs to drink as much of this as–’

‘She is not staying,’ said Arblaster. His expression was grimly determined. ‘When I die, Mother Valeria will come for my soul, and I do not want Jodoca here when that happens.’

‘I cannot leave you,’ protested Jodoca, aghast at the notion. ‘I am your wife!’

‘You are not going to die,’ repeated Bartholomew. ‘You are strong, and this is not a serious–’

‘Please do as I ask, Jodoca,’ interrupted Arblaster. ‘Leave now, and go to stay with your brother. No woman should see her man’s spirit ripped bloodily from his corpse.’

‘That will not happen,’ insisted Bartholomew although he could see Arblaster did not believe him. ‘And someone needs to be here, to administer this cure. There is no need to send her–’

‘Jodoca, go,’ ordered Arblaster. ‘If you love me, you will not argue.’

Tears flowing, Jodoca backed out of the room. Her footsteps tapped along the corridor and across the yard, then all was silent again. Bartholomew asked Cynric to fetch the maid, so she could be shown how to do the honours with the remedy, but she had apparently overheard the discussion and fled, for she was nowhere to be found. The house was deserted.

‘We cannot leave him alone,’ said Bartholomew to his book-bearer. ‘He is not as ill as he believes, but he still needs nursing. Will you wait here, while I walk to Barnwell and ask one of the canons to sit with him? It will not take long.’

He fully expected Cynric to refuse, knowing perfectly well that witches in search of souls was exactly the kind of tale the book-bearer took very seriously. Therefore he was startled when Cynric nodded assent. He was not surprised for long, however.

‘Arblaster is wrong to think Valeria will come for him this afternoon,’ said Cynric, sniffing in disdain. ‘She will not do that until he has been dead for three nights. Of course, it would not worry me if she did break with tradition and come today, because I am wearing an amulet.’

‘What kind of amulet?’ asked Arblaster, overhearing.

Cynric fingered something brown and furry that hung around his neck. ‘A powerful one, quite able to protect us both.’

Arblaster sagged in relief. He sipped Bartholomew’s doctored water, complained that it did not taste of much, then sank into a feverish doze. The physician gave Cynric instructions about what to do if he woke, and made for the door.

‘Do not stay in the convent too long,’ advised Cynric. ‘None of the canons are witches, but a couple turn into wolves on occasion. Luckily, I happen to have a counter-charm against wolves.’

Bartholomew felt his head spinning, and decided he should spend as little time with Cynric as possible until the Sorcerer had either been exposed as a fraud or had faded into oblivion, as all such prodigies were wont to do. He tried to dodge the proffered parcel, but the book-bearer managed to press it into his hand anyway. He smiled weakly, and shoved it in his bag, determined to throw it away later. He did not want to be caught with such an item in his possession, not after William’s accusations regarding his association with Mother Valeria.

It was not far to Barnwell Priory, but seemed further because the road was so fiercely hot. Bartholomew felt the energy drain from him at every step. His senses swam, and he wondered if he was in line for a bout of the flux himself. He hoped not, because it would leave Paxtone alone to physic the entire town. After what seemed an age, he arrived at Barnwell’s sturdy front gate. He leaned against the gatepost for a moment, standing in its shade and squinting against the sun’s brightness.

The convent was owned by the Augustinian Order, and comprised a refectory, guest hall, infirmary, almonry, brewery, granary, stables and bake-house, all surrounded by protective walls and gates. In addition, there was a church and three chapels – one for the infirmary, one attached to the almonry and the other dedicated to St Lucy and St Edmund. As Arblaster had mentioned, the convent also owned a substantial amount of property in the town: houses, shops, churches and manors. Bartholomew could not imagine why Prior Norton should want to purchase yet more of it in the form of Sewale Cottage. Not being an acquisitive man himself, he failed to understand the bent in others, and was grateful Langelee had not given him the task of negotiating details with Prior Norton.

He knocked on the gate, thinking about what he knew of the Augustinians. Despite the convent’s opulence, Norton had just twenty canons. There was, however, an army of servants and labourers who performed the menial tasks the brethren liked to avoid. The canons’ lives were not all meals and prayers, however. They ran a school for boys, and the infirmary housed a dozen old men who were living out their lives at the priory’s expense. They summoned Bartholomew not infrequently, because the infirmarian was not very good at his job, and tended to shy away from anything more complex than cuts and bruises. As a result, the physician should have known the canons reasonably well, but because they were mainly middle-aged, portly men who were going bald, he found it difficult to tell them apart. The infirmarian and his assistant were distinctive, but the rest were indistinguishable as far as Bartholomew was concerned, and he was glad Norton possessed a pair of unusually protuberant eyes, or he would have been hard pressed to identify him, too.

