The Devil's Disciples: The Fourteenth Chronicle Of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew)

by Gregory, Susanna

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Which oddities in particular?’ asked Michael.

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

  ‘Wonder about what?’ demanded Michael.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Where?’ asked Bartholomew.

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

  Chapter 3

  In Michaelhouse’s hall the following morning, Langelee stood on the dais and cleared his throat, indicating he wanted to speak. The sun was slanting through the windows, painting bright parallelograms on the wooden floor. The servants were setting tables and benches ready for a lecture he was to give on fleas. No one was quite sure why he had selected this topic, and Bartholomew could only suppose he had been low on ideas. The scullions stopped hauling furniture when they saw that the Master was going to make an announcement first.

  ‘There will be no analysis of fleas today,’ he said, folding his beefy arms across his chest. ‘The College is closed until next Monday, so you must all go home. Oh, and Carton is murdered.’

  ‘That was an ill-considered juxtaposition of statements,’ muttered Michael, disgusted. ‘It looks as though he is shutting the College because a Fellow has been killed, which is not the case.’

  He and Bartholomew were standing at the front of the hall, because he had wanted to gauge his colleagues’ reactions when told the news. Bartholomew watched William and Mildenalus Sanctus intently, but their response to Langelee’s proclamation was exactly what he would have expected: a mixture of shock, disbelief and horror. Similar sentiments were written on the faces of everyone else, too, but Carton had not been the most popular member of the foundation, so few tears were shed.

  ‘Do you think one of us might be next?’ demanded William, voicing the question that was in everyone’s mind, given Langelee’s careless choice of words. ‘Is some fiend intent on destroying Michaelhouse? A Dominican, for example?’

  Mildenale was standing next to him. ‘The Black Friars have nothing against us,’ he said. But his voice lacked conviction, which frightened some of the younger students. Bartholomew was glad Clippesby was not in residence, sure he would be hurt by the unwarranted attacks on his Order.

  ‘No, but they have something against me,’ said William. ‘And against you, Thomas and Carton, too, because we tell the truth about sin. They hate anyone who preaches against wickedness, because they are rather partial to it.’

  A small, neat Fellow who taught law came to stand next to Bartholomew. His name was Wynewyk, and one of Langelee’s most astute moves had been to delegate the financial running of the College to him. He excelled at it, and Michaelhouse was finally beginning to prosper.

  ‘If someone had wanted to remove a zealot,’ he said in a low voice, ‘surely he would have chosen William or Mildenale? They are far more odious than Carton could ever be.’

  ‘But William and Mildenale did not go to Barnwell yesterday,’ Bartholomew pointed out, ‘and thus present a killer with an opportunity to strike.’

  ‘No, but they were both alone for a large part of the day, which amounts to the same thing.’ Wynewyk sighed, and shook his head sadly. ‘I am terribly sorry about Carton. Aside from his rigid stance on sin, he was a decent enough fellow. A little distant, perhaps, but not unpleasant. Who would want to hurt him?’

  ‘That is what I intend to find out,’ vowed Michael, overhearing.

  ‘I hope it is no one here,’ said Wynewyk. He waved a hand at the scholars in the body of the hall. ‘Langelee enrolled twenty new students at Easter, and we have been too busy teaching to get to know them properly. I still feel our College is full of strangers.’

  ‘I want everyone gone by dawn tomorrow,’ Langelee was saying. ‘I know Lincolnshire is a long way, Suttone, but you will just have to hire a horse.’

  ‘You cannot order Fellows to leave,’ declared William, outraged. ‘I will not be ousted. So there.’

  ‘Why not?’ asked Langelee archly. ‘Is it because you have nowhere else to go?’

  ‘I have dozens of folk clamouring for my company,’ snapped William, although smirks from his students suggested Langelee’s brutal enquiry was probably near the truth. ‘But I do not choose to see them at the moment. Besides, the College is at a crucial stage in the buying and selling of properties, and you cannot make those sorts of decisions without the Fellowship. You need us here.’

  ‘That is true,’ acknowledged Langelee with a grimace. ‘Very well, the Fellows can stay.’

  ‘What about me?’ asked Mildenale. His eyes drifted heavenwards. ‘God came to me in a vision at Easter, and ordered me to found a new hostel. I am on the brink of doing so, and it would be inconvenient to leave now. I should stay, too, working for the greater glory of God.’

  ‘All right,’ agreed Langelee tiredly, aware that to refuse would almost certainly result in accusations that he was taking the Devil’s side. ‘But everyone else must begin packing immediately.’

