The Devil's Disciples

Chapter 5

The sun beat down relentlessly as Bartholomew trudged along the Barnwell Causeway towards the town, and the air seemed more sultry and oppressive than ever. It was so hot he felt he could not catch his breath, and he was exhausted by the time he reached the King’s Ditch and passed back into civilisation. Junior Proctor Bukenham lived in a hostel near the Small Bridges, in the south of the town. To get there, the physician took a shortcut past some marshy land that was dominated by one of the town’s mills. The great waterwheel was still that day, because the river was too low to drive it, and the miller lounged outside his house with a stem of grass gripped between his teeth.

‘I need a spell to ward off the flux,’ he said, as Bartholomew walked past him.

‘Avoid bad meat,’ suggested Bartholomew helpfully. ‘It will serve you better than spells.’

‘You do not know any,’ said the miller, rather accusingly. ‘Magister Arderne the healer told me you were bereft of them, but I thought he was just being spiteful.’

‘No, he was right,’ said Bartholomew, the heat making him respond more tartly than was his wont. ‘I do not deal in magic.’

‘I had better consult a witch, then. Cynric will be able to tell me which one is best value.’

Bartholomew had not gone much further when he heard a rustle in the bulrushes at the side of the path. At first, he thought it was a cat or a bird, but the sound grew louder, and he realised it was something considerably larger. He glanced around uneasily, aware that he was alone in a fairly isolated part of the town. The nearest house was Bukenham’s, but that was still some distance away.

‘Physician! It is me.’

Bartholomew peered into the reeds, but could see no one there. ‘Who?’

‘Me,’ came the whisper, a little impatiently. ‘Who do you think?’

Bartholomew had no idea, but then he spotted a vague shape deep among the grasses. ‘Mother Valeria?’ he asked, recognising the crumpled hat, although there was not much more about her that was identifiable; he could not see her face. ‘What are you doing there? I thought you never left your house – that people came to see you.’

‘Of course I leave my house!’ She sounded disgusted with him. ‘How could I collect the plants I need for my charms if I was at home all day? I have been less mobile of late, because of my knee, but you helped with that and it is much better.’

‘It will not stay that way if you make a habit of sitting around in bogs.’

‘I have been collecting marsh-mallow, and this is the best place for miles, although I prefer to keep myself hidden. But I saw you coming and wanted to tell you something. It is about Carton, whose murder you are investigating. I hear things when I am about my business, and today I learned he was not the man you thought you knew. Prior Pechem is looking into his background.’

Bartholomew frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I overheard Pechem telling Mildenale that he could not find a record of Carton’s ordination. And, as I am here and you seem to be in the mood for listening, I shall tell you something else, too. The man they call the Sorcerer is growing in power, and you would be a fool to try to stop him.’

‘Last time I asked, you said you did not know him. Have you learned his name, then?’

‘No one knows his name, but he is stronger now than he was a week ago, and has twice as many followers. He frightens me. And he would frighten you, too, if you had any sense.’

There was a sharp rustle and the shape was gone, almost as if Valeria had vanished into thin air. Bartholomew shook himself, and dismissed such fanciful notions from his mind. It had been a long day and he was tired. He considered hunting for her, to demand a clearer explanation of her so-called intelligence, but someone was coming, and he did not want to be caught doing anything that might be deemed odd. He pretended to be buckling his shoe, then resumed his journey to the Junior Proctor.

‘You own a holy-stone, I see,’ said Bukenham conversationally, when the physician rummaged in his bag for camomile syrup and the talisman dropped to the floor. The Junior Proctor was a soft-faced, shy man, who had stuck at his post longer than most of Michael’s deputies; Bartholomew suspected it was only because he was too frightened to resign. He was patently terrified of the monk, and his current illness – an inexplicable aching of the head – was almost certainly a case of malingering. ‘I used to have one of those.’

‘Did you?’ asked Bartholomew in surprise. ‘Why?’

‘Arderne sold it to me. He said it would protect me from wolves, although wolves tend not to be much of a problem in the streets of Cambridge. But it was a pretty thing, and I grew used to it hanging around my neck. Then the cord broke and I lost it. Did you buy yours from Arderne?’

There was no reason not to tell him the truth – Bukenham was Michael’s deputy, after all. ‘Fencotes found it in the chapel after Carton was killed, but I never saw Carton wearing an amulet of any description, so I am inclined to think it belonged to his killer.’

‘You are probably right. Carton was a friar, and they usually renounce objects of superstition.’

‘Was Carton a friar? I have been told the record of his ordination cannot be found.’

Bukenham shrugged. ‘That does not mean anything, especially with the Franciscans. They gather recruits by the cartload, and their registers are often unreliable. Did you know there is a rumour that Carton was the Sorcerer? I do not believe it, personally.’

‘Neither do I,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But what are your reasons?’

‘No scholar would dabble in such dark matters, so my feeling is that it will be a townsman.’

‘Scholars have dabbled before,’ said Bartholomew, unconvinced by this logic. ‘And they are, on the whole, clever men who like pitting their wits against the great mysteries of the universe. It would not be the first time one went down the wrong path.’

Bukenham sighed. ‘I was hoping to keep this to myself, but I see I shall have to confide. The Sorcerer’s Latin is poor, and that is why I think he is unlikely to be an academic.’

Bartholomew narrowed his eyes. ‘That suggests you have heard him speak. How?’

Bukenham sighed again, deeply unhappy. ‘About a week ago, I was on patrol when I stumbled across one of his meetings. I know I should have used my authority to stop it, but I was alone and I am no Brother Michael. So I watched instead, hoping to learn something that would allow our beadles to arrest him the following day.’

‘I did the same at All Saints last night,’ admitted Bartholomew. ‘So did William and Mildenale.’

Bukenham looked at him in surprise, then grimaced. ‘But the ceremonies in All Saints are always well attended, so it would be unreasonable for you and two friars to take action. However, the one I witnessed was in the charnel house, with only two disciples present.’

‘What did you see?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Hooded men touting the hand of a corpse, the head of a goat, and a bowl of something I am sure was blood. The Sorcerer was chanting in a horrible voice, like claws on glass.’

‘Did you notice anything that might allow us to identify him?’

‘Nothing. He was swathed from head to toe in a thick black cloak. The only outstanding thing about him was his terrible Latin.’

‘Who was with him? You said there were two others.’