He was surprised when his rap was answered not by a lay-brother, but by Norton himself. The Prior’s expression was one of extreme agitation, and the thought went through Bartholomew’s mind that if he opened his eyes any wider, they might drop out.

‘Why have you arrived so quickly?’ Norton demanded, uncharacteristically brusque. ‘We have only just sent for you.’

‘Is something wrong?’ Bartholomew was concerned. Arblaster had mentioned two men dead of the flux, and it occurred to him that the priory might be suffering from a more virulent outbreak than the one in the town.

‘Yes,’ replied Norton shortly. He turned, and Bartholomew saw his brethren ranged behind him, an uneasy cluster in their light-coloured robes. They murmured greetings, and some sketched benedictions. Bartholomew nodded back, noting they were as nervous and unhappy as their head.

Henry Fencotes, the infirmarian’s assistant, stepped forward. Unlike his fellows, he possessed a full head of white hair, and he was thin. His skin was as pale as parchment, so his veins showed blue through it. He had consulted Bartholomew on several occasions because his hands and feet were always cold, even in the height of summer. Older than the others, he had come late to the priesthood, and it was said that he had lived a very wild life before his vows.

‘Where is Brother Michael?’ Fencotes asked, grabbing the physician’s arm. His hand felt icy, like that of a corpse. ‘We asked him to come, too. Did you leave him behind, because he is too fat to run? Will he be here soon?’

‘I have no idea,’ replied Bartholomew, growing steadily more uneasy. ‘Is someone ill?’

‘You could say that,’ said Norton. ‘Will you see Carton now, or wait until Michael arrives?’

Bartholomew felt alarm grip his stomach. ‘Carton? What is wrong with him?’

‘We told you in the message we sent.’ Norton’s face was grim. ‘He has been murdered.’

Carton was in one of the convent’s chapels, a handsome building with a lead roof. It was a peaceful, silent place, with thick stone walls and tiny lancet windows that made it dark and intimate. It was also cool, and Bartholomew welcomed the respite from the heat. He tried to ask Norton what had happened as he was ushered into the porch, but the goggle-eyed Augustinian was not of a mind to answer questions, preferring to give a detailed explanation of why he believed this was the first unlawful killing ever to take place in the convent he ruled.

Bartholomew bit back his impatience. ‘A hundred and fifty murder-free years is an impressive record, Father Prior, but where is Carton?’

‘In the chancel,’ replied Fencotes. ‘Podiolo is with him. Come, I will show you.’

‘Podiolo came the moment I discovered …’ Norton trailed off uncomfortably, gesticulating with his hand. ‘But he said there was nothing he could do.’

Matteo di Podiolo was the infirmarian, and hailed from Florence. He had yellow eyes, a pointed nose and a mouth full of long, sharp teeth; Cynric had once told Bartholomew that his mother was a wolf. He knew virtually nothing about medicine, and did not seem inclined to learn, either, preferring to concentrate on his life’s ambition: to turn base metal into gold. He had built a laboratory in the infirmary chapel, and spent far more time there than ministering to his elderly charges. Perhaps, Bartholomew thought uncharitably, his lack of dedication was why two of them had died of flux.

‘There was nothing anyone could do,’ Podiolo said, emerging suddenly from the gloom of the nave and making them all jump. His curious amber eyes gleamed in the semi-darkness.

Bartholomew ducked around him and hurried after Fencotes, but the abrupt plunge from bright sunlight had rendered him blind, and he could not see where he was going. He could not even see Fencotes, although he could hear his footsteps a short distance ahead. He slowed, recalling that the flagstones in that particular chapel were treacherously uneven. Unfortunately, Podiolo was too close behind him, and failed to adjust his speed. He collided with the physician then stumbled into one of the plump, balding canons, who gave a shriek as he lost his balance and fell. Something clattered to the floor with him, and there was a collective gasp of horror.

‘The stoup!’ cried Fencotes, dropping to his knees with his hands clasped in front of him. ‘You have spilled the holy water!’

The other canons began to babble their horror, and Podiolo yelled something about a bad omen. Bartholomew glanced at the chancel, itching to run to Carton’s side but loath to do so while his sunlight-dazzled eyes could not see where the holy water had splattered.

‘No one move,’ ordered Norton, his commanding voice stilling the clamour of alarm. ‘Use your hood to mop it up, Fencotes. Then we shall leave it on the altar until it dries. No harm is done – at least, as long as no one treads in it.’

