The Killer of Pilgrims

Chapter 4

While Michael embarked on his trawl of Drax’s taverns, Bartholomew dedicated himself to teaching. As a result, his pupils found themselves subjected to one of his vigorous questioning sessions, and by the time the bell rang to announce that the next meal was ready, their heads were spinning. Bartholomew was despondent, disappointed by their performance. He ignored both their indignant objections that he had quizzed them on texts they had not yet studied, and their grumbles that he had no right to push them as hard as he pushed himself.

‘Emma de Colvyll sang your praises today,’ said Michael, as they stood at their places at the high table, waiting for Langelee to say grace. ‘You made a friend when you saved Odelina.’

‘I thought you planned to spend your day in alehouses.’

‘I did, but it was tedious and unprofitable, so I visited Emma instead, to see whether I could winkle out more information about this yellow-headed thief.’

‘And did you?’

Michael shook his head. ‘No, although I hope to God we catch him before she does – she will have him torn limb from limb and dumped in the marshes. Heslarton is conducting a thorough and sensible search, which surprises me. I thought him a brainless lout, but he is showing intelligence over this manhunt, and I am afraid he might succeed.’

‘Perhaps the intelligence is Emma’s,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘He would not be averse to taking instructions from her. They respect each other.’

‘They do. Perhaps Heslarton is a brainless lout, then, although he is by far the most likeable member of that family. Alice was spiteful and cruel, Odelina is a spoiled brat, and Emma … well, the less said about Emma the better.’

‘Do you have any new suspects for poisoning Alice or stabbing Drax?’

‘Yes, unfortunately. There are a lot of people who would like to see Emma’s entire household poisoned, and who are delighted that Drax is dead. These same folk may also be inclined to steal pilgrim badges in the hope that they will save them from Purgatory.’

‘Who are they?’

‘People who object to the ruthless business practices of Drax and Emma. Especially Emma – I have not met anyone yet who likes her. Then there is Edmund House. She bought it from the Gilbertines in a very sly manner, and now she flaunts the incident by letting the place fall into disrepair under their very noses. They must find it galling.’

‘You think the Gilbertines are killers and thieves?’

‘Hush!’ Michael glanced uneasily at Thelnetham, but the canon was talking to Langelee, and had not heard. ‘No, of course not, but the Gilbertines are popular in the town, because they give charity. Perhaps someone has taken offence on their behalf.’

Bartholomew supposed it was possible. ‘Who else?’

‘The pilgrims, especially Fen.’

‘Fen cannot be the culprit, because he did not dash in from the street and grab Poynton’s badge – he was standing next to Poynton at the time. Moreover, he does not have yellow hair.’

Michael ignored him. ‘And do not forget that Prior Etone showed him our College the morning Drax was murdered – Blaston saw them. Doubtless he thought then that Michaelhouse was a good place to dispose of a body.’

Bartholomew saw the monk was not in the mood for a logical discussion, so changed the subject. ‘Did you speak to Emma about Yffi leaving holes in the roof while he fiddles with the windows?’

‘I did, but she said it is not her place to interfere.’ Michael looked disgusted. ‘She interferes when she feels like it, and is a hypocrite. But here is Langelee at last. Good! I am famished.’

Langelee intoned grace, and indicated that the servants were to bring the food. It was uninspiring fare, and although meals at Michaelhouse were supposed to be taken in silence, it was not long before the Fellows – always the worst culprits for breaking this particular rule – began talking.

‘Pea soup again,’ grumbled Michael, digging his horn spoon into the bowl that was set for him and Clippesby to share. ‘And there is no meat in it.’

‘There is bread, though,’ said William, taking the largest piece from the basket that was being passed around. ‘If you soak it in the soup, it becomes soft enough to eat.’

Bartholomew picked listlessly at the unappealing offerings, still full from the handsome breakfast William had provided.

‘I visited Celia today, too,’ Michael was saying to the table in general. ‘She was sorting through her husband’s belongings, making piles for the poor.’

‘That is laudable,’ said Suttone. ‘They need charity in this bitter weather. Of course, Drax only died two days ago, and it seems rather soon to be disposing of his possessions.’

‘Just because she is not drowning in sorrow does not mean she did not care about him,’ said Langelee. ‘She may just be practical. Like me. I would not wallow in grief if any of you were stabbed and left behind a stack of tiles.’

‘Your compassion overwhelms me, Master,’ said Thelnetham dryly. He turned to Michael. ‘Did you know that Drax went on a pilgrimage to Walsingham? He always wore a badge under his hat. He showed it to me recently, and said he had travelled to Norfolk.’

‘His wife told me he had bought that token to save himself the journey,’ said Michael, puzzled. ‘I wonder which of them was telling the truth.’

‘Celia is,’ said Clippesby, who was feeding soup to the piglet he held in his lap. Bartholomew was amused to note it was the only creature in the hall that was enjoying its victuals.

‘How do you know?’ asked Thelnetham curiously. Then he held up his hand. ‘On reflection, do not tell me. It will be some lunatic tale about a bird or a hedgehog.’

Clippesby had a disturbing habit of finding quiet places and then sitting very still as he communed with nature. It meant he often witnessed events not meant for his eyes, although he tended to make people wary of accepting his testimony by claiming it came from various furred or feathered friends. Of all the Michaelhouse Fellows, Thelnetham was the one who struggled hardest to come to terms with the Dominican’s idiosyncrasies.

‘On the contrary,’ said Clippesby mildly. ‘I know because I saw Drax make the purchase myself. And if you do not believe me, then ask the King’s Head geese, because they were there, too.’

‘Hah!’ Thelnetham grimaced. ‘I knew there would be an animal involved somewhere. Ignore him, Brother. The man is moon-touched.’

‘Unfortunately, none of us could see the seller,’ Clippesby went on. ‘But we can tell you that the transaction took place outside the Gilbertine Priory last Friday night.’

Thelnetham started. ‘Last Friday? Then I saw the transaction, too! And I saw the geese, although I did not notice you. However, I wondered what had set them a-honking. I watched Drax approach a man who gave him something. It was that burly lout – Emma’s son-in-law.’

‘Heslarton?’ asked Michael. ‘Why would he be selling pilgrim badges? And why outside a convent, when Drax’s wife is a regular visitor to his home, and he could have given it to her?’

