‘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.
There were two new cases of the flux that night, and Bartholomew trudged wearily from the castle as the night-watch called
three o’clock, grateful it was half-term and there would be no teaching the following day. He could not quite bring himself
to be grateful for the fact that there were no students to hound him with questions, though, because he missed their lively
curiosity. In fact, he missed it enough to find he was in no hurry to return home, and decided to visit Mother Valeria instead.
He was due to inspect her knee that day anyway, and to see her now would save him a walk later.
‘It will leave more time for finding out who stabbed Carton,’ he explained to Cynric, who had accompanied him on the grounds
that he might need protection from restless corpses.
‘But Mother Valeria is a witch,’ the book-bearer pointed out uneasily. ‘A real one, not some sham pedlar of ineffective spells.
You should not associate with her.’
‘You do – you bought one of her bat-eye charms,’ remarked Bartholomew, remembering it was in his bag. He still had the one
to guard against wolves, too, and
reminded himself again to throw them away later, when Cynric was not looking. It would not do for anyone to find them.
‘That is different,’ said the book-bearer in a tone of voice that told the physician disagreement was futile. ‘I went for
a purpose, I paid my money, and I left when she gave me what I went for. You, on the other hand, talk to her and ask her questions.
You
fraternise
.’
‘I ask after her health. I cannot help her unless I know how she feels.’
Cynric shot him the kind of glance that said he was not believed. ‘I had better get you another charm, then – one against
witches.’
‘That might be difficult. Witches are unlikely to sell something that works against themselves.’
Cynric regarded him scornfully. ‘You get that kind from priests, boy, not witches. I will buy one from Eyton if he has any
left – the rise of the Sorcerer means there has been a bit of a run on them lately. His are better than the rest, because
he is generous with the holy water.’
‘Have you returned that witchcraft guide yet?’ asked Bartholomew, not liking to think of Cynric adding yet more to his already
extensive body of knowledge on the subject.
‘I will do it this morning. I have finished with it anyway. It was interesting, but did not tell me much I did not know –
except that June is an auspicious time for warlocks. As I said, it is why the Sorcerer is making his stand now.’
‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘Here is Valeria’s lane.’
‘I am not going down there,’ said Cynric firmly. ‘I will do a good deal for you, as you know, but hobnobbing with powerful
and dangerous witches is not one of them. I will see you later.’
He disappeared into the semi-darkness, as light-footed as a cat. Bartholomew watched him go, then took a deep breath of air
that smelled of hot grass. It was a scent he associated with the dry, arid climates of the Mediterranean, and was not one
he ever expected to encounter in England. It was thick and rich, and familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. Then a waft
of something less pleasant assailed his nostrils, causing him to gag. Idyllic images of olive groves and herb-coated hills
promptly disappeared, and one of blocked drains took their place.
He made his way along the nettle-lined path to Valeria’s hut, marvelling at how well it was trodden. People claimed to be
frightened of her, but that clearly did not stop them from seeking out her expertise. He thought the relationship between
witch and customer was an odd one: folk like Cynric were desperate to buy her charms and amulets, yet were ready to condemn
her dark powers without hesitation. Bartholomew felt sorry for her; she was in an acutely vulnerable position.
He reached the clearing, and saw smoke issuing from her hut, even though the hour was horribly early. She claimed she never
slept, but he was not sure whether to believe her. When he tapped on the door frame and pushed aside the leather hanging,
he saw her filling two cups from something that bubbled on the hearth.
‘I have been expecting you,’ she said. ‘I saw you go up the hill earlier and knew you would visit on the way home. You always
come at a time when you think no one will see you.’
‘Unfortunately, it has done me scant good,’ he said ruefully, sitting on a stool. ‘People still think I am your apprentice,
and that I come to learn dark secrets.’
‘I know I have teased you about it, but I would never really teach you my skills.’ The old woman made it sound as though he
was the last man on Earth she would consider for the honour. ‘You would spend the whole time telling me why they would not
work, and that would be tiresome.’
‘I wish William could hear you say that. I do not suppose you have a cure for fanaticism, do you? He is very sick with it.’
‘There are measures you can take to silence a barbed tongue. It involves acquiring a certain kind of stone, and burying it
under the hearth of a—’
‘No!’ Bartholomew held up his hand in alarm. ‘I was not serious.’
‘Never jest about magic, lad. It is nothing to be frivolous about, as men have learned to their cost.’ Her voice had become
low and sibilant, and for the first time during their association, Bartholomew felt uneasy in her company. He studied her
in the flickering light of the fire, but her hat shadowed her features and all he could see was the sharp glitter of eyes.
She seemed to be scowling, and he saw he had offended her. Perhaps this was the face she presented to petitioners like Cynric,
and suddenly he understood exactly why they were inclined to treat her with caution.
‘I am sorry,’ he said, contrite. ‘It has been a long night, and I am tired.’