With shaking hands, Fencotes dabbed at the mess, while Bartholomew started to ease around him, aiming for the chancel. It would not be the first time death had been misdiagnosed – he had no faith in Podiolo’s dubious skills – and he might yet save Carton’s life. He stopped abruptly when he became aware that the canons were regarding him with rather naked hostility. It was unsettling, and for the first time in weeks, he shivered.

‘Prior Norton instructed you to wait,’ said Podiolo coldly. ‘There is nothing you can do for your friend. He is quite dead. I may not be the best infirmarian, but I know a corpse when I see one.’

‘Please,’ said Bartholomew quietly. ‘Carton is my colleague, and I may be able to–’

‘He is also a devout Franciscan, who will not appreciate you defiling holy water to reach him,’ said Fencotes firmly. ‘Be still, Doctor. I am going as fast as I can.’

‘And I shall tell you what happened, to occupy your mind,’ said Norton. ‘Carton came to discuss the house your College is going to sell – Margery Sewale’s place. A number of people are interested in purchasing it, and he came to find out how much we are willing to pay. He was going to tell us what others have offered, too, so we can decide whether we want to put in a higher bid. It was good of Langelee to send him.’

‘Yes and no,’ said Podiolo. ‘It is in Michaelhouse’s interests to secure the best price, and Carton was just facilitating that process. Langelee did not send him out of the goodness of his heart.’

‘I have no love of earthly wealth,’ said Fencotes, not looking up from his duties on the floor. ‘But do not condemn Carton and Langelee for trying their best for Michaelhouse. It is not as if they are going to keep the money for themselves.’

‘True,’ acknowledged Norton. He opened his eyes further than Bartholomew would have believed possible. ‘Anyway, I invited Carton to talk here, in the chapel, because it is the coolest place in the priory, and thus the most comfortable. Given the heat, I thought he might appreciate some refreshment, too, so I left him alone for a few moments while I went to fetch a jug of wine.’

‘A few moments?’ asked Bartholomew.

Norton’s face was almost as pale as Fencotes’s. ‘Just the time it took me to hurry across the yard, tell Podiolo which claret to bring, and hurry back again. When I arrived, I found Carton …’

Bartholomew shot an agitated glance at the chancel. ‘Found Carton what?’

‘In the state he is in now,’ finished Norton unhelpfully. ‘I ran outside and yelled for Podiolo, who came to see what could be done.’

‘But nothing could,’ added Podiolo, flashing his wolfish smile, rather inappropriately.

‘You said Carton has been murdered,’ said Bartholomew. ‘That means someone else must have been in here with him. Who was it?’

‘The chapel was empty when Carton and I arrived,’ replied Norton. ‘And you can see it is too small for anyone to hide here without being spotted.’

Now Bartholomew’s eyes had become accustomed to the gloom, he could see Norton was right. The chapel comprised a nave, which was empty of anything except six round pillars, and a chancel. He could just make out a dark form lying behind the altar rail. There was no furniture of any description, and the only way in was through the door. The windows were narrow, no wider than the length of a man’s hand, and it would be impossible for anyone to squeeze through them.

‘So someone must have come in while you were away fetching the wine,’ he said to Norton.

‘Then whoever it was must have been very fast,’ said Norton. ‘I was not gone long. But it is possible, I suppose. However, I sincerely hope you do not suspect one of us of this dreadful crime.’

‘Who has access to your grounds, other than canons and lay-brethren?’ asked Bartholomew. He glanced at Fencotes, who seemed to be taking far too long with his mopping.

‘The inmates at the hospital and the boys in the school,’ replied the Prior. ‘Plus the folk who come to buy our honey. Then the lay-brothers often invite their kinsman to visit. In fact, we tend not to exclude anyone who wants to come in.’

‘You keep your gate locked,’ Bartholomew pointed out, recalling how he had knocked and waited for an answer.

‘That is to deter the casual highway robber,’ replied Podiolo. ‘But we keep a back door open for anyone who might be in need. We are not Michaelhouse, which requires tight security to avoid being burned to the ground.’

The holy water wiped away, Norton led the way to the chancel, where Carton lay on his face in front of the altar. The Franciscan’s arms were stretched to either side, and his legs were straight and pressed together in a grotesque parody of a crucifix. And in the middle of his back was a knife.

Podiolo had been right when he said there was nothing Bartholomew could do for his colleague. The dagger wound looked as though it would have been almost instantly fatal, and Carton was already beginning to cool in the chill of the church. Bartholomew inspected the body by the light of a candle, but there was nothing else to see. Carton had been in good health when he was stabbed, and there were no other injuries or inexplicable marks.