‘Perhaps he did not want his fearsome mother-in-law to know what he was doing,’ suggested Thelnetham. He shuddered. ‘I would certainly not enjoy having the likes of her breathing down my neck at every turn. However, I did hear Heslarton tell Drax that what he was about to purchase – which I now learn was a signaculum – was solid gold, and that it came with a special dispensation for pardoning all sins.’

Clippesby pulled a face. ‘Personally, I do not think God is very impressed by indulgences.’

‘That is heresy,’ said William, who always had opinions about such matters. ‘The Church has been selling indulgences for years, and it is sacrilege to say they are worthless.’

‘You both misunderstand the meaning of indulgences,’ snapped Thelnetham testily. ‘They are not pardons, to secure the buyer’s salvation, and they cannot release the soul from Purgatory.’

‘Thelnetham is right,’ agreed Michael. ‘It is the extra-sacramental remission of the temporal punishment due, in God’s justice, to a sin that has been forgiven–’

‘Rubbish,’ interrupted Suttone. ‘Some writs of indulgence specifically state indulgentia a culpa et a poena, which means release from guilt and from punishment.’

‘That is not what it means,’ declared Thelnetham. Bartholomew felt his eyes begin to close, as they often did when his colleagues embarked on theological debates. ‘Such a notion runs contrary to all the teachings of the Church. What it means is–’

‘It means the rich can buy their way into Heaven,’ said William. ‘It is unfair, but it is not for us to question these things. And anyone who disagrees with me is a fool.’

They were still arguing about the nature of pardons and indulgences when they adjourned to the conclave – the small, comfortable room next to the hall – for a few moments of respite before the rest of the day’s teaching. Thelnetham announced that he had been on a pilgrimage to Canterbury, where he had bought a signaculum – in this case, an ampoule containing a piece of cloth soaked in St Thomas Becket’s blood. He had given it to his Mother House at Sempringham.

‘But they sold it to a merchant for a lot of money,’ he concluded with a grimace. ‘And I learned the lesson that only idiots are generous. It probably ended up with a man like Drax – a sinner who lied about doing the pilgrimage himself. Perhaps it is divine justice that he came to such an end.’

Bartholomew looked at him sharply, thinking it was not a remark most clerics would have made. He also recalled that Thelnetham had not been teaching in the hall when the accident had occurred, although the Gilbertine had joined the Fellows in watching Drax excavated afterwards. He shook himself angrily, and wondered whether he had helped Michael solve too many crimes, because it was hardly kind to think such unpleasant thoughts about his colleagues.

‘Some signacula are very beautiful,’ mused Michael wistfully. ‘I have always wanted to examine one closely. Perhaps even to hold it, and admire its craftsmanship.’

‘I bought you one,’ said Bartholomew, suddenly remembering something he had done a long time ago, and that he had all but forgotten. ‘Although I cannot recall if it was especially beautiful.’

Michael regarded him askance. ‘You never did!’

‘It must still be in the chest in my room. I keep meaning to unpack it, but there is never enough time. I bought it two years ago, when I was looking for … when I was travelling.’

Bartholomew had been going to say when he had been looking for Matilde, but was disinclined to raise a subject that was still painful for him.

‘Where from, exactly?’ asked Michael keenly. ‘I know you went to Walsingham and Lourdes.’

‘From Santiago de Compostela.’

Michael gaped at him. ‘But that is one of the three holiest pilgrim sites in the world, on a par with Jerusalem and Rome! Are you saying you brought me a gift from a sacred shrine, then simply forgot to hand it over, even though you have been home for nigh on eighteen months?’

Bartholomew supposed he was, but Michael was glaring, and it did not seem prudent to say so. He flailed around for a pretext to excuse his carelessness, but nothing credible came to mind.

‘Do you still have it?’ asked Suttone eagerly. ‘I have never seen a pilgrim token from Compostela. Did you touch it against the shrine? Wash it in holy water, and do all the other things that make these items sacred?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘And the Bishop blessed it for me.’

‘I had no idea you visited Compostela,’ said Ayera, eyeing him curiously. ‘Why have you never mentioned it? I was under the impression you spent all your time in foreign universities, watching necromancers perform anatomies on hapless corpses.’

‘Not all my time,’ muttered Bartholomew.

Langelee stood. ‘Then let us find this token. Michael and Suttone are not alone in never seeing one from Compostela, although I have handled plenty from Walsingham, Canterbury and so forth.’

‘And Cambridge,’ added Suttone. ‘Cambridge is a place of pilgrimage, too, because it is where St Simon Stock had his vision. At the Carmelite Priory.’

‘You want me to look now?’ asked Bartholomew, startled when all the Fellows followed Langelee’s lead and surged to their feet. ‘But I may not be able to find it, and teaching starts soon.’

‘The students will not mind a delay,’ predicted Langelee. ‘And if they do, I will tell Deynman to read to them. That will shut them up, because his Latin is all but incomprehensible.’

‘Why may you not be able to find it?’ demanded Michael, ignoring the fact that the Master was hardly in a position to criticise someone else’s grasp of the language, given that his own was rudimentary, to say the least.

‘I think it is in that box, but it has been a long time since I have looked in it, and–’

‘Matt!’ cried Michael, dismayed. ‘Are you saying you might have lost it?’

Bartholomew regarded him guiltily. ‘Very possibly, yes.’

With the Fellows at his heels, Bartholomew led the way to his room, wondering why he had forgotten the badge until now. He had been to some trouble to acquire it – cheap signacula were sold by the dozen to pilgrims, but he had wanted something rather better for Michael, who was a man of discerning tastes. He had purchased the best one he could find, then ensured it spent a night on top of the shrine, paid a bishop to bless it, and dipped it in holy water from Jerusalem. And after all that, he had shoved it in a travelling box and neglected to unpack it.

Valence was sitting at the desk in the window, scribbling furiously as he struggled to complete an exercise that should have been finished the previous evening. He looked up in surprise when the Fellows crammed into the chamber. Bartholomew stood with his hands on his hips, desperately trying to remember where he had put the chest in question.

‘Under the bed,’ supplied Valence promptly, when Michael told him what they were doing. ‘Right at the back. I have always wondered what was in it, and would have looked, but it is locked.’

‘Is it?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily. He had no idea where to find the key.

Valence disappeared under the bed, and emerged a few moments later with the small, leather-bound box that the physician had toted all the way through France, Spain and Italy. It was dusty, battered, and trailed cobwebs. Bartholomew set it on the bed and sat next to it. The lock was substantial, and of a better quality than he remembered. He doubted he could force it.