‘I did not see their faces, either. All I can tell you is that their ritual struck a deep fear into my heart, and I am glad my head-pains keep me in bed. I am sorry to leave Brother Michael to fight alone, but there are limits to what any man should be asked to do in the line of duty, and tackling the Sorcerer is well past them. And if you had any sense, you would see I am right.’

When Bartholomew arrived back at Michaelhouse, the shadows were lengthening. The sun was transforming the College’s pale stone into burnished gold, darkening the thatch on the outhouses, and turning the tiles on the hall into a deep russet red. He stopped for a moment to admire it, thinking how lucky he was to live in a place that was so lovely.

‘Arblaster tried to bribe me,’ he said to Langelee as they walked towards the hall together, to resume the Fellows’ meeting. ‘He wants the contents of our latrines, and said he would offer eleven marks for Sewale Cottage. Then the canons of Barnwell offered twelve.’

‘Excellent!’ declared Langelee, rubbing his hands. ‘I cannot imagine why Arblaster should want Sewale Cottage, though. It is nice, but very small. What was the bribe?’

‘I have no idea,’ said Bartholomew, slightly offended that the Master should think he might have accepted it. ‘I did not let the discussion go that far.’

‘You mean you agreed to be his advocate for nothing?’ Langelee shot the physician a look of abject disgust. ‘Please do not do it again. It will make folk think we are an easy mark.’

Bartholomew removed the talisman from his bag as a means of changing the subject. Discussions with Langelee could often be wearing. ‘Did you ever see Carton wearing this?’

Langelee took it from him, and turned it over in his thick fingers. ‘A holy-stone! I have not seen one of these in years. The Archbishop of York gave me one once, to protect me from wolves, but I lost it. It was Carton’s, you say? That surprises me – I thought he disapproved of pagan regalia.’

‘Unlike the Archbishop of York, apparently,’ muttered Bartholomew. He spoke a little louder as the Master handed the trinket back. ‘It might belong to Carton’s killer.’

‘Folk tend to wear such items under their clothes, given that they are deeply personal, so I doubt you will have much luck asking if anyone recognises it. Still, it is worth a try, I suppose.’

‘I have been told there is no record of Carton’s ordination. Do you know where he is supposed to have taken his vows?’

Langelee frowned. ‘The certificate he showed me said it was Greyfriars in London – one of the largest Franciscan houses in the country. I suppose it might have been forged, but I think it unlikely. The Franciscans accept anyone, so there is no need to pretend to be a Grey Friar when they would recruit you in an instant anyway. They are always after me to join them.’

‘They are always after me, too.’

Langelee gripped his arm in a soldierly fashion. ‘Then we must unite against them. If you feel yourself weakening, come to me and I shall slap some sense into you. You can do the same for me. Major holy orders would be a massive encumbrance; I do not want to spend half the night doing penance every time I have a whore.’

‘It would be inconvenient,’ said Bartholomew, wondering how many other Fellows were subject to such confidences by their Master. ‘Did you make any further checks on Carton’s credentials?’

Langelee shook his head. ‘I did not feel there was any need, since his application was supported by Clippesby. I suspect the record of his ordination has just been misplaced. Carton was a friar to his core – you only had to hear his sermons on sin to know that.’

‘Clippesby,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘He is a Dominican, yet he sponsored a Franciscan.’

‘You have spent too much time with William,’ said Langelee with a grimace. ‘Not all friars detest other Orders, and Clippesby has always been gracious in that respect – he has had to be, given the rubbish William hurls at him. Of course, Clippesby is insane, which probably helps. He is too mad to know he should be offended. However, that said, I do not think he would have asked us to elect Carton, had there been anything shady about him.’

Bartholomew smiled. He liked Clippesby, and knew the man was not as deranged as everyone liked to think. Clippesby was also a better judge of character than some of his colleagues, and Bartholomew agreed with the Master that he was unlikely to have supported the application of anyone who might harm the College. ‘Perhaps my source was mistaken about what was heard.’

‘There is William,’ said Langelee. He raised his voice as if addressing half of Cambridge. ‘Hey, Father! Do you think Carton’s ordination was genuine?’

William’s expression was pained. ‘Have you been talking to Prior Pechem? He asked me the same question, and said Thomas had been agitating about it. Carton took his vows in London, but Thomas said the river was flooded that day, so the ceremony was cancelled. He virtually called Carton a liar, and Carton was deeply offended. It was one of the things Thomas and I quarrelled about the night before he died: I told him he should apologise, but he refused.’

‘Trouble in the ranks,’ mused Bartholomew, regarding him thoughtfully.

‘It was because he was not a Michaelhouse Franciscan,’ explained William. ‘I never quarrel with Mildenale and Carton, and any dissent was always of Thomas’s making. I do not like to speak ill of the dead, but he was dreadfully argumentative.’

‘How is Arblaster?’ asked Michael, catching them up as they crossed the hall. Their footsteps echoed hollowly, reminding them again that their College was deserted.

‘Perfectly well,’ replied Bartholomew shortly. ‘Other than an unnatural desire to be at the contents of our latrines.’

‘Arblaster meddles in the dark arts,’ claimed William, opening the conclave door and nodding a greeting to Suttone and Wynewyk, who were already there.

‘Is that so?’ said Michael without much interest. William thought most people meddled in the dark arts, and so could not be taken seriously when he made such assertions.

‘It is, actually,’ replied Langelee. ‘I heard he sent to Mother Valeria for a cure for his flux, but she declined to provide him with one.’

‘I heard that, too,’ said Suttone. ‘Apparently, he had refused to pay for a spell she had cast for him earlier, and she said she would not make him a remedy until he made good on the debt. He objected, so she threatened to snatch his soul instead. So, you saved him, did you, Matt?’

‘Personally, I suspect Arblaster is the Sorcerer,’ said Wynewyk, watching the others take their places at the table. ‘He is the right height and size, and I know he is a coven member.’

‘How?’ demanded Michael. ‘I hope you have not attended any of these unsavoury gatherings.’

Wynewyk pursed his lips. ‘Of course not, Brother! I have a friend in the castle – a soldier – and he was escorting me home one night when we saw lights in All Saints. He insisted on investigating, but we both thought better of ousting the trespassers once it became clear the Sorcerer was in charge.’

‘You did not try to obstruct their wicked ceremonies?’ asked William accusingly.

‘Did the two of us storm the church and attempt to tackle fifty cloaked satanists? No, Father, we did not. They were not doing anything terrible, anyway – just chanting spells they hoped would cure Margery Sewale. It was all rather sad, actually; most were in tears. She was a popular lady.’

