‘Danyell was buried on Ascension Day, too,’ Bartholomew reminded him. ‘Perhaps he will be next.’
‘I will set a watch on his grave. But let us think about Thomas. Who killed him?’
‘Our suspects must be the same as the ones we have for Carton. They were both Franciscans, both believed the plague was a
punishment for past sins, and both made enemies of heretics.’
‘And let us not forget that William argued bitterly with Thomas the day before his death,’ said Michael soberly. ‘Perhaps
he was still angry when Thomas was carried to Michaelhouse to recover from being hit by the stone – that he came to the sick-room
and throttled Thomas in a fit of pique.’
‘No, Brother. William would still be on his knees doing penance, if that were the case. We would know he was guilty by his
behaviour.’
Michael disagreed. ‘He is a fanatic, and such people are quite capable of putting their own unique interpretation on such
incidents – that God asked them to do it, or some such nonsense.’
Bartholomew did not like the notion of his colleague being a killer. ‘Perhaps Mildenale put him up to it. He is the one who
encourages William’s zeal.’
‘
Mildenalus Sanctus
would never stain his soul with murder. He is no hothead, not like William. However, I suspect we should be looking to the
Sorcerer for our culprit. After all, Thomas and Carton did speak out very vehemently against him.’
The Michaelhouse Fellows arrived for mass shortly afterwards, all talking at once about what had transpired at All Saints
the previous night. Apparently, the revelry had grown very wild towards dawn, and the people who lived nearby had complained
about the noise. More worrying, however, was the fact that dung had been thrown at the houses of folk known to support the
Church.
‘Where are William and Mildenale?’ asked Suttone, looking around him suddenly. ‘They were here with us a moment ago.’
Langelee scowled when a quick search revealed they must have slipped away. ‘Damn them! I issued orders this morning that everyone
was to stay in College until this Sorcerer business is resolved. I should have guessed they would be unable to resist the
temptation to do battle with him.’
‘Yes, you should,’ Suttone admonished him. ‘You know
how strongly they feel about witchery. Of course they will not skulk inside Michaelhouse while a popular diabolist assumes
his mantle of power. They were incensed by last night’s dung-lobbing, and will be eager to avenge it.’
‘Lord!’ groaned Michael, heading for the door. ‘I had better tell my beadles to be on the lookout for them. I would rather
Michaelhouse men were not on the streets when there is trouble brewing. And I must tell Cecily her husband is dead, too.’
When the monk had gone, Bartholomew pulled Langelee aside and gave him a brief account of what had happened at Sewale Cottage
the previous night. He told him about Thomas, too, and the Master agreed that the body should be replaced in the ground as
soon as possible.
‘We had better do it now,’ he said grimly, immediately making his way outside. ‘And then you must go and examine Spynk for
Michael. He will need a report as a matter of urgency, and you
must
catch this Sorcerer before he steps on his pedestal and proves difficult to push off.’
‘I do not suppose you have heard any rumours regarding his identity, have you?’
‘Lots – and you feature in more than is comfortable. So do Heltisle, Spaldynge, Refham, Younge the porter, Arblaster, Podiolo,
Norton, Prior Pechem, Sheriff Tulyet, the Chancellor, Eyton, the Mayor, the Market Square crones, Michael, Wynewyk and Spynk.
I think that is everyone. Oh, and there is also one that names Doctor Rougham, on he grounds that he is conveniently absent
at the moment.’
When Bartholomew and Cynric arrived at St Mary the Great, the physician feeling soiled and uneasy after
laying Thomas to rest a second time, Cecily was in the Lady Chapel. She smiled when he offered her his condolences, and rubbed
her hands together gleefully.
‘He cannot tell me what to do now,’ she crowed. ‘I am free of him. I ran all the way here when Brother Michael brought me
the good news, just to be sure it was true.’
‘What will you do?’ asked Bartholomew. He had met wives who were relieved by their husband’s demise before, but none had been
as openly delighted as Cecily. ‘Go home to Norwich?’
‘I think I shall stay here a while. Not in that High Street house, though. I would rather have Sewale Cottage.’
‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, aware of Cynric shooting him meaningful glances from the shadows. Was it significant that Cecily
– a coven member – should still want Sewale Cottage?