‘I do not have the key,’ he said apologetically, wincing when there was a chorus of disappointed groans and cries, the loudest of them from Michael.

‘Allow me,’ said Langelee, drawing his dagger. ‘I did this for the Archbishop many times.’

He inserted the tip of his blade into the keyhole, and began to jiggle it. Students crowded at the window, curiosity piqued by the sight of the Master and all his Fellows in Bartholomew’s room. Even Clippesby’s piglet was among the throng, eyes fixed intently on Langelee’s manoeuvrings.

‘Hah!’ exclaimed the Master, as there was a sharp click and the lock sprang open. He opened the lid and peered inside. ‘Here is a very fine dagger, although it is not very sharp.’

‘It is a letter-opener,’ explained Bartholomew. ‘I bought it for you.’

‘For me?’ asked Langelee. He grinned his delight. ‘How thoughtful! I shall begin honing it tonight. It is a beautiful implement, but it will be lovelier still when it is sharp enough to be useful.’

Bartholomew regarded him unhappily, wishing the Master was not always so ready to revert to the soldier he had once been. It was hardly seemly in an academic.

‘My signaculum,’ prompted Michael impatiently. ‘Where is it?’

It was at the bottom of the chest, wrapped in cloth. There were other gifts Bartholomew had forgotten about, too – a mother-of-pearl comb for William, a tiny painting of St Francis of Assisi for Clippesby, and a book of plague poems for Suttone. There was an embroidered purse and a silver buckle, too, intended for friends who were now dead, so he gave them to Thelnetham and Ayera. While they cooed their delight, he spotted two anatomy texts he had purchased in Salerno, and closed the lid hastily. He would look at them later, when he was alone.

‘What else is in there?’ asked William, running the comb through his greasy locks as he eyed the chest speculatively.

‘Nothing,’ mumbled Bartholomew, careful not to catch anyone’s eye. He was not a good liar.

‘It is exquisite, Matt,’ said Michael, pushing students out of the way so he could examine his gift in the light from the window. ‘Gold, too.’

‘Is it?’ Bartholomew knew it had been expensive, but could not recall why. Not being very interested in such things, it had not stuck in his mind.

‘It will not get you into Heaven, though, Brother,’ warned Thelnetham. ‘As I said in the conclave, that only happens through personal merit, not because you happen to own signacula.’

‘I know all that,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘But I am never going to see Compostela myself, so this is the next best thing.’

‘Actually, I believe it might reduce your time in Purgatory,’ countered Suttone. ‘Matthew made the pilgrimage, but he was clearly thinking of you when he did it, so your badge is important. You are wrong, Thelnetham: owning or buying such items can help one’s immortal soul.’

‘Drax thought the same,’ said Bartholomew, speaking before they could argue. He knew from experience that debates among theologians could go on for a very long time, and was eager to return to his teaching. ‘He believed the Walsingham signaculum, bought from Heslarton, would help his soul. Why else would he have worn it in his hat?’

William pointed at Michael’s token with his comb. ‘Do you know how much that is worth? A fortune! Not only is it precious metal and exquisitely made, but it has all the right blessings on it, too. Men will pay dearly for that.’

‘Really?’ asked Langelee keenly. ‘How much?’

‘It is not for sale,’ said Michael firmly. ‘Not even for Michaelhouse’s roof.’

‘My Carmelite brethren sell pilgrim tokens, here in Cambridge,’ said Suttone idly, his attention more on his new book than the discussion. ‘Our shrine does not attract vast numbers, like the ones in Hereford, Walsingham or Canterbury, but we make a tidy profit, even so.’

‘Do they hawk bits of St Simon Stock’s relic?’ asked Langelee. ‘I have heard that folk who die wearing a Carmelite scapular go straight to Heaven, but a scrap of the original will surely set one at God’s right hand.’

‘We would never sell that,’ declared Suttone, looking up in horror. Then he reconsidered. ‘Well, we might, I suppose, if the price was right.’

‘White Friars are not going to get to Heaven before Franciscans,’ declared William hotly. ‘And I do not know what the Blessed Virgin thought she was doing when she gave that scapular to Simon Stock. She should have appeared to a Grey Friar instead, because we would not be charging a fortune for folk to see the spot where this delivery occurred.’

‘Yes, you would,’ countered Suttone. ‘It is an excellent opportunity for raising much-needed revenue, and the Franciscans would have seized it with alacrity. Look at how much money they are making from Walsingham – more than we will see in a hundred years!’

‘That is different,’ said William stiffly, although he did not deign to explain why.

‘I think I had better make a pilgrimage to the Carmelite Priory,’ said Langelee. ‘I did one or two dubious favours for the Archbishop of York, you see, and I would not like to think of them held against me on Judgment Day.’

Clippesby regarded him reproachfully. ‘If you want forgiveness for past sins, Master, you must be truly penitent. Walking to Milne Street is not enough.’

‘It is, according to Suttone,’ replied Langelee cheerfully. ‘And it suits me to believe him.’

Bartholomew had intended to spend what remained of the day teaching, but Michael had other ideas. Ignoring the physician’s objections, he commandeered his help to search the area around Michaelhouse, to find the place where Drax had been stabbed. Unfortunately, St Michael’s Lane was home to several hostels, all of which owned a number of disused or infrequently visited sheds, and the task proved to be harder than he had anticipated.

‘We are wasting our time,’ said Bartholomew, after a while. ‘This is hopeless.’

‘We must persist,’ said Michael. ‘It stands to reason that Drax was killed nearby – he was not very big, but corpses are heavy, even so. Moreover, a killer would not risk toting one too far.’

‘I cannot imagine why a killer would tote one at all,’ grumbled Bartholomew, poking half-heartedly around Physwick Hostel’s old dairy with a stick. The place was filled, for some unaccountable reason, with broken barrels. ‘Unless…’

‘Unless what?’ asked Michael, glancing up.

‘We saw Kendale arguing with Drax. And Kendale’s hostel is near Michaelhouse. It would not be difficult to carry a corpse to our College from Chestre. Perhaps we should be looking there: not in abandoned outbuildings, but in the hostel itself.’