‘But you saw the Sorcerer?’ asked Michael eagerly. ‘Can you describe him?’

‘Not really.’ Wynewyk looked apologetic. ‘He kept his face hidden. He was taller than average, and looked bulky, although that could have been because of his cloak. And his Latin was dismal.’

‘I am going to bring him down,’ vowed William. His eyes were fierce, and his jaw set in a determined line that said he meant it. ‘Mildenale and I will see this heretic–’

‘Item three on the agenda,’ interrupted Langelee briskly. ‘We have already dealt with Carton and the houses. All that remains is the Bishop. Have you heard from him, Brother?’

Michael looked pained. ‘He has not written to me since he left England last year.’

‘I can tell you about the evil de Lisle,’ said William viciously. The Bishop was a Dominican, so naturally William did not like him. ‘He has been indicted for sixteen separate crimes, which include murder, extortion, abduction, assault and theft. But he fled overseas before the King could find him guilty and seize all his assets.’

‘You should learn the facts before you make that sort of statement,’ said Michael coldly. ‘My Bishop did not commit those crimes – they were perpetrated by men in his retinue, and he cannot be held responsible for what stewards, reeves and bailiffs do.’

‘Actually, he can,’ countered Langelee. ‘When I committed crimes for the Archbishop of York, he would have been held accountable, had I been caught. Fortunately, I never was. De Lisle, however, hires inferior men to do his work, and now he must bear the consequences.’

His Fellows regarded him uneasily. None were comfortable when their Master confided details of his colourful former life.

‘Well, I am glad you did not break the law for de Lisle, Brother,’ said Suttone after a brief but awkward silence. ‘Or you might be languishing in prison, like his other spies.’

‘I am not his spy,’ objected Michael. ‘I am his agent. And all I do is furnish him with news about the University. It is part of his See, so of course he should be kept informed of what is happening.’

‘Well, whatever the truth, we do not need to worry about him any more,’ said Langelee. ‘I have it on good authority that he will never come home. The King is too angry with him, and his fellow bishops do not want him as their friend. He is an outcast.’

Suttone was shocked. ‘But what will happen to his See?’

‘He has able deputies for that,’ said Wynewyk. ‘Priests – not the reeves and bailiffs who race around setting houses alight and stealing cattle. There is nothing wrong with the way he manages the episcopal side of things – he is just a bit of a brute when it comes to secular business.’

Michael sighed wearily. ‘De Lisle is not a criminal–’

‘You should keep that opinion to yourself,’ advised Langelee. ‘It is unwise to side with a man who is ostracised by the King. Futile, too, because de Lisle will never be in a position to reciprocate.’

‘The Master is right,’ said Wynewyk. ‘Remember how the Bishop was accused of murdering one of Lady Blanche de Wake’s servants some years back? Well, Blanche is the King’s cousin, and His Majesty still holds the incident against him.’

‘Lord!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, regarding the monk in alarm. ‘I had forgotten all about that. You asked him openly about his involvement in the killing, but he never did give you a straight answer.’

‘That does not mean he is guilty,’ persisted Michael stubbornly.

‘Dozens of people have presented the King with evidence of de Lisle’s misdeeds,’ said Wynewyk. ‘And while I appreciate that some may have done it out of spite, they cannot all be lying. Incidentally, did you know that Spynk is one of them? So was Danyell.’

Langelee shook his head in disgust. ‘Prelates are always short of money, and it is common practice to raise revenues by theft, extortion, blackmail and abduction. But the real crime here is that de Lisle let himself be caught. The man is a damned fool! I only hope it does not result in other high-ranking churchmen being forced to answer for their actions.’

‘The things you say, Master,’ said Suttone, regarding Langelee with round eyes. Bartholomew suspected he expressed what all the Fellows were thinking, even William. Everyone was relieved when a knock on the door brought a merciful end to the discussion. It was Cynric, with Beadle Meadowman at his heels; Meadowman was one of the army of men Michael employed to help him keep order among the scholars. The beadle pushed past Cynric, and made directly for Michael, bending to whisper in his ear. Bartholomew’s heart sank. He could tell from the man’s pale face and agitated manner that he had something unpleasant to report.

‘There has been another one,’ said Michael in a low voice, looking sombrely at his colleagues. ‘I am summoned by Master Heltisle and Eyton the vicar. A second corpse has been removed from its grave, this time in St Bene’t’s churchyard.’

Bartholomew knew he was dragging his heels as he followed Michael and Cynric along the High Street towards St Bene’t’s Church, but he could not help it. Images of Margery Sewale’s body kept flashing in his mind, and he did not want to see another like it. As the University’s Corpse Examiner, he had seen more than his share of the dead, and had grown inured to such sights over the years. But there was something about exhumations that bothered him profoundly.

‘Superstition,’ said Michael dismissively, when the physician tried to explain his misgivings – his sense that he was being watched by the disapproving dead. ‘I am surprised at you, Matt. You are a man of learning, and your scientific mind should reject such notions for the rubbish they are. Of course the souls of these poor cadavers will not be paying attention to you; they will be in Heaven, Hell or Purgatory, depending on how they fared when they were weighed.’

‘I know,’ said Bartholomew tiredly, realising he should not have expected the monk to understand. ‘But that does not stop me feeling uneasy about it. And seeing Margery like that …’

‘Margery was your patient, and you had known her for years,’ said Michael, his voice a little kinder. ‘Of course you disliked seeing her out of her grave. But none of your patients are buried in St Bene’t’s churchyard, so you are unlikely to know the victim this time.’

‘That cemetery is used by the scholars of Bene’t College, members of the Guild of Corpus Christi, and the people who live nearby. I have a lot of patients buried there.’

‘Lower your voice,’ advised Michael dryly. ‘That is not a good thing for a physician to be yelling – it may make your surviving clients nervous.’

‘It is not a joke, Michael,’ snapped Bartholomew, beginning to wishing he had not started the discussion.

‘It is, if you start thinking these ravaged corpses might take umbrage at you for doing your job. You sound like Cynric, man. Pull yourself together!’

Bartholomew glanced behind him, to where his book-bearer was walking with Meadowman. There was no real need for Cynric to have accompanied them, but the Welshman enjoyed being out at night and had insisted on coming. Bartholomew was glad he had, and found comfort in the knowledge that Cynric’s sword was to hand, should there be trouble. He tried to ignore his sense of foreboding, and think about the monk’s investigations instead.