Michael arrived eventually, gasping from what had been an unpleasantly fast hike along the baking Causeway. His eyes were huge and sad as he stared down at the dead Franciscan. After a moment, he dropped to his knees and began to intone last rites. The canons were silent, bowing their heads as he chanted his prayers. Bartholomew stepped away and began to prowl, looking for anything that might provide him with some explanation as to why someone should have felt the need to stab Carton and arrange his body in so unsettling a manner. He only confirmed what he already knew: that a killer must have taken advantage of Prior Norton’s brief absence to walk through the door, kill Carton and leave the same way. When Michael finished his devotions, Norton, Podiolo and Fencotes repeated what they had told Bartholomew.

‘So what you are telling me is that virtually anyone could have murdered him,’ said the monk. He sounded disgusted. ‘You have no idea who might be in your convent at any given time. Moreover, the knife is one of those cheap things that can be bought for a few pennies in the Market Square, and we are unlikely to trace its owner.’

‘Yes,’ replied Norton unhappily. ‘I suppose we are telling you that.’

‘I will have to mount an investigation,’ said Michael, rather threateningly. ‘Carton was a scholar of Michaelhouse, and I am duty bound to discover what happened to him.’

‘I welcome it,’ said Norton. ‘The taint of death will hang over us, otherwise. Obviously, a canon had nothing to do with this, and we want an independent enquiry to prove it.’

‘Right,’ said Michael, making it clear he would make up his own mind about whether the canons should be exonerated. ‘Was this the only time Carton visited you? Or has he been before?’

‘He has never been,’ said Podiolo, rather quickly. ‘I would have seen him.’

‘That is not what he told me,’ countered Bartholomew. ‘As we walked here together, he gave the impression that he liked coming, because you invited him to join your prayers.’

‘He may have dropped in once or twice,’ admitted Norton cautiously. ‘But I would not have said it was a regular occurrence. Podiolo was probably unaware of it, though.’

‘I was unaware,’ agreed Podiolo immediately. ‘I never saw him here before, although I knew who he was, because I have heard him preaching in the town. He said the people who died during the plague did so as a punishment for their sins, which cannot have made him popular. I suspect you will find the killer is a townsman who finds that sort of sentiment objectionable.’

‘People do not break God’s commandments for so paltry a reason,’ objected Fencotes, shocked.

‘They do,’ said Norton shortly. ‘And you are too good for this world, if you think otherwise.’

Podiolo’s expression was sly. ‘Let us not forget the tales that say Carton was the Sorcerer. He–’

‘He was no such thing,’ interrupted Michael angrily. ‘He was a Franciscan friar who preached hotly against sin. I doubt the Sorcerer would be doing that.’

‘Just because I mention the rumour does not mean I accept it as truth,’ said Podiolo, raising a defensive hand. ‘Besides, the Sorcerer is said to own considerable skill in curing warts, and Carton never made any such claim. Perhaps that fact alone is enough to exonerate him. Or perhaps it is not. After all, his speeches showed he was inexplicably familiar with the subject of sin – far more so than his fellow Franciscans. And one of them – Thomas – is dead.’

‘So?’ demanded Michael, struggling to keep his temper. ‘What is your point?’

‘My point is that Thomas’s death may not have been all it seemed,’ replied Podiolo, fixing the monk with his yellow eyes. ‘I know the official explanation is that he was struck by a stone, and died after imbibing overly strong medicine prescribed by Bartholomew. But I am unconvinced.’

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew tiredly. ‘It is what happened.’

‘I doubt a physician of your experience would make such a basic mistake,’ replied Podiolo. ‘And Thomas himself thought the Sorcerer had felled him with a curse, while I heard Carton suspected poison. Do not overlook the possibility that the deaths of these two friends might be connected. After all, both were Franciscans with outspoken opinions.’

‘I am sure Wolf-Face would like us to think so,’ murmured Michael in Bartholomew’s ear. ‘But perhaps he makes that comment to throw us off the real scent – his scent.’

‘You think Podiolo is the killer?’ whispered Bartholomew, alarmed. He had always been wary of Podiolo, but he did not see the infirmarian as a man who murdered friars in chapels.

‘Why not?’ asked Michael. ‘I have the distinct feeling he is not telling us the whole truth.’ He raised his voice and addressed the assembled brethren. ‘I want to speak to each of you separately, to ascertain your whereabouts when Carton was dispatched.’

‘Of course, Brother,’ said Norton with a pained smile. ‘We have nothing to hide.’

Establishing alibis transpired to be easier than Michael expected, because most of the canons had been in their dormitory, which faced north and so was cool. They were in the process of having it redecorated, and as they all had strong views about colours and themes, they had gathered to harass the artist. The only ones who had not been so engaged were Podiolo, Norton and Fencotes.