Michael grimaced. ‘That has already occurred to me, I assure you. Unfortunately, Kendale is the kind of man to take umbrage, and I cannot risk him taking the College–hostel dispute to a new level of acrimony. I must wait until I have solid evidence before we search his home.’

‘Does this qualify as solid evidence?’ asked Bartholomew soberly. He stood back so Michael could see what he had found. ‘It is blood. A lot of it.’

‘You think this is our murder scene?’ asked Michael, looking away quickly. The red-black, sticky puddle was an unsettling sight.

Bartholomew crouched down to look more closely, then nodded. ‘The volume seems right, and you can see a smear here, where a body was moved. However, from the pooling, I suspect Drax lay dead for some time – hours, probably – before he was taken to Michaelhouse.’

‘Lord!’ breathed Michael. ‘Then we are dealing with a very bold and ruthless individual, because most murderers do not return to tamper with their victims after they have made their escape. It shows he must have been very determined to cause trouble for Michaelhouse.’

‘Which may mean Kendale is the culprit – he hates the Colleges.’ Bartholomew frowned. ‘However, Kendale is clever, and this seems rather crude to me. Perhaps the killer is a member of a College, and he dumped Drax in Michaelhouse because he wants a hostel blamed for it.’

Michael sighed. ‘Damn this ridiculous dispute! It means that even finding the spot where Drax was murdered does not help us – and we have wasted hours doing it.’

‘We had better talk to Physwick,’ said Bartholomew. ‘They are more reasonable than Chestre, so I do not think questioning them will result in a riot.’

‘It might, if they are guilty of murder,’ muttered Michael, trailing after him.

Physwick Hostel was a dismal place in winter. The fire that flickered in its hearth was too small to make much difference to the temperature of the hall, and all its windows leaked. It reeked of tallow candles, unwashed feet, wet wool and boiled cabbage. Its Principal was John Howes, a skinny lawyer with oily hair and bad teeth, who had ten students and three masters under his care.

‘We are sorry about Drax,’ he announced, before Michael could state the purpose of his visit. ‘He rented our dairy to store old ale barrels from his taverns, and we need all the money we can get in these terrible times. He did not pay much, but a penny a week is a penny a week.’

‘Why did he want to store old barrels?’ asked Bartholomew curiously.

‘He was too mean to throw them away,’ explained Howes. ‘He once told me he planned to reclaim the metal hoops, and sell the wood to the charcoal burners.’

‘He was killed there,’ said Michael baldly. ‘We found his blood.’

‘Did you? How horrible!’ Howes shuddered. ‘That means one of us will have to go out with a mop and a bucket of water, because we cannot afford to pay anyone else to do it. Unless cleaning murder scenes comes under the Corpse Examiner’s remit?’ he asked hopefully.

‘No, it does not,’ said Bartholomew shortly. ‘Did any of you see or hear anything on Monday morning that may help us catch his killer?’

‘Not really. We went out twice on Monday – once not long after dawn, when we attended a service in the Gilbertines’ chapel, and again mid-afternoon when we were invited to see St Simon Stock’s scapular. We can see the dairy from our hall here, but we do not look at it much.’

‘But they would probably have noticed the comings and goings of strangers,’ murmured Michael to Bartholomew, as they took their leave. ‘So their testimony has helped.’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘It tells us for certain that Drax was killed shortly after dawn, when they went out the first time. The pooled blood proves the body lay for several hours in the dairy, then was moved to Michaelhouse when they went out for the second time – probably after I started teaching, when Blaston was in the stable, and when Yffi and his boys were on the roof discussing Yolande’s skills in the bedchamber.’

‘A discussion that ensured all attention was drawn upwards,’ said Michael. ‘Away from the yard. I see we shall have to have another word with Yffi and his louts.’

Once outside, they began to walk towards the Carmelite Priory, to check Physwick’s alibi, although both believed Howes’s testimony. They had not gone far before Bartholomew was diverted to Trinity Hall, where a student was nursing a bleeding mouth. There had been a fight between that College and Cosyn’s Hostel.

‘It would never have degenerated into blows a week ago,’ said the Master, Adam de Wickmer worriedly. ‘Our relationship with Cosyn’s has always involved cheeky banter, but never violence, and I am shocked that punches have been traded.’

‘So am I,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I do not understand why previously amiable relationships have suddenly turned sour.’

‘Oh, I understand that,’ said Wickmer bitterly. ‘The paupers in the hostels have always been jealous of our wealth, and they are probably hoping that there will be an all-out battle in which they can invade us and steal our moveable possessions.’

Bartholomew stared at him. ‘I hope you are wrong.’

‘So do I,’ said Wickmer. ‘But the hostels are suffering from the expense of a long, hard winter, and Kendale has been fanning the flames of discontent and envy. I have a bad feeling it will all end in blood and tears.’

Later that evening, Bartholomew set off to meet his medical colleagues. Meryfeld had been intrigued by the notion of devising a lamp with a constant flame, and had decided that if university-trained physicians could not invent one, then nobody could. He had sent messages asking all three of his colleagues to come to his house, so they might commence the project.

Bartholomew was the last to arrive, because his students, alarmed by their poor performance during his earlier inquisition, had tried to make amends with a plethora of questions. The delay meant he was obliged to run all the way to Bridge Street, where Meryfeld occupied the handsome stone mansion that stood between Sheriff Tulyet’s home and Celia Drax’s.

When he was shown into Meryfeld’s luxurious solar, Bartholomew was astonished to see that Rougham of Gonville Hall had accepted the invitation, too. Rougham was a busy man, or so he told everyone, and Bartholomew was amazed that he should deign to spare the time to experiment with colleagues. He was an unattractive fellow, arrogant and overbearing, and although he no longer cried heresy every time Bartholomew voiced an opinion, the two would never be friends.

‘Meryfeld’s proposition sounded intriguing,’ he explained, when he saw Bartholomew’s reaction to his presence. ‘I struggled to read my astrological charts last night, and may have made an error when I calculated the Mayor’s horoscope. A bright lamp would be very useful.’

‘It is not so much the lamp as the fuel,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We need a mixture that will burn steadily – one that does not require too many exotic ingredients or the cost will be prohibitive.’

‘Not for me,’ said Rougham smugly. ‘I make a respectable living from medicine, and so do Gyseburne and Meryfeld. You are the only one who lets the poor dictate his income.’

‘I plan to devote more time to the poor in future,’ announced Gyseburne. He shrugged when the others stared at him. ‘It will be good for my soul, and God will take it into account when I die.’