‘I did not have time to give you this earlier,’ he said, removing the talisman from his bag. ‘It was found in Barnwell’s chapel. Norton says it belongs either to Carton or his killer.’

Michael took it from him. ‘What is it?’

‘A holy-stone that is supposed to defend its wearer against wolves, apparently. Arderne sold them in the spring, regardless of the fact that wolves tend not to frequent Cambridge these days.’

‘Perhaps one of the canons bought it to protect himself from Podiolo,’ said Michael. ‘There is definitely something lupine about that man.’

‘Now who is being irrational? That sounds like something Cynric might say.’

Michael grimaced. ‘Yes, but in this case Cynric would have a point. Have you never noticed Podiolo’s yellow eyes and pointed teeth? Of course, everyone at Barnwell is strange, as far as I am concerned. All those fat, balding canons who look identical, Norton’s bulging eyes, Fencotes the walking corpse …’

‘They probably say the same about Michaelhouse: William’s fanaticism, Langelee’s criminal past, Wynewyk’s penchant for Agatha’s clothes, Clippesby’s lunacy, Suttone’s obsession with plague …’

Michael sniggered. ‘Did you hear about the shambles surrounding Suttone’s address to the Guild of Corpus Christi? The invitation was meant for Roger Suttone of Peterhouse, who is famous for amusing speeches. As head of the Guild, Heltisle wrote the letter but his porters did not listen to his instructions and took it to the wrong Suttone.’

Bartholomew smiled. ‘There will be nothing amusing about any homily our Suttone will deliver. Will they admit their mistake, and un-invite him?’

‘It is too late – our Suttone has accepted.’

Bartholomew watched Michael swinging the holy-stone around on its thong. ‘Your Junior Proctor seemed certain that was not Carton’s.’

‘Can we conclude the killer dropped it, then? Who is on our list of suspects?’

‘Norton claimed his brethren would never own such a thing, on the grounds that none of them are afraid of wolves. He did not explain why.’

‘Perhaps he trusts Podiolo to keep them all at bay,’ suggested Michael. ‘However, I do not accept Norton’s reasoning, so the canons can remain on the list. Not all of them – just Podiolo, Fencotes and Norton himself, who are the three without alibis.’

‘Then there is Spaldynge,’ said Bartholomew, thinking of the man who bore him such unjust animosity. ‘He was friends with Arderne, and might have bought one of his amulets. And being reminded of that ancient murder – James Kirbee – is a reason for him wanting Carton dead.’

‘They are the obvious culprits,’ said Michael. He sighed heavily. ‘But then we have all the folk who objected to Carton’s uncompromising sermons, and about sixty insulted Dominicans.’

‘Arblaster said something odd today. He told me Carton asked whether dung was poisonous. Carton seemed preoccupied with poison – he found that powder among Thomas’s possessions and insisted I test it for him.’

Michael’s agitation showed in the way he whipped the talisman around on its string. ‘Will you ask Mother Valeria whether she knows who owns this amulet? I had better not do it; the Senior Proctor cannot be seen fraternising with witches, especially a frightening and unpopular one.’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘But I doubt she will be able to help. Arderne alone sold dozens of the things, and–’ He ducked quickly when the thong broke and the holy-stone flew past his ear.

‘Damn!’ cried Michael, diving after it. ‘The wretched thing has a will of its own!’

‘You should watch yourself at St Bene’t’s, boy,’ whispered Cynric, taking the opportunity to speak to the physician alone, while Michael scrabbled about in the grass at the side of the road. ‘The Sorcerer will be behind this excavated corpse, just as he was behind what happened to Margery.’

‘How can he be? You told me Carton was the Sorcerer.’

‘The Sorcerer would not have let himself be murdered, so Carton is innocent.’ Cynric was never shy about abandoning one theory and adopting another. ‘But these bodies are being hauled from hallowed ground on the orders of the Devil. You had better take this.’

Bartholomew accepted the proffered bundle cautiously. ‘What is it?’

‘Bat-eyes,’ replied the book-bearer, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. ‘In a pouch. If you hang it around your neck it will render you invisible to Satan.’

‘Hang it round your neck, then,’ said Bartholomew, trying to pass it back to him. If William caught him wearing such an object there would be trouble for certain.

‘I already have one. Shove it in your purse if you do not want it at your throat, but do not refuse it. It cost me a groat.’

So as not to hurt Cynric’s feelings – and not to prolong the debate – Bartholomew slipped the pouch in his bag, intending to toss it in the midden when he went home.

‘I learned recently that June is a great month for witchery,’ Cynric went on conversationally. ‘The stars and moon are right, see. It explains why the Sorcerer is suddenly so powerful.’

‘I do not suppose you gleaned this from the witches’ manual in Langelee’s office, did you?’ asked Bartholomew coolly. ‘One of the tomes that Carton had collected for burning?’

Cynric looked furtive. ‘It fell into my hands when I was dusting, and it seemed a pity not to hone my reading skills on it. You are always saying I need to practise.’

‘Put it back,’ ordered Bartholomew. ‘William will have you dismissed if he catches you enjoying something like that. I am serious, Cynric. Put it back and promise you will not touch it again.’

Cynric pulled a disagreeable face, but nodded assent. He bent down and retrieved something from the ground. It was the amulet, and Bartholomew wondered whether he had known it was there all along – that he had delayed telling the monk because he wanted to give his master the bat-eyes.

Michael took it from him. ‘Good. And now we had better hurry, or Heltisle and Eyton will think we are never coming.’

‘Who has been laid to rest in St Bene’t’s recently?’ asked Meadowman as they walked. The beadle looked nervous, steeling himself for what was to come.

‘Sir John Goldynham was buried on Ascension Day,’ said Michael. ‘He was Rougham’s patient, one of his wealthiest. Then there were two Bene’t scholars and Mistress Refham the month before.’

Bartholomew had known both Goldynham and Mistress Refham, and did not want to see them excavated. He faltered. ‘Are you sure you need me, Brother? The culprit left no clues when he exhumed Margery, so why should this be any different?’

The monk grabbed his arm and pulled him on. ‘I am hoping he has been more careless tonight.’