‘Egg-Eyes, the Wolf and the Walking Corpse,’ muttered Michael to Bartholomew. ‘What a trio!’

‘I was in the infirmary with the old men,’ offered Fencotes helpfully. ‘They like me to read to them of an afternoon. However, half were asleep while the rest have lost their wits, so I doubt they will confirm my tale to your satisfaction. You will just have to trust me, I am afraid.’

Michael turned to the infirmarian. ‘Podiolo? You were not in the hospital, or you and Fencotes would have used each other as alibis.’

‘I was in my cell,’ replied Podiolo. ‘Studying a scroll that explains how to make gold from a mixture of sulphur and silver. I can show you the pages I read, if you like.’

‘I am sure you can,’ said Michael. ‘And I am also sure you know this text backwards.’

‘Well, yes,’ admitted Podiolo. ‘But that does not mean I am lying.’

‘I have already told you where I was: fetching wine,’ said Norton. He rolled his eyes. ‘Lord, but this is a black day for Barnwell! How could God let such wickedness loose in our haven of peace?’

‘How indeed?’ muttered Michael.

When the monk had finished interviewing the canons, Bartholomew took Podiolo to Arblaster’s house, where the dung-merchant already seemed better. Cynric had persuaded him to drink more of the boiled water than Bartholomew would have expected, given its uninspiring taste, although he was not pleased to learn that the patient had been told it contained magical properties – Arblaster was swallowing as much as he could in the belief that it would protect him from Mother Valeria.

‘But it will,’ objected Cynric, when Bartholomew remonstrated with him. ‘If he drinks your potion and lives, she will not have his soul. So, it will protect him from her, albeit indirectly.’

Bartholomew was too tired to argue, and Carton’s death had upset him more than he would have imagined. He had not been particularly close to the Franciscan, but Carton was a colleague, and it had not been pleasant to see him with the knife in his back. When he told Cynric what had happened, the book-bearer did not seem as surprised as Bartholomew thought he should have been.

‘He preached a violent message,’ said Cynric with a shrug. ‘He accused people of killing their loved ones during the plague because they were steeped in sin. Of course folk are going to take exception to that. He distressed a lot of people with his opinions. Men like Spaldynge, for example.’

‘You think Spaldynge killed him?’ asked Bartholomew, recalling the spat Carton had engineered when they had met the scholar from Clare. Spaldynge was hot-headed and spiteful, and might well take action against a man who knew an unsavoury secret about him. And if he really had murdered someone in the past, then killing was no stranger to him.

‘He might have done. And do not forget that Carton’s friends were Thomas, Mildenale and William – all men who waged war on those hapless Dominicans.’

‘God’s teeth!’ muttered Bartholomew, daunted. There were at least sixty Black Friars in Cambridge, both in the friary and holding town appointments as priests, teachers and chaplains, and he realised that any one of them might have taken exception to Michaelhouse’s Franciscans. Then he reconsidered. ‘But Carton was not especially damning of Dominicans. He agreed with the others if they pressed him, but he never made derogatory remarks of his own volition.’

Cynric shrugged again. ‘This will not be an easy nut to crack, because virtually anyone could have slipped into Barnwell and shoved a knife between his ribs. After all, he walked through crowded streets to come here, and lots of people saw him set off along the Causeway with you.’

Podiolo was annoyingly inattentive when Bartholomew told him how to administer the barley water to Arblaster, and the physician was concerned when he saw him pull a book from his robes, clearly intending to pass the time by reading. Fortunately, though, Cynric’s claim about the remedy’s magical powers meant Arblaster was eager to down as much of it as he could possibly manage, and did not need an infirmarian to coax him to swallow more.

Bartholomew returned to the convent, to see if Michael was ready to go home, and was about to enter when he saw a man named William Eyton walking along the Causeway towards him. Eyton was the vicar of St Bene’t’s Church, an affable Franciscan who laughed a lot. He was friends with William, and had a reputation for preaching inordinately long sermons. Bartholomew had attended one once, and had come away with his head spinning from the leaps of logic and false assumptions. William had been with him, and had fallen asleep somewhere near the beginning, awaking much later to applaud loudly and claim it was one of the best discourses he had ever heard.

‘I have come to purchase honey,’ said Eyton cheerily, standing with Bartholomew while they waited for a lay-brother to open the gate. Knocking felt foolish, since the physician now knew he could walk unchallenged through the back door, or even scramble over a wall. ‘I love honey, although it makes my teeth ache if I consume more than one pot in a single sitting.’