‘Yes – dealing with the indigent is a lot safer than doing a pilgrimage,’ said Meryfeld. His face clouded for a moment. ‘I was robbed and almost killed en route to Canterbury.’

‘I have been to Canterbury, too,’ said Gyseburne. ‘Although I had no trouble with brigands, thank the good Lord. Here is the signaculum I bought there. It contains real Becket water.’

He showed them a tiny bottle filled with a pinkish liquid, attached to his hat by means of a silver wire. With a flourish, Meryfeld presented his, which was almost identical, but in gold, and which he wore pinned to his cloak. Bartholomew was somewhat ashamed to realise that he had seen the badges on many previous occasions, but had never thought to question their meaning.

‘I am not risking it again,’ said Meryfeld with a shudder. ‘Of course, there will be no need for penitential journeys if I accept a few pro bono cases from Bartholomew.’

Gyseburne gave the grimace that passed as a smile. ‘I am glad, because it is unfair that he sees all the poor, while we tend the rich. We should share the burden.’

‘Well, I do not think I shall oblige, if it is all the same to you,’ said Rougham haughtily. ‘My soul is not in need of any such disagreeable sacrifices.’

Loath to waste time listening to whose soul needed what – and afraid someone might conclude that he, who did so much charity work, might own one that was especially tainted – Bartholomew turned the conversation back to the lamp. The four medici spent a few moments discussing the benefits their invention would bring, then turned to the practical business of experimentation. Gyseburne had brought some brimstone, Bartholomew a bag of charcoal, Meryfeld some pitch, and Rougham provided a sticky kind of oil that he said burned well.

They opened the window when the stench became too much, then were compelled to take their research into the garden when Rougham claimed he felt sick. Bartholomew began to wonder whether they were wise to meddle with substances none of them really understood, but the venture had captured his imagination, and he was intrigued by it. He was also enjoying himself – he was beginning to like his new colleagues, while Rougham seemed less abrasive in their company.

He was about to ignite their latest concoction when he saw a movement over the wall that divided Meryfeld’s house from the property next door.

‘Perhaps we should do this elsewhere,’ he said uneasily, realising that four physicians standing around a reeking cauldron was exactly the kind of spectacle that would attract Dickon.

‘Unfortunately, that is impracticable,’ said Rougham. ‘If we go to Michaelhouse or Gonville Hall, we will be pestered by students. And Gyseburne has no garden.’

‘But Dickon Tulyet is watching,’ explained Bartholomew. ‘I would not like him to copy what we are doing, and hurt himself.’

‘I would,’ said Meryfeld fervently. ‘He lobs rotten apples at me when I walk among my trees, and his language is disgusting. When I complained, Sheriff Tulyet did not believe me.’

‘The boy is not his,’ said Rougham, matter-of-factly. ‘It is common knowledge that the Devil sired Dickon one night, when his father was out.’

‘Mistress Tulyet would not have gone along with that,’ said Bartholomew, feeling compelled to defend the honour of his friend’s wife, although he did not care what people thought about Dickon.

‘I find it strange that Dickon is so large, but his father is so small,’ said Gyseburne. ‘So I am inclined to believe that there is something diabolical about the lad.’

‘Now, now,’ said Bartholomew mildly. ‘He is only a child.’

‘I am not so sure about that,’ muttered Rougham, tossing something into the pot.

‘Watch what you are doing!’ cried Gyseburne, as there was a sudden flare of light. Then the flames caught the potion in the pot, and there was a dull thump.

The next thing Bartholomew knew was that he was lying on his back. At first, he thought he had turned deaf, because everything sounded as though it was underwater, but then there was a peculiar pop and it cleared. Immediately, Dickon’s braying laughter played about his ears. He eased himself up on one elbow and saw his colleagues also beginning to pick themselves up.

‘I do not think that was the right ratio of brimstone to pitch,’ said Gyseburne in something of an understatement, as they approached the pot and peered cautiously inside it.

‘No,’ agreed Meryfeld. ‘But the light it produced was very bright – I still cannot see properly – so we are working along the right track.’

Bartholomew started to laugh when he saw the soot that covered Rougham’s face. Rougham regarded him in surprise, but then Meryfeld began to chuckle, too.

‘You think this is funny?’ demanded Rougham irritably. ‘We might have been killed. Worse yet, our failure was witnessed by that horrible child, and the tale will be all over Cambridge tomorrow.’

‘No one will believe him,’ said Meryfeld, although Bartholomew suspected Rougham was right to be concerned: such a tale was likely to be popular, whether it was true or not.

‘I should have paid more attention to the alchemy classes I took in Paris,’ said Gyseburne. ‘Because then I might have been able to prevent that unedifying little episode. Rougham is right: we might have been killed.’

‘Did you study with Nicole Oresme?’ asked Bartholomew, referring to that city’s most celebrated natural philosopher. He knew Gyseburne had attended the University in Oxford, but not that he had been to Paris, too, He was pleased: it was another thing they had in common.

‘I might have done,’ said Gyseburne shortly. Evidently not of a mind to discuss mutual acquaintances, he indicated the sticky mess that covered the pot. ‘Now what shall we do?’

‘We need to reduce the amount of brimstone,’ said Meryfeld. ‘But not tonight. We are all tired, and weariness might be dangerous while dealing with potent substances. But we have made some headway, and I am pleased with our progress. Moreover, we have learned three important lessons.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘First, we definitely need to conduct these tests outside, and second, we should experiment with smaller amounts of the stuff. But what is the third?’

‘That we are all as mad as March hares,’ said Meryfeld with a conspiratorial grin. ‘Let us hope we are not taken to Stourbridge Hospital as lunatics!’

The following day was the Feast of St Gilbert of Sempringham, and because it was Thelnetham’s turn to recite the dawn offices – and St Gilbert had founded his Order – Michaelhouse found itself subjected to a much longer service than usual. Michael complained bitterly about hunger pangs, then grumbled about the quality of the food presented at breakfast. He slipped away when the meal had finished, and when Bartholomew saw him in the hall a little later he was wiping crumbs from his mouth with the back of his hand.

Bartholomew was about to remark on it to Suttone, when he saw the Carmelite doing the same thing. In fact, he thought, looking around, all his colleagues seemed to have fortified themselves from supplies in their rooms, and he was the only one destined to be hungry all morning. He was about to feel sorry for himself when Thelnetham pressed something into his hand.