St Bene’t’s was an ancient church with a sturdy tower that was said to pre-date the coming of the Normans. Bartholomew liked it, because its thick walls muffled the clamour of the streets, so it was always peaceful. Its churchyard was overgrown and leafy, a tiny haven of stillness next to a road that was full of taverns, shops and the houses of tradesmen. It was not quiet that evening, however, for a crowd had gathered. Bartholomew recognised scholars from Bene’t College, the taverner from the Eagle, and members of the Guild of Corpus Christi; some carried pitch torches, which threw an unsteady light through the trees. The Guild had helped found Bene’t College some five years earlier and was a rare example of University–town co-operation.

At the centre of the spectators was Eyton. The priest had a pot of honey under his arm and seemed to be anointing people with it, because a number of folk had sticky foreheads. Others wore charms, and Bartholomew recognised them as the ones Eyton had been selling outside All Saints. He could only suppose there had been a run on amulets after the discovery of a second exhumed corpse, so the priest was obliged to improvise in order to meet the demand for mystical protection. Watching him, not altogether approvingly, was Master Heltisle.

Not everyone had clustered around Eyton. Isnard was clinging to a nearby tree, clearly having come straight from the Eagle. Bartholomew smiled when he saw him, knowing perfectly well that the bargeman was hanging back because he did not want Michael to see him drunk, lest it damaged his chances of being readmitted to the choir. Behind Isnard, deep in the undergrowth, were the pair Bartholomew had seen lurking near the Great Bridge the previous night. One was identifiable by his enormous size, and the other by his bushy beard. He started to point them out to Michael, but the monk’s attention was elsewhere.

‘Damn!’ Michael muttered. ‘We could have done without an audience. And we could do without Eyton smearing everyone with honey on the pretext of repelling witches, too. The fact that a vicar believes there is a danger will send the rumour-mongers into a frenzy.’

‘Brother Michael, you are here at last,’ said Heltisle, striding forward imperiously. ‘We were beginning to think you might not come. And who can blame you? I do not appreciate being summoned to witness this sort of thing, either.’

‘Once men are in their graves, they should stay there,’ agreed Eyton with a cheerful grin, as if he were talking about the weather. ‘They should not be walking around the town.’

‘Walking around the town?’ echoed Michael uneasily. ‘Meadowman told me the body had been excavated by some evildoer, as happened to Margery Sewale. He said nothing about walking–’

‘Then he did not tell you the whole story,’ said Eyton. ‘Goldynham clawed his way out of his tomb, and was heading for his favourite tavern when I stopped him with a splash of holy water.’

Michael gaped at him. ‘But that is–’

‘Impossible?’ interrupted Eyton. ‘I would have said so, too, had I not seen it with my own eyes. The Devil imbued Goldynham’s corpse with sinister strength, and who knows where it might have wandered, had I not stopped it.’

‘Right,’ said Michael warily. ‘What did you see, exactly?’

Eyton was enjoying the attention. He stood a little straighter, and beamed at his listeners. ‘I had just finished saying compline, and was about to go home when I heard odd sounds coming from the graveyard. I grabbed a phial of holy water and set off to investigate.’

‘Why holy water?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking a cudgel might have been a more appropriate choice. It was not unknown for the graves of wealthy citizens to be plundered by robbers, and such degenerates were unlikely to be deterred by religious regalia.

‘Because it is an effective weapon against the denizens of Hell,’ replied Eyton matter-of-factly. He turned back to Michael. ‘I moved towards the source of the noise, and saw a shadow. It was Goldynham, rising from his grave. So I raced at him and sprinkled the water on his unholy form, shouting in nomine Patris, et filii et Spiritus Sancti as I did so.’

There was an awed gasp from the crowd. Amulets were clutched, and fingers touched honey-drizzled foreheads. One or two traditionalists even crossed themselves.

‘Then there was a great puff of smoke and he fell backwards,’ Eyton went on, brandishing his spoon for effect. ‘When the mist cleared, he was dead again – good had triumphed over the Devil.’

Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘Why would the Devil attack Goldynham? He was an upright man.’

‘The Sorcerer arranged it, I expect,’ replied Eyton with a shrug. A number of his parishioners nodded their agreement. ‘I cannot think of any other explanation. Can you?’

‘I can think of several,’ replied Michael coolly. ‘And I detect a human hand in this outrage, not a supernatural one. What happened next?’

‘I fetched Master Heltisle,’ said Eyton. ‘And we thought you should investigate the matter.’

‘Oh, I shall,’ said Michael. It sounded like a threat.

‘I wanted the Sheriff to come, too,’ said Heltisle. ‘The churchyard is University property, but Goldynham was a townsman – I am not quite sure where jurisdiction lies. But he is out chasing robbers on the Huntingdon Way, and so is unavailable.’

‘We will liaise,’ said Michael. He and Tulyet worked well together, and there were none of the usual territorial tussles that took place between powerful institutions.

Meanwhile, Bartholomew became aware that people were looking expectantly at him, and realised it was time to do his duty. He moved cautiously towards the body, forcing his feet to move, because although he did not believe Eyton’s tale it had done little to dispel the sense of unease that had been dogging him ever since he had left Michaelhouse.

‘Has anyone touched anything?’ he asked.

‘Certainly not,’ said Heltisle, shooting him an unpleasant glance. ‘I am no Corpse Examiner, thank you very much. And my porters have kept everyone else back.’

Bartholomew saw Younge by the grave, shoving the more ghoulish of the onlookers away with unnecessary force. He was assisted by three cronies, all rough, sullen men with missing teeth and scarred knuckles. Their Bene’t uniforms were filthy, and all four looked disreputable and unkempt.

As he approached the tomb, Bartholomew was painfully reminded of what had happened to Margery – loose soil scattered carelessly around a gaping hole, and a body flung across it like a piece of rubbish. One of Goldynham’s arms dangled into the pit, as if he was trying to crawl back in. A wooden cross, which had marked the tomb until a more permanent monument could be erected, had been hurled to one side. So had a shovel.

‘Goldynham was excavated with that,’ said Bartholomew, indicating it with a nod. It was old but in good repair, with a sharp edge for cutting through sun-hardened soil. Damp clay still adhered to it, indicating that the silversmith’s grave, like Margery’s, had been deep.

‘No, Goldynham exhumed himself,’ argued Eyton. ‘He used his bare hands.’

‘His hands are clean,’ said Bartholomew, kneeling to pick one up and show him. He resisted the urge to shudder at the feel of the cold, earth-moist skin. ‘Had he been scrabbling his way clear of a grave, there would be dirt on his fingers. He did not do this himself.’