Cecily gave a sultry smile. ‘Perhaps you would take a message to your Master for me. Tell him I am willing to pay nineteen
marks for the house, and might even make a handsome benefaction to your College, too – in return for prayers for my husband’s
soul, of course. Richard would have
hated
that!’
‘How handsome?’ asked Bartholomew, surprising himself with the question. He rubbed his eyes and supposed he was more tired
than he realised, because he was not usually in the habit of making such bald enquiries of recent widows, not even ones who
so obviously revelled in their new status.
Cecily laughed. ‘Not handsome enough, probably, so you had better offer him a couple of ells of cloth as well. Tell him to
invite me to dinner. I know for a fact that
he
prefers female company.’
There was a distinct bounce in her step as she flounced out of the Lady Chapel, and she was humming. Bartholomew hoped she
would stop before she reached the street. It would not be considered seemly behaviour, and might lead folk to wonder whether
she had killed Spynk herself.
Cynric watched the physician begin his examination. ‘Spynk was not much of a husband, but Cecily was not much of a wife, either.
I cannot say I like either of them.’
Bartholomew did not reply, because his attention was focused on the corpse in front of him. There was a single stab wound
in Spynk’s back, although it was lower than the one that had killed Carton. Cynric showed him a knife he had found near the
body, and the physician saw it was another of the ones that could be bought for a pittance in the Market Square.
‘A cheap weapon that the killer did not bother to retrieve,’ he mused, more to himself than to the book-bearer. ‘It looks
as though we have the same killer here.’
‘Why should Cecily kill Carton?’ asked Cynric, showing where
his
suspicions lay. ‘She has a good motive for killing Spynk, but she cannot have known Carton.’
‘Are you sure about that? Carton certainly met Spynk, because he told Langelee about a bid Spynk made on Sewale Cottage. I
imagine Cecily was there when they bartered, so she probably did know him. However, a brief encounter cannot have been enough
to warrant Carton’s murder.’
‘Maybe she made advances, and was piqued when he rejected her. Or she lost kin to the plague, and he told her it was her own
fault. However, she did not kill Thomas, because
he
died of a snapped neck, while Carton
and Spynk were stabbed. You probably have two murderers at large now.’
Bartholomew did not need reminding.
Michael was in the proctors’ office, signing deeds and letters with Chancellor Tynkell. Tynkell, a thin, unhealthy looking
man, was setting his seal to whatever the monk ordered, and when Bartholomew arrived, he asked if he might be excused. The
relationship between the Chancellor and his most powerful official had changed over the years, and there was no longer any
question that Michael was in charge.
‘Well?’ Michael asked, when Tynkell had gone. ‘What can you tell me about Spynk?’
Bartholomew sat heavily on a bench. ‘Just that he was killed with the same type of knife as Carton. Both were stabbed in the
back, which suggests some degree of stealth.’
‘Who would slaughter a Franciscan friar and a merchant? Cecily?’
‘Cynric thinks so. I have no idea.’
‘The Sorcerer is still
my
favourite suspect. If only we knew his name.’
‘Langelee gave me his list of potential candidates. It included virtually every prominent scholar and townsman in Cambridge.’
Bartholomew jumped when there was a sudden clamour outside, followed by the sound of smashing. They ran out of the office
to find that one of the Lady Chapel’s fine stained-glass windows was now a mass of coloured shards on the floor.
Michael groaned. ‘Not again! We have only just repaired that after the last riot.’
He stalked outside, and was alarmed to see that a
sizeable crowd had gathered. For a brief moment, Bartholomew thought he glimpsed the giant and Beard on the fringes, but when
he moved to get a better view, they were not there. He found himself near the man who wore a rose in his hat, whom he had
noticed during the near-lynching of the Market Square crone. The fellow made a moue of disgust when people began to yell at
each other, and moved away, clearly having better things to do with his time. Bartholomew climbed on a tombstone so he could
see what was going on over the heads of those in front. Michael stood next to him, hands on hips.
‘Tell me what is happening, Matt,’ he ordered wearily.
‘There is a squabble in progress. It seems William broke the window, to register his objection that the corpse of a self-confessed
diabolist lies within. And Arblaster is berating him for destroying an attractive piece of artistry.’