‘You eat it by the pot?’ asked Bartholomew, stunned. The canons sold their wares in very large vessels. ‘Does it not make you sick?’

‘Well, yes, it does, but it is said to keep witches at bay, so I do not mind a little nausea in a good cause. You should try it: William tells me you are more familiar with some of them than is safe.’

Bartholomew sighed, and wished William would keep his opinions to himself.

It was an unhappy gathering that prepared to travel from Barnwell Priory to St Michael’s Church. Carton rested on a makeshift bier, and Norton provided two lay-brothers to help carry it. The men did not voice their objections aloud, but it was clear that they disliked being given such an assignment, and their surliness persisted even after the monk offered them money for their trouble. Bartholomew did not blame them. It was an unpleasant task to be doing at any time, but the heat made it worse. It was still intense, even though the sun was setting.

Eyton was one of a dozen men who watched Bartholomew cover his colleague with a blanket, his normally smiling face sombre. ‘Carton took a courageous stand against those who lead sinful lives, and I am sorry someone has murdered him because of it,’ he said.

‘You think that is why he was stabbed?’ asked Michael. He sounded weary, and Bartholomew suspected he had been regaled with a number of unfounded theories as to why the friar should have been killed. ‘Someone took exception to his views about what constitutes a decent lifestyle?’

Eyton nodded sadly. ‘I doubt the Sorcerer appreciated Carton telling folk that joining his cadre was a sure way to Hell. He or a minion must have decided to silence him. Poor Carton. His views were a little radical for my taste – and I fear he was a bad influence on my dear friend William, who tends to listen rather too readily to anyone who decries heresy – but he was a good man at heart.’

Michael indicated that the two lay-brothers were to take the back of the bier, while he and Bartholomew lifted the front. Normally, Cynric would have helped, but he had offered to stay and talk to the priory servants, who were more likely to confide in him than in the Senior Proctor.

‘William and Mildenale are sure to insist on a stately requiem for Carton,’ said Michael to the physician, as they set off towards home. ‘But it is an expense the College cannot afford at the moment. Our coffers are all but empty.’

‘Are they? I thought Margery Sewale’s benefaction meant we were financially secure.’

‘We will be, but only when her house has been exchanged for ready cash. Until then, we are worse off than ever, because we have had to pay certain taxes in advance. Why do you think there has been such a rush to sell the place? All the Fellows – except you, because you are hopeless at such matters – have been busy trying to drum up interest in the cottage among potential buyers.’

Bartholomew was not sure whether to be offended because his colleagues did not trust him, or relieved that he had not been asked to squander his time on such a matter. ‘That was why Carton came to Barnwell,’ he said. ‘He was going to ask Norton how much he was willing to pay.’

They walked in silence for a while. Ahead of them, the town was a silhouette of pinnacles, thatches and towers against the red-gold blaze of the evening sky. Each was lost in his own thoughts, Michael processing the mass of mostly useless information he had gleaned from interviewing the canons, and Bartholomew thinking about Carton’s unfathomable character.

‘This is a sorry business,’ said Michael eventually. He spoke softly, so the lay-brothers could not hear him. ‘And I fear it will prove difficult to solve. Why do you think Carton was killed?’

Bartholomew tried to organise his chaotic thoughts. ‘There seem to be several possible motives. First, there is the rumour that he was the Sorcerer. If that is true, the Church will see him as an enemy, and you can include virtually every priest in Cambridge on your list of suspects, as well as religious laymen who dislike what the Sorcerer is trying to do.’

Michael sighed unhappily. ‘And Barnwell’s twenty or so canons head that list, including their Prior. The only exception is Podiolo, who strikes me as the kind of man who might dabble in sorcery himself. He is definitely sinister.’

‘He is, a little,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘The second motive for killing Carton was his belief that people brought their plague losses on themselves. Such a stance is bound to attract angry indignation.’

‘Such as from Spaldynge?’ asked Michael. ‘He has always blamed physicians for the calamity, and will not like being told it is his own fault that his family died.’

‘Carton said Spaldynge killed someone called James Kirbee. Do you know if it is true?’

Michael was thoughtful. ‘I had forgotten about that case. It was years ago, and was dropped for lack of evidence, although I recall thinking Spaldynge was probably guilty anyway. If Carton was going around reminding people about that, then it may well have led to murder.’

Bartholomew resumed his list of reasons why Carton might have been stabbed. ‘And finally, there is his association with a group of very vociferous Franciscans who hate Dominicans.’

‘And one of that group died last week,’ mused Michael. ‘Carton was not convinced that Thomas’s death was all it seemed, and asked you to run an experiment to assess whether he was poisoned. Perhaps he was right, and your sedative really did have nothing to do with Thomas’s demise.’