Heltisle regarded him with a good deal of contempt. ‘You seem very sure of yourself. Why are you so familiar with what happens when a grave is despoiled?’

‘It is a matter of simple logic,’ said Bartholomew evenly, declining to let the man’s hostile manner rile him. ‘Clawing through soil results in dirty hands. And the spade is there, for all to see.’

‘He is right,’ said the Eagle’s taverner, stepping forward to look for himself. ‘The earth is damp at the bottom of the grave, and it matches the damp soil on the spade. That means it was used to–’

‘But I know what I saw,’ cried Eyton, dismayed. ‘There was no one digging but Goldynham himself. Perhaps he had the spade with him when he was buried.’

‘He did not,’ said Bartholomew, astonished that the priest should make such a claim – and alarmed that some of his congregation seemed ready to believe it. They were nodding and nudging each other, and there was more amulet-gripping. ‘Someone would have noticed. Besides, he was a wealthy man, and if he had wanted a spade in his coffin, he would have chosen a better one than that.’

‘He died suddenly, so perhaps he did not have the luxury of being selective,’ suggested Eyton, unwilling to give up. ‘Or perhaps that was a favourite implement, one he had owned a long time. Your colleagues – William and Mildenale – would understand what is happening here.’

‘And what is that?’ asked Bartholomew. The question was out before he could stop himself, and too late he realised he had provided the priest with the perfect opening for a rant. Eyton took a deep breath and began, advising his audience not to forget about the Sorcerer and his recent increase in power. Then he took the opportunity to let the crowd know that another batch of his holy amulets would be available for sale the following morning, and that God-fearing folk who did not want to fall prey to witches should consider investing in one.

‘What about warts?’ called one parishioner. ‘The Sorcerer is better at curing them than any of the other witches, but if he is growing powerful and dangerous, does that mean we cannot approach him for help with warts?’

‘Of course you may approach him,’ replied Eyton amiably. ‘Just make sure you are wearing one of my amulets when you do so.’

Michael shook his head. ‘Eyton is a strange fellow,’ he murmured. ‘On the one hand, he claims to have hurled holy water over a demon-possessed corpse, while on the other he advocates visits to the Sorcerer for cures. But never mind him. What can you tell me about Goldynham?’

Reluctantly, Bartholomew turned his attention to the body. The silversmith had not fared well from his time in the ground. His skin was dark and mottled, and his stomach distended. The physician conducted the most perfunctory of examinations, unwilling to perform a more detailed one in front of spectators, so it was not surprising when he found there was little to say.

‘Rougham said he died of a quinsy,’ he replied in a low voice, so as not to be overheard. ‘And he seems to be intact – no missing fingers, toes, hands, ears or hair. He has been excavated in exactly the same way as Margery: the culprit took a spade and dug down to the body, throwing soil in all directions. He did not pile it neatly to one side, suggesting he had no intention of reburying his victim. He does not care who sees his handiwork.’

Michael was thoughtful. ‘Goldynham and Margery were decent folk, and I cannot believe either had serious enemies. They knew each other, but were not friends or kin. Ergo, I doubt this act of desecration is personal, so there must be another reason why they were picked. What could it be?’

Bartholomew shrugged. ‘They were both buried on Ascension Day. Perhaps that date has some dark significance for one of the town’s covens.’

‘It is possible,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘However, it is equally possible that someone wants the witches blamed, to bring them trouble. What else can you tell me?’

Bartholomew tried to review the situation objectively, closing his mind to the fact that he was in a churchyard at night, kneeling next to a corpse that had been unlawfully exhumed. ‘Perhaps we are reading too much into the situation. Margery and Goldynham were wealthy, so their graves are tempting targets for thieves. Hence Eyton saw not Goldynham moving about, but a robber, who fled because he was about to be caught, not because he was doused with holy water.’

Michael nodded. ‘You are almost certainly right. Has the villain left anything that might allow us to identify him this time?’

Bartholomew took a torch, and spent a long time inspecting the ground around the tomb, but despite the fact that the thief had almost been caught red-handed, he had left no clues behind.

Michael was disappointed by the physician’s findings – or lack thereof – although he was careful not to let his frustration show. He did not want it said that the incident had him confounded. Calmly, he asked Heltisle whether everyone might adjourn to Bene’t College. Heltisle was not keen on having laymen in his domain, but was not so rash as to refuse a direct request from the Senior Proctor. He nodded acquiescence, and led scholars, parishioners and Guild members through the back gate and into his hall. Younge was on hand to make sure no one misbehaved, and exerted his authority by forcing everyone to remove their shoes before stepping on the beautifully polished floors.

‘What shall we do about Goldynham?’ asked Heltisle, while they waited for the horde to assemble. He stood on the dais with Michael and Eyton, while Bartholomew hovered to one side. ‘We do not want him escaping a second time, so I am not sure reburial is a good idea.’

‘It is a good idea,’ countered Bartholomew immediately. ‘He represents a danger to health as long as he remains above ground. He should be re-interred tonight.’

‘I do not choose to toss him back in the earth like so much rubbish,’ declared Heltisle haughtily. ‘I know Michaelhouse did it to Margery Sewale, but Bene’t treats its dead with more respect. My porters will take him to the church, and I shall rebury him when I see fit.’

Bartholomew shrugged, knowing from the arrogant jut of Heltisle’s chin that there was no point in trying to persuade him otherwise. ‘It is your decision, and I suppose the chapel is cool …’

‘I had better splash a bit more holy water on him when we have finished here, then,’ said Eyton with a merry wink. ‘That and a prayer or two should stop him from wandering off again tonight.’

‘And that goes to show how fine is the line between religion and sorcery,’ murmured Michael to the physician. ‘Eyton’s incantations and charms are not so different from those used by warlocks to ward off undesirable forces.’

Bartholomew watched two porters leave to do their Master’s bidding, wondering whether he had acted with indecent haste when he had reburied Margery. He supposed he would find out if Eyton – who, as St Bene’t’s priest, would spend the most time in Goldynham’s noxious company – became ill.

Once everyone was in the hall, standing in shuffling, jostling rows, Michael began to speak.

‘Goldynham was a wealthy man, and his grave was robbed because a thief was after jewellery,’ he declared. ‘The same is true for Margery Sewale – she was buried without ornaments, but the culprit was not to know that. Eyton saw the thief – not Goldynham – who immediately took to his heels and fled when he realised he was about to be caught. This unsavoury incident has nothing to do with witchery.’