‘Seedcake,’ he whispered. ‘Made by a certain young baker I like. Eat it quickly. Teaching is due to start in a few moments, and I cannot pontificate when you have that half-starved look about you.’

Somewhat startled that a self-absorbed man like Thelnetham should deign to notice a colleague’s discomfort, Bartholomew did as he was told. The cake was cloyingly sweet, and he felt slightly sick when he had finished it. There was also a curious flavour that he could not quite place, and that was not entirely pleasant. He wondered, ungraciously, whether it was past its best, and that was why Thelnetham was willing to share.

Unusually, there were no summonses from patients that morning, and as Michael was busy briefing the new Seneschal – and so unable to pursue his investigation into the killer-thief – Bartholomew was able to teach uninterrupted until noon. Again, he put his students through their paces, although he relented somewhat when the youngest one burst into tears. When the bell rang to announce the end of the morning’s teaching, he found himself suddenly dizzy, and was obliged to sit on a bench until the feeling passed.

‘What is the matter?’ asked Michael, back from his proctorial duties and regarding him in concern. ‘You are very pale. Shall I send for Rougham?’

‘Christ, no!’ Bartholomew saw Michael’s disapproving expression – the monk rarely cursed. ‘Sorry. I must have inhaled some toxic fumes in Meryfeld’s house yesterday.’

‘Or perhaps Dickon poisoned the tip of his sword before he stabbed you,’ suggested Thelnetham. Bartholomew jumped – he had not known the Gilbertine was there. ‘Shall I fetch you some wine?’

Bartholomew stood. ‘Thank you, no. Cynric is beckoning, so there will be patients to see.’

‘Now?’ asked Michael in dismay. ‘I hoped we might make some headway with our enquiries.’

‘You cannot do that, Brother,’ said Cynric, overhearing as he approached. ‘Part of York Hostel is ablaze, and they are claiming arson by the Colleges. Beadle Meadowman says it is nothing of the kind, but the victims will take some convincing.’

‘Damn this ridiculous feud!’ snapped Michael, beginning to stamp towards the door. ‘Am I to have no time for important business?’

Bartholomew felt better once he was out in the fresh air, although there was still an unpleasant ache in his innards. He wondered what he could have eaten to unsettle them, and supposed it was the seedcake – the other Fellows might be used to rich foods, but he was not, and should have known better than to wolf down so much of it in one go.

He visited Chancellor Tynkell, and was sympathetic when the man complained of a roiling stomach, then trudged to the hovels in the north of the town, where three old people were dying of falling sicknesses. There was nothing he could do for any of them, and he left feeling as though he had let them down. Next, he went to his sister’s house on Milne Street, where one of the apprentices had caught a cold. He felt even more of a failure when he was obliged to say he could not cure that, either, and the ailment would have to run its course.

‘What is wrong?’ asked Edith, when he had finished. ‘Are you despondent because Drax is to be buried this afternoon, and he was one of Michaelhouse’s benefactors?’

‘Lord!’ muttered Bartholomew, disgusted with himself for forgetting. ‘Langelee wants Thelnetham and me to attend that, to represent Michaelhouse.’

And, he recalled, Michael had asked him to observe the congregation, with a view to assessing whether Drax’s killer might be in attendance. The monk had wanted to be there, too, to judge the situation for himself, but the fire at York Hostel meant he would probably miss it, so it was down to his Corpse Examiner to take advantage of the occasion.

‘I am going, too,’ said Edith, reaching for her cloak, a fine, warm garment of dark red. ‘So we shall stand together. I cannot say I like Celia, but she may appreciate my support.’

‘Do you know her well, then?’ asked Bartholomew.

Edith shook her head. ‘She married Drax shortly after he lost his fingers in an accident, and I suspect she was attracted by the compensation he was paid by Yffi. It is difficult to admire such a woman, and I confess I have not tried very hard to befriend her.’

‘I heard they argued a lot,’ said Bartholomew, wondering if she would confirm Dickon’s claim.

Edith laughed. ‘What married couple does not? Do not look dubious, Matt! If you had wed Matilde, you would know it is true.’

Bartholomew doubted it, but wished he had been granted the chance to find out.

No one at All Saints Church seemed particularly distressed by Drax’s demise, and few mourners gave more than a fleeting glance at the coffin as they greeted each other cheerfully and loudly. Bartholomew was under the distinct impression that the taverner would not be missed.

‘I suspected you might forget so I thought I had better come, too,’ said Langelee to Bartholomew, arriving with Thelnetham at his heels. ‘Drax was a benefactor, and it would not do for our College to be under-represented.’

‘Not a very generous benefactor,’ said Thelnetham, fastidiously rearranging the puce bow that prevented his hood from flying up in the wind. ‘He gave us a few candles in exchange for a princely number of masses. The man certainly knew how to drive a bargain.’

‘I should not have bothered to come,’ said Edith unhappily. ‘I detest these occasions, and Celia does not look as though she needs the comfort of acquaintances.’

Bartholomew looked to where she pointed. Celia was composed and vibrant, clearly enjoying the attention that was being lavished on her. Odelina was at her side, simpering at any man who was young and handsome, and evidently thinking that a funeral was as good a place as any to hunt a beau idéal. Emma was there, too, with Heslarton, so Bartholomew excused himself and went to talk to them, intending to pose a few questions on Michael’s behalf.

‘Have you found the yellow-headed thief yet?’ he asked.

Heslarton scowled. ‘No, although not from want of trying. Still, he cannot elude me for ever. Stealing my mother’s box was a vile crime, but harming my daughter…’

‘And killing Alice,’ added Emma, almost as an afterthought. ‘But we shall have him. Such a man cannot be allowed to walk the streets with decent, honest folk. We shall ensure he faces justice.’

‘He is committing other crimes, too,’ said Heslarton. ‘Just last night, a man matching his description collided with Celia. When he had gone, she found her pilgrim badge missing.’

‘He made her stumble, and stole it while he pretended to steady her,’ explained Emma. ‘My new physician has lost a token, too. Well, he told me he dropped it, but I imagine it was stolen.’

Bartholomew was about to question them further, when a rustle of cloth made him turn around. It was Celia, all smug smiles and expensive new clothes. He did not think he had ever seen her look so radiant. Heslarton apparently thought so, too, because he gazed admiringly at her.