  ‘Lord!’ groaned Michael, as the Master stepped down from the dais and the students swooped towards him, full of questions and objections. ‘He handled that badly. Now rumours will start that Michaelhouse has been targeted by a vengeful killer, and the other Colleges and hostels will assume we have done something to warrant the attack.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said Cynric, appearing suddenly at Bartholomew’s side. ‘Carton’s murder is more likely to be seen as part of the battle between the Church and the Sorcerer. Unusually for Cambridge, it is not a town –University division this time, because there are scholars and laymen in both factions. Unfortunately, it means no one knows who is on whose side. Like a civil war.’

  ‘He can be a gloomy fellow sometimes,’ said Michael, watching him walk away to help the other servants move the tables. ‘I wonder you put up with him, Matt.’

  ‘He has saved my life – and yours – more times than I care to remember.’

  ‘Well, there is that, I suppose,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘But which side will he choose in this looming battle between good and evil?’

  ‘It is not a battle between good and evil,’ argued Wynewyk. ‘It is a battle between two belief systems, each with its own merits and failings. The Sorcerer will not see himself as wicked, but as someone who offers a viable alternative to the Church.’

  ‘Wynewyk is right,’ said Bartholomew, seeing the monk was about to take issue. ‘And the Church can be repressive and dogmatic, so choosing between them may not be as simple as you think. It has adherents like William and Mildenale for a start, which does not render it attractive.’

  Michael regarded him with round eyes. ‘That is a contentious stance; perhaps William is right to say you dance too closely with heresy. However, while I might – might – concede your point, please do not express that opinion to anyone else. I do not want to see you on a pyre in the Market Square.’

  Langelee had barely quit the dais before William was in full preaching mode, declaring loudly that no one would die if he put his trust in God and stayed away from Dominicans. Mildenale stood behind him, whispering in his ear, and Bartholomew noted unhappily that William’s booming voice and Mildenale’s sharp intelligence were a formidable combination. Michael watched in horror as the students began to be swayed by the tirade and, not wanting the Black Friars banging on the gate and demanding apologies for such undeserved slander, he stepped forward hastily.

  ‘You interrupted the Master before he had time to explain himself!’ he shouted, banging on the high table with a pewter plate in order to still the clamour and make himself heard. ‘The reason you are being asked to leave has nothing to do with Carton, and nothing to do with Dominicans being in league with the Sorcerer, either. It is because of the latrines.’

  A startled silence met his claim. Langelee tried to look as though he knew what the monk was talking about, but failed dismally. Fortunately, everyone else was too intent on gaping at Michael to notice the Master’s feeble attempt to appear knowledgeable.

  ‘What about them?’ asked William eventually.

  ‘The trenches are almost full, and Matt thinks the miasma that hangs around them in this ungodly heat will give everyone the flux,’ elaborated Michael. It was the physician’s turn to conceal his surprise, although he hoped he managed it better than Langelee. ‘New on
es will be dug, but until they are ready, it is safer for you all to go home.’

  ‘But the Fellows will be here,’ said Deynman the librarian. ‘They still need to—’

  ‘We will use the smaller pit by the stables,’ replied Michael smoothly. ‘It can cope with Fellows, but not with students and commoners, too, which is why you must all disappear for a week.’

  ‘Why did the Master not say this straight away?’ asked Mildenale, not unreasonably.

  ‘Because heads of Colleges do not air such unsavoury topics in public,’ supplied Deynman before Michael could think of a reply that Mildenale would believe. ‘It is undignified, and they leave that sort of thing to senior proctors, who are less refined.’

  ‘Thank you, Deynman,’ said Michael, a pained expression on his face. ‘Now, unless the Master has any more to add, I suggest you all go and make ready for an early departure tomorrow.’

  Bartholomew was obliged to field a welter of enquiries about the relationship between latrines and miasmas, and it was difficult to answer without contradicting what the monk had said. While he believed that dirty latrines could and did harbour diseases, he was becoming increasingly convinced that the current flux had its origins in heat-spoiled meat. However, he supposed some good would come out of Michael’s lie, because Langelee would have no choice but to order new pits dug now, which was something the physician had been requesting for months.

  ‘They were more interested in your theories about hygiene than distressed over Carton,’ observed Michael, coming to talk to him when most of the students had left and only the Fellows and commoners remained. ‘What an indictment of his popularity.’

  ‘I am sorry he is dead,’ said Deynman, coming to stand with them while they waited for Mildenale and William to finish talking to the Master. ‘He always returned his library books on time, which cannot be said for everyone. You two, for example.’

  Bartholomew smiled sheepishly. ‘Bradwardine’s Proportiones Breves. I will bring it tomorrow.’