Sensible men, like the landlord of the Eagle, nodded acceptance of this version of events, but it was a dull explanation, and others were less inclined to believe it. Unfortunately, one was Heltisle.

‘You are letting Bartholomew’s opinions cloud your judgement,’ he said coldly. ‘Father William told me he dabbles in the dark arts, and is learning secrets from Mother Valeria. And he killed Father Thomas, too, when the poor man spoke out against heretics.’

‘Doctor Bartholomew is no heretic,’ shouted a familiar voice. It was Isnard the bargeman. He had lost his crutches, which was not an unusual occurrence when he was drunk, and was being held up by members of the Guild of Corpus Christi. ‘Nor does he kill his patients. Not deliberately, at least.’

‘Your testimony is tainted, Isnard,’ said Heltisle scornfully. ‘You are so desperate to be allowed back in the Michaelhouse Choir that you will say anything to curry favour.’

‘Well, yes, I would,’ admitted Isnard blithely. ‘But in this case, it happens to be the truth. And before you say it, he is not the Sorcerer, either. He has no time for that sort of caper, what with all this flux about.’

‘Who is the Sorcerer, then?’ demanded Heltisle, as if he imagined the bargeman might know. ‘The fellow holds half the town in his sway, but none of us know his name.’

‘I have a few ideas,’ said Eyton genially. There were calls for him to share his suspicions, so he began to oblige. His list was extensive, and included the Sheriff, Mother Valeria, Chancellor Tynkell, Podiolo, Arblaster and the University’s stationer. Bartholomew was relieved when no one from Michaelhouse featured in his analysis.

‘Can you not stop him?’ Michael asked of Heltisle, as people began to call out reasons why one suspect was more likely to be the Sorcerer than the others. ‘He is a member of your College, and you must have some control over the fellow. These accusations are likely to cause trouble.’

‘I have no wish to stop him,’ said Heltisle coldly. ‘He is right to warn folk of the dangers they face. The town has been plagued by some very odd happenings of late, and we should ignore them at our peril. Take our goats, for example. Seven were stolen – and seven is a mystical number.’

‘Is it?’ asked Bartholomew tiredly. ‘I did not know that.’

‘I am sure you did,’ countered Heltisle nastily. ‘It is the kind of thing all wicked–’

Michael interrupted by elbowing him and Eyton off the dais and repeating his speech about grave-robbers. By the time he had dismissed the crowd, half seemed ready to believe him, although the rest remained sceptical. He was disappointed not to have convinced more, although Bartholomew thought he had done well enough, given the town’s current preference for supernatural explanations over rational ones.

‘I suppose it could have been worse,’ said Heltisle, watching Younge oust the lingerers, so that only he, Eyton, Michael and the physician remained. ‘We buried a student today – the one you failed to save, Bartholomew. My lads would have been distressed had it been him rising from his grave.’

‘He would have been a prettier sight than Goldynham,’ quipped Eyton rather inappropriately. ‘However, we should be grateful it was not Mistress Refham. She is important to both our Colleges, because not only did she order those three shops sold to Michaelhouse at a very reduced rate, but she was generous to Bene’t, too. I would not have wanted to throw holy water at her.’

‘I thought it was her at first,’ said Heltisle. ‘I never have been very good at remembering who went where in cemeteries. Unlike the Corpse Examiner, I imagine.’

‘What do you mean by that?’ demanded Bartholomew, becoming tired of the man’s sly insinuations. There had always been a degree of antagonism between him and Heltisle, but they usually managed a veneer of civility. He wondered what he had done to upset the balance.

Heltisle regarded him with dislike. ‘I mean you have been implicated in some very dubious happenings of late. It was you who found Danyell’s mutilated corpse, and there was the blood in your College’s baptismal font. Moreover, you have never hidden your belief that anatomy is a viable branch of medicine. Perhaps the blood was Danyell’s, spilled as you lopped off his hand.’

‘You do not “lop off” limbs in anatomy,’ snapped Bartholomew, thinking the remarks highlighted the man’s ignorance. ‘It is a precise art, in which lopping plays no part.’

Heltisle took a step away, startled by his vehemence. Michael laid a warning finger on the physician’s arm, to prevent him from sharing any other details about a technique that was not only illegal in England but that was generally considered abhorrent. Fortunately, the discussion was cut short by Younge, who approached with two people trailing at his heels. He was scowling.

‘Here are David and Joan Refham, Master Heltisle. It is late for visitors, and I would have sent them packing, but you said I should be nice to them because you think they might give our College some of their mother’s money.’

Heltisle winced at his porter’s bold remarks, then turned to the couple with an ingratiating smile, although the indignant expression on Refham’s face suggested any effort to make amends for Younge’s words would be a waste of time. With oily charm, Heltisle ushered them to a bench and plied them with wine. Refham snatched the proffered goblet, downed its contents in a gulp, and tossed the goblet on the floor. Joan sniffed hers, then set it aside with a moue of distaste that was offensive.

‘Is that my mother’s grave, all dug up?’ demanded Refham. ‘Your lout Younge refused to tell me. Why you continue to employ him is a mystery to me. I would have hanged him years ago.’

‘It was Goldynham,’ replied Heltisle soothingly. ‘Your mother has not been touched.’

‘Good,’ said Refham coldly. ‘I would not have been happy if she had.’

‘Nor would I,’ added Joan. ‘And when we are not happy, it is not good for anyone.’

‘No?’ asked Michael mildly. ‘And why is that?’

‘Because I say so,’ replied Refham. ‘And woe betide anyone who steps in my way. Believe me, you want to keep me happy.’

‘And me,’ added Joan.

‘Well, there is no cause for unhappiness here,’ said Heltisle hastily. ‘Not yours, anyway.’

‘Good,’ said Refham again. ‘Better someone else suffers than me, I always say. Are you Michael? The University’s henchman?’

‘I am its Senior Proctor,’ replied Michael coolly. ‘I understand we may be seeing more of each other, if Michaelhouse decides to buy the three shops you have just inherited.’

‘Oh, you will decide to buy them,’ said Refham smugly. ‘I know what they are worth to you, being lodged between two plots you already own. The real question is whether you will get them. There are others who are interested, and we shall favour whoever offers us the most money.’

‘Your mother’s dying wish was that Michaelhouse should have them,’ said Michael, displaying admirable calm in the face of such unpleasantness. ‘You were in a tavern as she breathed her last, but I was at her side. She also stipulated a very reasonable price that we were to pay.’