‘I have decided not to blame your College for its role in my husband’s demise,’ she said to Bartholomew. ‘So you and your colleagues can leave if you like.’

‘That is not why we came,’ said Bartholomew, a little indignant. ‘We are here to pray for Drax.’

Celia raised her eyebrows. ‘Why? I doubt the Almighty will listen to the petitions of a warlock.’

‘I hear you have lost a signaculum,’ said Bartholomew, goaded into introducing a subject he suspected would annoy her. ‘Did you buy it, like your husband bought his?’

He watched Heslarton, to see if he would react to this remark, but he remained impassive, and Bartholomew was not sure what to think. However, a flash of something unreadable from Emma’s black eyes warned him that he was on dangerous ground.

Celia smiled slyly. ‘It was a gift from an admirer. I decided to wear it on my cloak, but then some yellow-headed thief jostled me, and it was gone. Master Heslarton has promised to see him at the end of a rope for his crime.’

‘I am recovered,’ came a voice at Bartholomew’s shoulder. It was Odelina, smiling in a way that was vaguely predatory. ‘You saved my life, and I shall always be grateful.’

‘He probably did it with sorcery,’ said Celia snidely.

Suspecting denials would serve no purpose – and a little uncomfortable when Emma regarded him as if she was favourably impressed – Bartholomew returned to Edith, to begin studying the mourners for Michael. He looked around rather helplessly, not sure where to start.

The gloomy Prior Etone and gap-toothed Horneby stood near the front, but although they chanted the responses and stood with heads bowed, their expressions were distant, as though they were thinking of other things. Welfry was with them, his boot-shaped signaculum dwarfed by the larger badge that marked him as the University’s new Seneschal.

Etone’s wealthy pilgrims knelt to one side. Muttering furiously, the two nuns leaned towards each other, and Bartholomew realised with astonishment that they were competing to see who could recite the fastest psalms. Meanwhile, Fen’s eyes were fixed on the high altar, and his face wore an oddly ecstatic expression. Bartholomew followed the direction of his gaze, but could see only a wooden cross and two cheap candles. Poynton yawned, apparently struggling to stay awake.

Isnard and several cronies from the Michaelhouse Choir were behind them, and Welfry had trouble controlling his laughter when they joined in some of the musical responses. But his mirth faded abruptly when Emma edged away, one hand to her jaw. He was not a man to find amusement in the discomfort of others.

The surly scholars of Chestre Hostel were near the back, jostling anyone who came too close. Their victims included Brother Jude and Prior Leccheworth of the Gilbertines. Leccheworth stumbled impressively when he was shoved, but it was Neyll who reeled away clutching a bruised arm when the manoeuvre failed to have a similar effect on the beefy Jude.

Yffi and his lads lounged in the aisle. The apprentices looked bored, obviously wishing they were somewhere else. About halfway through the ceremony, Emma beckoned Yffi towards her and began whispering. Yffi nodded frequently, and there was an expression of sly satisfaction on the old woman’s face that was distinctly unsettling.

Odelina passed the time by making eyes at two knights from the castle. Celia was next to her, hands folded prayerfully. But the ritual was a protracted one, and it was not long before she began to sigh her impatience. Heslarton stared longingly at her all the while, clearly smitten.

Finally, there was a large contingent of Drax’s customers, including Blaston and a number of his artisan friends. Blaston was pale and suitably sombre, but the others were more interested in discussing whether it would be ale or wine provided after the ceremony for mourners.

Bartholomew looked around unhappily. The occasion had attracted a large crowd, but virtually everyone was there because it was expected of them – or for the free refreshments afterwards – not because they felt any sadness at Drax’s passing. Of course, he thought with a guilty pang, he was no different. Chagrined, he bowed his head and said his prayers, although Celia’s words kept echoing in his head, and he could not help but question whether the petitions of a man thought to commune with the Devil were doing Drax any good. At last the service ended. He saw Edith home, visited two more patients, then walked back to Michaelhouse.

When he arrived, Cynric was waiting to tell him he was needed at the Dominican Priory. With a weary sigh, he made for the gate again, grateful when the Welshman fell in at his side. His spirits were oddly low that day, and he welcomed the company.

The Dominicans’ convent lay outside the town, and to reach it Bartholomew exited through the Barnwell Gate and walked along the Hadstock Way. With no buildings for shelter, it was bitterly cold, and the wind sliced wickedly through his cloak. It was not raining, but the sky was overcast, and he wondered if there was snow in the air. He said as much to Cynric.

‘No,’ replied the book-bearer. ‘It will not snow again this year.’

‘You seem very sure,’ remarked Bartholomew suspiciously.

Cynric nodded. ‘I am sure. I dislike snow, because it makes you leave tell-tale footprints when you visit haunts you would rather no one else knew about. So I went to a witch, and enquired how much more we might expect this year. She told me none.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, not liking to ask what sort of places Cynric frequented that he would rather were kept secret. ‘You should ask for your money back, because it is snowing now.’

Cynric inspected the flecks of ice that were settling on their clothes, and sniffed dismissively. ‘This is not snow, it is a flurry. There is a difference.’

Bartholomew did not see how, but they had arrived at the priory, so he knocked on the gate. It was a large complex, comprising a church, chapels, refectory, dormitory, chapter house and a range of outbuildings. Virtually all the Dominicans had died during the plague, because they had bravely ministered to the sick and dying and had become victims themselves. But their numbers had grown since, and now they numbered about forty. They were under the command of Prior Morden – no academic but a popular leader. When a lay-brother opened the door, a gale of laughter wafted out.

‘I am not coming in,’ said Cynric, backing away. ‘Last time, they put a bucket of water over the door, so I was doused as I passed through. These Black Friars have a childish sense of humour.’

They did, and Bartholomew doubted the situation had improved since the arrival of the ebullient Welfry. He entered the convent cautiously, stepping over the almost invisible rope that had been placed to make visitors trip.

Prior Morden came to greet him. He had clearly been enjoying himself: there were tears of laughter in his eyes and he could hardly keep the smile from his face. He was one of the smallest men Bartholomew had ever met, although his head and limbs were in perfect proportion to the rest of his body. He wore a beautiful cloak and matching habit, and a pair of tiny leather boots.

‘We had a mishap during our afternoon meal,’ said Morden, leading him towards the infirmary. He began to chortle. ‘I thought we should dine on something special today, you see. The winter has been exceptionally hard, and we are all tired of bread and peas.’