Bartholomew was not sure what to think. On the one hand, it would be good to be free of the burden of guilt, but on the other he did not like the notion that there was another suspicious death to explore. He said nothing, so Michael abandoned theories and began to think about evidence.

‘Tell me what you were able to deduce from Carton’s body,’ he ordered.

Bartholomew disliked the way the monk always assumed he could produce clues from corpses as a conjuror might pull ribbons from a hat. And with stabbings, the chances of learning anything useful were slim. Yet he always felt he was letting Michael – and the victim – down when he said there was nothing to help solve the case.

‘It is not easy to knife yourself in the back, so I think we can safely conclude that someone else was responsible,’ he began, trying his best anyway. ‘The dagger was cheap and unremarkable, so we stand no chance of identifying its owner. It does not sound as though Norton took long to fetch the wine, so the killer must have been fairly sprightly – to run to the chapel, stab Carton, and escape before Norton returned.’

‘That does not help,’ said Michael acidly. ‘Most killers are sprightly. If they were not, they would not be contemplating murder in the first place, lest their victim turn on them.’

Bartholomew ignored him. ‘The only blood was that which had pooled beneath Carton. So, I think he died quickly – he did not stagger around, and there is no evidence of a struggle. Perhaps he knew his killer, and did not feel the need to run away when he appeared.’

‘Obviously, it was someone he knew,’ snapped Michael irritably. ‘And that is the problem. He knew a lot of people – through his teaching and the College, through his association with Mildenale’s band of zealots, and possibly even through his denunciation of the Sorcerer.’

Bartholomew ignored him again, knowing frustration was making the monk sharp-tongued. ‘The wound is high and angled downwards. I suppose that might mean it was inflicted by someone tall.’

Michael’s green eyes gleamed. ‘Now we are getting somewhere! Fencotes is tall.’

‘He is also a devout man, who is not a Dominican, who has probably never heard Carton preach, and who does not own a fanatical dislike of witches. What would be his motive?’

‘He was not always a canon; Cynric tells me he has lived a life that would make your hair curl. Norton and Podiolo are taller than Carton too. And so is Spaldynge.’

Bartholomew began to wish he had kept this particular piece of ‘evidence’ to himself. ‘On reflection, most people are taller than Carton. I do not think it is much of a clue.’

‘What do you think of the way Carton’s body was laid out? Was the killer mocking his vocation?’

‘Perhaps the culprit felt guilty about what he had done, and the crucifix pose was some bizarre way of trying to make amends. Or conversely, the body may have been arranged that way to taunt you.’

Michael’s expression hardened. ‘Then I will solve this crime, Matt. I vow it on Carton’s corpse. No one mocks the Senior Proctor.’

Langelee was shocked to learn he had lost a Fellow, and although violent death was by no means a stranger to the University’s scholars – or to a man who owned a dubious past as ‘agent’ for the Archbishop of York – he was still appalled when Michael broke the news. He stood next to the monk in St Michael’s Church, watching Bartholomew manhandle the body into the parish coffin.

‘He has only been a Fellow since Easter,’ he said hoarsely. ‘And I was just getting used to his oddities. Now I shall have to start again, with someone else.’

‘Which oddities in particular?’ asked Michael.

Langelee shrugged. ‘His inexplicable readiness to associate with William for a start. No one has done that before, because most of us find his zeal tiresome. Then there was his strange interest in witchery. Did you know he used to spy on covens with Cynric? I assumed that, as a friar, he was simply trying to ascertain the nature of the opposition, but now I am beginning to wonder.’

‘Wonder about what?’ demanded Michael.

Langelee glanced furtively behind him. ‘Not here, Brother. Have you finished, Bartholomew? Then come to my quarters. We should talk somewhere more private.’

They followed him down the lane, across the yard and into the pair of rooms that had been the Master’s suite since the College had been founded, some thirty years before. They were spartan for a head of house, not much more spacious than those of his Fellows. He had a sleeping chamber that he shared with two students – after he had enrolled additional undergraduates earlier that year, no one was exempt from crowded conditions – and a tiny room he used as an office. It was packed with accounts, deeds and records, and there was only just space for the desk and chair he needed to conduct his business. Bartholomew wedged himself in a corner, while Michael stood in the middle of the room, parchments and scrolls cascading to the floor all around him as his voluminous habit swept them from their teetering piles each time he moved.

Langelee squeezed his bulk behind the desk, his expression grim. ‘Carton’s murder is bad for the College, because it comes too soon on the heels of Thomas’s death.’