‘My lawyer says I need not be bound by her deathbed babbles. And what can she do about it now, anyway? She is dead, and all her property is mine.’

‘And mine,’ added Joan. ‘And we intend to make as much money as we can from it. Then we shall leave this godforsaken town and go somewhere nice, like Luton.’

‘So prepare to loosen your purse strings, henchman,’ jeered Refham. He turned to Heltisle. ‘We might favour Bene’t with a donation. It depends on how we are treated, to be honest. I like good wine and decent horses.’

‘Are you sure Michaelhouse should do business with a man like him?’ asked Bartholomew in distaste, as Heltisle ushered the couple away, fawning over them in a manner that made even Younge cringe. ‘My brother-in-law says he cannot be trusted, and he may do us harm.’

‘Not as much harm as I will do to him, if he attempts anything shady,’ retorted Michael.

Because spectators had prevented Bartholomew from performing a thorough examination of Goldynham, Michael suggested he should do it before returning to Michaelhouse. It was late, he said, so St Bene’t’s Church would be empty and he could do what was necessary without fear of being seen. Reluctantly, the physician followed him inside the dark building; Meadowman and Cynric stationed themselves by the door, ready to cough a warning should anyone try to come in. When they reached the body, Bartholomew faltered, feeling he had already done more than should have been expected of him.

‘We need answers as a matter of urgency,’ said the monk tiredly, seeing his hesitation. ‘I have no idea where to begin looking for this fiend, and you are my only hope for clues.’

With a sigh, the physician did as he was asked. It was distasteful work and, as usual, he was assailed by the uncomfortable feeling that he was being watched by disapproving spirits. Manfully, he pushed his unease from his mind and tried to concentrate on the task in hand. Goldynham had been tall, even in old age, and had sported an unusually full head of white hair, like a puffball. The hair was still there, although it was lank and dirty from its time in the ground. He was also wearing a gold-coloured cloak he had always liked – it had been a kind of trademark with him, and he was seldom without it, even in the heat of summer. Bartholomew supposed his colleagues at the Guild of Corpus Christi had ensured it had accompanied him to his grave.

‘He died two weeks ago,’ said Michael, standing well back with a pomander pressed tightly against his nose. ‘Natural causes, you said. A quinsy.’

‘That is what Rougham told me. Goldynham was not my patient, so I cannot confirm it, but there is no reason to doubt the diagnosis. Quinsy is often fatal in the elderly.’

‘I cannot say I took to Refham and his wife,’ burbled the monk, hoping to take his mind off what was happening in the parish coffin. It did not work. ‘Lord, Matt! Is that really necessary? Perhaps Heltisle has a point when he claims you are overly interested in anatomy.’

Bartholomew glanced up at him. ‘Of course I am interested in anatomy – so is any physician with a desire to understand the human body. And yes, it is necessary to look down Goldynham’s throat if you want me to see whether he died of a quinsy. How else am I to do it?’

Michael did not rise to the challenge, and resumed his analysis of the Refhams instead. ‘I will not let my dislike interfere with us buying their property, but I shall not enjoy dealing with them.’

‘Really? I would have thought you would relish the opportunity to pit your wits against theirs – to find loopholes in the law that will see them the poorer.’

Michael’s eyes gleamed. ‘That is true – it will be fun to wipe those smug smiles from their faces with a bit of cunning. Have you finished now? Thank God! So what can you tell me? Is Goldynham mutilated? You said not earlier, but that was before you had a chance to assess him properly.’

‘There are marks to suggest he was handled roughly, but I imagine that was because the culprit was hurrying, not wanting to be caught.’

Michael pointed. ‘His rings are still on his fingers, so the thief did not benefit from his crime before Eyton arrived. All his hard work was for nothing.’

Bartholomew was not so sure. ‘The body was pulled right out of the ground, and it was buried deep, so that cannot have been an easy task to accomplish. It was the same with Margery. Why, when it would have been quicker to remove any jewellery in situ?’

Michael narrowed his eyes. ‘What are you saying? That the purpose of this atrocity was not theft?’

Bartholomew looked away. ‘We know corpses sometimes play a role in satanic rituals, so perhaps the Sorcerer is to blame. I know you just announced publicly that he is not, but you may be wrong.’

‘I cannot be wrong,’ argued Michael. ‘You have just told me nothing is missing. And do not say the culprit was disturbed before he could make off with anything, because no one disturbed him when he was with Margery, and nothing was missing from her, either.’

‘When she was defiled, you proposed that it might be the act of pulling a corpse into the open that is significant. Or perhaps the culprit needed soil from beneath a body for some specific ritual. I am afraid you will have to ask someone who knows about this sort of thing, because contrary to popular opinion, I do not. However, I shall be surprised if the culprit’s motive was not witchcraft.’

‘Damn!’ breathed Michael. ‘And your suggestion makes sense, of course, given the other odd things that have been happening. All anyone talks about is this wretched Sorcerer, so it probably is unreasonable to hope there is no connection between despoiled graves and a powerful warlock. We must discover his identity before he or his minions dig up anyone else.’

‘I would rather concentrate on catching Carton’s killer.’

‘I am beginning to think that once we have the Sorcerer, we may have the killer, too. After all, Carton spoke out against him, and now he is dead. Can we go home now? I do not like it here.’

Bartholomew rinsed his hands in a bucket of water that had been left in the porch, and followed the monk outside. He felt soiled all over, and could not shake the conviction that Goldynham would have deplored what he had just done. When Cynric slammed the door closed behind them, he almost jumped out of his skin. They began to walk through the churchyard, but stopped when they saw Eyton kneeling by the open grave. The priest grinned in a friendly manner.

‘I am just performing an exorcism,’ he said, sounding as though he was thoroughly enjoying himself. ‘But do not worry about me – I am quite safe. I am wearing three amulets around my neck.’

‘We are not worried,’ replied Michael ambiguously. He turned to Bartholomew. ‘His antics can do no harm, given that there is no one here to see him. Let him stay, if dark graveyards at the witching hour are the kinds of places he likes. We are going home.’

‘Good,’ said Bartholomew, not sure Michael was right about the priest being alone. He was sure someone was lurking in the trees at the back of the cemetery. While Michael briefed Beadle Meadowman about keeping ghoulish spectators away, he went to look, but there was no one there. However, the leaves rustled gently, even though there was no breeze.

He shivered, and went to rejoin the monk.