‘How special?’ asked Bartholomew warily, hoping the entire convent had not been provided with bad meat or some such thing. He did not think Morden’s idea of a joke was to poison everyone, but with the Dominicans, one could never be sure.

Morden grinned. ‘I added a little colouring to the pottage, so it turned blue. But that was not what caused the real trouble. It was the roof.’

‘The roof,’ echoed Bartholomew flatly, wondering what was coming next.

‘Brother Harold arranged for part of it to come down during the meal,’ explained Morden. ‘Well, not the roof exactly, but several baskets containing leaves, scraps of parchment, feathers and other sundries – things that float. It was his intention to shower the novices, and give them a start.’

‘And I suppose the baskets fell, too, and someone happened to be underneath one,’ surmised Bartholomew. ‘Really, Father! This is not the first time you have summoned me to treat members of your community who have suffered physical harm from these jests. They are getting out of hand.’

‘I will order them curtailed,’ said Morden sheepishly. ‘Come. Your patient is waiting.’

‘Who is it?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking it was testament to the wildness of the Dominicans’ sense of humour that he knew most of them fairly well.

‘Welfry. He was sitting with the novices today because he has been teaching them Aristotle. Oh, well, he will know better next time.’

‘Let us hope there will not be a next time,’ muttered Bartholomew.

Welfry was lying on a cot in the infirmary. His normally smiling face was pale, and feathers and leaves still adhered to his habit. They stuck to the glove on his left hand, too, while a scrap of parchment had lodged itself in the boot-shaped signaculum that was pinned at his shoulder.

‘Ah, Matthew,’ he said weakly as Morden conducted the physician to his bedside. ‘I have been brained by a basket, and my head feels as though it might split asunder.’

‘I understand you were the victim of a joke,’ said Bartholomew, kneeling next to him and inspecting the abused pate under its mop of tawny hair.

‘A joke,’ growled Welfry, looking pointedly at Morden. ‘Is that what you call it?’

‘It was funny,’ objected Morden.

‘No,’ corrected Welfry sternly. ‘It ended in bloodshed, which means it was not amusing. Harold needs to make sure this kind of thing does not happen when he executes his pranks. I am proud of my intellect, and I do not want it splattered all over the refectory in the name of humour.’

‘It will not happen again,’ said Morden. ‘He is mortified by what has happened, and I have ordered him to work in the gardens for the next month, as a punishment.’

Welfry waved a weary hand. ‘It would be better if you let me have him for a month instead. He could learn a lot – including how to secure baskets to rafters.’

‘It is not a good idea to encourage Harold’s penchant for clownery,’ said Bartholomew in alarm.

‘We shall see,’ said Morden. ‘But what can you do to help poor Welfry? We are all delighted by his appointment as Seneschal, but he says he might have to resign if his injury is irreparable.’

‘It is not irreparable,’ said Bartholomew, rummaging in his bag for the poultice of elder leaves, poppy petals and oil that he used in such situations. ‘He has a nasty lump, but that is all.’

‘Thank God,’ said Morden, crossing himself. ‘I had better tell Harold, because he is beside himself with worry. Thank you, Matthew. Here is a shilling for your pains – more than we usually pay, because I know you will spend it all on medicines for the poor.’

He was gone before the physician could thank him, tiny feet clattering across the flagstones. Bartholomew turned his attention back to the poultice.

‘I keep meaning to ask you about the illumination of St Mary the Great,’ he said as he worked. ‘Do you know how it was managed?’

‘That was Kendale, not me.’ Welfry smiled wanly. ‘But I wish it had been! It was an incredible achievement, especially the device he called a “fuse”.’

‘A fuse?’

‘Yes – a piece of twine smeared with some substance that made it burn at a steady and reliable rate. It allowed all his buckets of sludge to be ignited simultaneously, and was highly ingenious.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew. ‘What did his sludge comprise, exactly?’

‘I wish I knew. I tried to question him, but he was … let us say less than forthcoming.’

‘You are friends with him?’

‘Hardly! My Order has taken the side of the Colleges in this ridiculous spat with the hostels, so he would sooner die than forge a friendship with me. In fact, when I asked for details of his trick, all enthusiasm and admiration, he said that unless I got out of his way, he would skewer me.’

Bartholomew shook his head in disgust. ‘And that is why I am sceptical of the claims that he was the instigator. It seems too harmless a prank for him.’

‘It was a challenge to the Colleges,’ said Welfry, mock-serious. ‘There was nothing harmless about it. Besides, Valence thinks his real intention was to set Gonville Hall alight.’

‘Do you believe that?’

Welfry considered the question carefully. ‘No. It would be malicious beyond words, and I cannot believe a fellow scholar would stoop so low. But it is a pity Kendale is so sullen, for he possesses a formidable intellect. I would relish some mental sparring with him.’

‘Are you sure you do not know the formula for his sludge?’ pressed Bartholomew. ‘You cannot even hazard a guess?’

‘From the odour that lingered afterwards, I would say it contained brimstone and some sort of tarry pitch. But there will have been other ingredients, and I cannot begin to imagine what they were.’ Welfry brightened. ‘We answered the challenge by putting the ox and cart on the Gilbertines’ roof. And no one was maimed, incinerated or brained while we did so.’

‘The next time the hostels play a prank, it might be best not to respond. Michael spent much of today trying to quell disturbances, and more tricks will only exacerbate the matter.’

‘I beg to differ,’ argued Welfry. ‘The ox and cart served to calm troubled waters – it made scholars laugh instead of fight, and hostilities eased for several days. Until Kendale thought up that nasty business with the bull. Then the situation turned angry again.’

‘I hope it ends soon,’ said Bartholomew fervently. ‘I do not want the streets running with blood.’

‘Nor do I,’ said Welfry. ‘But I shall do all in my power to make people smile, because I honestly believe humour is the best way to defuse this horrible tension.’

‘You may be right,’ conceded Bartholomew. ‘I suppose it is worth a try.’

Welfry’s smile turned rueful. ‘I know I am not much of a friar, with my love of laughter, but if I can use my wits to confine this feud to a series of harmless pranks, then perhaps God will overlook my flaws. And if not, I can always go on a pilgrimage – this time to somewhere rather more holy than the site where John Schorne conjured the Devil into a boot.’