‘Thomas was not a member of Michaelhouse,’ said Bartholomew, puzzled by the comment.

‘No,’ agreed Langelee, ‘but his fellow zealots are, and so is the physician whose medicine killed him. He is intimately connected with us, whether we like it or not. So, you must catch Carton’s killer without delay, Brother. What have you done so far?’

‘Interviewed Barnwell’s canons,’ replied Michael. ‘But they had nothing of relevance to report, while Matt’s examination of the body revealed little in the way of clues, either.’

‘What about the lay-brothers?’ asked Langelee. ‘The servants. Barnwell has dozens of them.’

‘I have been talking to them,’ came a soft lilting voice from behind them. All three scholars jumped; none of them had noticed Cynric arrive.

‘I wish you would not do that,’ snapped Langelee. ‘Well? What did you learn?’

‘That not many layfolk were actually working when Carton was killed,’ replied the Welshman, grinning when he saw how much he had startled them; he was proud of his stealthy entrances. ‘All the canons were busy, so there was no one to supervise them. Most took the opportunity to abscond, to escape the heat by dicing in the cellars or sleeping under trees. And that is why the killer found it so easy to strike: the convent was essentially deserted.’

Michael rubbed his chin. ‘This helps us understand how the crime was committed, but not in ascertaining the identity of the culprit. It still might be anyone, including Norton, Podiolo or Fencotes, who have no convincing alibis. Or Spaldynge, who just happened to meet Carton on the Barnwell Causeway. He might have decided to turn around and follow him.’

‘Perhaps it was the Devil,’ suggested Cynric matter-of-factly. ‘There have been so many other unnatural happenings of late, what with the goats, Danyell’s hand, Margery Sewale’s grave, and the blood in the font, that perhaps Carton’s murder is just another–’

‘No,’ said Michael forcefully. ‘I smell a human hand in this, and I mean to see he faces justice.’

‘Michael is right,’ said Bartholomew, seeing Cynric was not in the least bit convinced. He did not want the book-bearer to start rumours that would be difficult to quell. ‘The Devil would not have used a cheap knife to stab Carton.’

‘You think he would use an expensive one, then?’ asked Cynric keenly. ‘Or are you saying he would employ his claws or teeth?’

Bartholomew tried to think of an answer that would not imply he had intimate knowledge of Satan’s personal arsenal. ‘It was a person,’ he settled for at last. ‘Not the Devil.’

Langelee scratched his jaw, fingernails rasping on bristle. ‘Carton was more interested in witchcraft than was decent for a friar; Cynric will tell you that they watched covens together. Then he stopped. This happened at about the same time that Mildenalus Sanctus took to preaching against sin and the Sorcerer began to attract more followers.’

‘Yes, it did,’ agreed Cynric. ‘Carton started preaching against sin, too, and anyone listening to his sermons was impressed by how much he knew about it.’

‘And all this coincided with a sharp increase in heathen practices throughout the town,’ continued Langelee. ‘So, in a short space of time, we have Carton abruptly losing interest in the covens he was monitoring, an upsurge in radical and unpopular preaching by our Franciscans, a greater liking for witchery among the populace, and a more active Sorcerer. And now two of Mildenale’s cronies are dead.’

‘You think all these events are connected?’ asked Bartholomew, puzzled. He could not see how.

Langelee shrugged. ‘That is for you to decide. I am merely reminding you of facts that might have a bearing on Carton’s death. I do not like the town’s sudden interest in dark magic, though. It is causing a rift between those who are loyal to the Church and those who think there might be something better on offer.’

Michael sighed. ‘We have eight days until term resumes. Let us hope that is enough time to work out what is happening.’

‘Very well, but I am sending our students home in the meantime,’ said Langelee. ‘Cambridge feels dangerous at the moment, what with religious zealots threatening sinners with hellfire, and the Devil’s disciples retaliating with spells and curses. I want our lads safely away.’

‘That is a good idea,’ said Michael, pleased. ‘And if Carton really was embroiled in something odd, then they will not be here to take umbrage at any rumours. We do not want them defending his reputation with their fists.’

‘Quite,’ said Langelee. ‘I do not want them joining covens, either, because they think they might be more fun than church. Hopefully, you will have evicted this Sorcerer by the time they return, and the danger will be over.’

Michael looked unhappy at the pressure that was being heaped on him, but knew the Master was right – students were always interested in anything forbidden to them. He turned to Bartholomew. ‘It is too late to do anything tonight, and you have patients to see, anyway. We shall start our enquiries in earnest tomorrow.’

‘Where?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Here, in Michaelhouse,’ said Michael grimly. ‘With Carton’s friends: William and Mildenale.’