‘From the vicious tone of the screeching, I would say Arblaster is doing more than “berating”, while William sounds deranged.’
Bartholomew stood on tiptoe. William was on one side of the ruined window, backed by a number of Franciscans from the friary;
Mildenale lurked behind him, whispering in his ear. William’s eyes flashed with zeal, although his other colleagues seemed
ill at ease. Heltisle was with them, his porters and Eyton at his back. The St Bene’t’s priest looked distressed, and was
trying to pull Mildenale away from William, but Mildenale kept freeing himself, determined to continue his muttered diatribe.
On the other side of the window was Arblaster; his hands were stained, as though he had been busy with dung before breaking
off to quarrel with William. Jodoca was next to him. She held a piece of the broken glass and her face was crumpled with dismay.
Coven member
she might be, but it was clear she deplored the destruction William had wrought. Refham and Joan were behind her, and so was
Cecily. Joan was glowering, because Cecily was clinging to Refham’s arm, and Refham was grinning at the unsolicited female
attention in a foolish, leering kind of way. Not far away was Spaldynge, slovenly and wild-eyed. Dark hollows in his cheeks
suggested that his mental health continued to deteriorate.
‘Where are the Sheriff ’s men?’ grumbled Michael. ‘I broke up the last Church
versus
Sorcerer spat, and Dick promised to tackle the next one. It is bad for University–town relations if I keep doing it. And
bad for our windows, too.’
‘You may have no choice, Brother,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There is not a soldier in sight.’
‘Who is hollering now?’ demanded Michael, cocking his head. ‘Someone else has just joined in.’
‘Heltisle. He is accusing Isnard of being a necromancer, because of his penchant for sleeping in graveyards. Eyton is pointing
out that these naps are drunken stupors and have nothing to do with witchery. Isnard is furious at the slur on his character,
and people are taking sides about that now.’
Bartholomew saw Mildenale abandon William and go to stand behind Heltisle, lending him his support. He did not whisper at
him, but the Master of St Bene’t College seemed to draw strength from his presence even so.
‘We shall cleanse the town of witches once and for all,’ Heltisle bellowed. He regarded Isnard in disdain. ‘Beginning with
this
vile specimen.’
‘A wicked heretic,’ Mildenale agreed, clasping his hands and gazing skywards. ‘God overlooked him during the plague, so He
sent a cart to crush his leg instead, as a
punishment for his sins. The Church despises such men, and they will all be damned to the fires of Hell.’
There was a murmur of consternation, mostly because Isnard was no worse a sinner than anyone else, and if he was damned, then
so were a lot of people.
‘Now just a moment,’ said Arblaster, shocked. ‘There is no need for that sort of talk.’
There was a rumble of agreement, from folk on both sides of the debate.
‘Why should you care?’ snarled Heltisle. ‘As a coven member, you should be happy to go to Hell.’
‘Arblaster is a witch?’ cried Mildenale, staring at the dung-master with an appalled kind of disgust. ‘Then we should excommunicate
him. William? Get me a Bible, a candle and a bottle of holy water.’
There was a stunned silence. Excommunication was a serious matter, and while priests often used it as a threat, it was rarely
carried through. Even William looked uneasy at the notion that he might have to participate in one.
‘Hey!’ shouted Arblaster, outraged. ‘I still go to church on Sundays! And do I ever complain about the fact that the vicar
is usually too drunk to officiate, and will pardon any sin for a glass of claret?’
‘You moan about it every week,’ muttered Refham. ‘But who is counting?’
‘So what if I organise the occasional gathering of like-minded people at All Saints?’ Arblaster went on, getting into his
stride. ‘It does not make me material for excommunication, and I object to this … this
discrimination
!’
‘Perhaps
you
are the warlock,’ said Spaldynge, pointing a dirty forefinger at Heltisle. ‘You are the one with the mysteriously missing
goats, and Goldynham was trying to escape from your churchyard.’
‘How dare you!’ cried Heltisle. He turned to Younge. ‘Punch him! He insulted me
and
Bene’t!’
Younge leapt forward with a grin of delight. Michael was about to intervene when Sheriff Tulyet arrived, accompanied by mounted
soldiers. Heltisle was among the first to slink away from the mêlée, and Bartholomew saw several clods of dirt follow him;
his tirade had earned him enemies.