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

by Gregory, Susanna

  ‘You said that yesterday,’ replied Deynman, unappeased.

  ‘Is that the only tribute you can pay Carton?’ asked Michael, hoping to sidetrack him. He was still using Lombard’s Sentences, and did not want to give it back. ‘That he was good at remembering when his library books were due?’

  Deynman frowned, and Bartholomew could see him desperately trying to think of something nice to say. A naturally affable, positive soul, Deynman was always willing to look for the good in people, even when there was not much to find, and the fact that he was struggling said a lot about Carton. The Fellow had not been unpleasant, surly or rude; he had just not been very friendly, and had done little to make his colleagues like him.

  ‘He donated three medical books to the library,’ said Deynman eventually, looking pleased with himself for having thought of something. Then his face fell. ‘Damn! I was not supposed to tell you about those. He said they are heretical and should be burned, but could not bring himself to do it, so he gave them to me to look after instead. The only condition was that I never let you or your students read them, lest you become infected with the poisonous theories they propound.’

  ‘What books?’ demanded Bartholomew keenly. Texts were hideously expensive, and the College did not own many, especially on medicine. The notion of three more was an exciting prospect.

  Deynman opened his mouth to reply, then snapped it shut again when he realised he could not remember. So he led them to his ‘library’ – a corner of the hall with shelves, two chests and a table. Michaelhouse’s precious tomes were either locked in the boxes or chained to the walls, depending on their value and popularity.

  ‘Brother Michael can inspect them,’ he said, kneeling to unlock the larger and stronger of the two chests. ‘But not you, Doctor Bartholomew. Carton made me promise.’

  He presented three rather tatty items to Michael, who opened them and shrugged. ‘You are already familiar with these, Matt. They are by Arab practitioners, and Carton was a bit of a bigot regarding foreign learning. However, I doubt Ibn Sina’s Canon will set the world on fire.’

  ‘I hope not,’ replied Bartholomew dryly. ‘It has been an established part of the curriculum for decades.’ He saw the librarian’s blank look, and wondered if any of the lectures the lad had attended over the last five years had stuck in his ponderous mind. ‘Ibn Sina is more commonly known as Avicenna, Deynman. You should know that, even if Carton did not, because you attended a whole series of debates on his writings last year.’

  Deynman frowned, then shrugged carelessly. ‘Did I? I do not recall. Incidentally, Mildenale told me Carton had collected a lot of texts on witchery, and said he was keeping them for a massive bonfire. He was going to have it in the Market Square, so everyone could enjoy it.’

  ‘Why would he do that?’ asked Bartholomew in distaste. Book-burning was deeply repellent to most scholars, regardless of what the tomes might contain, and the fact that Bartholomew was only learning now that Carton was the kind of person to do it underlined yet again how little he had known the man. The discovery did not make him wish he had made more of an effort.

  ‘Because he thought people should be aware of the huge volume of material that contains dangerous ideas, or is written by infidels,’ explained Deynman. He brightened. ‘Now he is dead, can I have them for the library? We do not own any books on the occult.’

  ‘I am glad to hear it – and I think we had better keep it that way,’ said Michael, amused. ‘However, Matt and I will sort through his belongings today, and the library shall have anything appropriate. I happen to know the College is the sole beneficiary of his will, so they will come to us anyway.’

  ‘Good,’ said Deynman. ‘But make sure you get to them before Mildenalus Sanctus does. He disapproved of Carton’s collection. I heard them arguing about it several times. He thought Carton should give them to him for destruction, but Carton refused. A couple of the rows were quite heated.’

  ‘I see,’ said Michael, exchanging a significant glance with Bartholomew. ‘This is interesting. We shall have to ask him about it.’

  ‘He will probably deny it,’ said Deynman. ‘He and Carton pretended they were the best of friends when I asked them to squabble somewhere other than around my books, but I know what I heard. But I am a busy man, and have no time to waste chatting. I want my books back today, and if you forget, I shall fine you. I can, because I am librarian.’ He turned on his heel and swaggered away.

  ‘Sometimes, I think promoting him to that post was not a very good idea,’ said Michael, watching him go. ‘He has turned into a despot.’

  While Michael lingered, waiting to catch Mildenale and William as they left the hall, Bartholomew went to Carton’s room in search of the books. Normally, he would have been uneasy rifling through a colleague’s possessions, especially one so recently dead, but the fact that Carton had owned medical texts – albeit ones with which he was already familiar – made him hope that the Franciscan might have a few even more interesting items secreted away.

  But he was to be disappointed. There was indeed a collection of texts locked in a chest at the bottom of Carton’s bed – his students showed him where he hid the key – but it contained nothing to excite the curiosity of a medicus. There were several essays on Blood Relics, all of which supported the Dominican side of the debate, and a series of tracts scribed by Jewish and Arabic philosophers that the Franciscan had evidently deemed unfit for English eyes. Then there were three scrolls that told their readers how to make magic charms, while a large, heavy book, carefully wrapped in black cloth, proudly declared itself to be a practical manual for witches.

  ‘He was going to burn them,’ said one of Carton’s room-mates, watching Bartholomew flick through the manual. It was not comfortable reading, even for a man who had encountered similar texts at the universities of Padua and Montpellier. ‘And he kept them locked away in the meantime, so no one would inadvertently see one and become contaminated.’

  ‘But you knew where he kept the key,’ Bartholomew pointed out, knowing that locked chests in Colleges were regarded as challenges, not barriers, and room-mates expected to be familiar with their friends’ intimate possessions. ‘You could have read these texts any time he was not here.’

  ‘We would not have dared,’ replied the student grimly. ‘He would have known, and we did not want to annoy him. He took his privacy far more seriously than you other Fellows.’

  Bartholomew carried the theological and philosophical texts to Deynman, and handed the ones on the occult to Langelee. The Master started to peruse the guide to witchcraft, but soon became bored with its arcane language and secret symbols. He shoved it on a high shelf in his office, where Bartholomew imagined it would languish until it was forgotten.

  The physician returned to the hall, to find Michael had been talking to Agatha the laundress. Agatha had exempted herself from the rule that no women were allowed inside University buildings, and ran the domestic side of the College with a fierce efficiency; scholars crossed her at their peril. She was, however, a valuable source of information, and Bartholomew was not surprised the monk had picked her brains about the various matters he was obliged to investigate.

  ‘So, I know nothing about any of it,’ she was saying. She sounded sorry; she liked to help the monk with his investigations, because it made her feel powerful. ‘Not about Carton, the desecration of Margery and Danyell, the blood in the font, or Bene’t’s missing goats. However, I can tell you one thing you should know: the meat is spoiled for tonight’s supper, and I only bought it yesterday.’

  ‘What are we going to eat, then?’ demanded Michael, alarmed.

  ‘You can either have onion soup, which is safe, or you can risk a stew.’

  ‘Not stew,’ said Bartholomew quickly, knowing the monk would go a long way to avoid eating anything that contained vegetables. ‘You know I think bad meat might be causing the flux.’

  ‘Then give the students the soup, but find a couple of chickens for the
Fellows,’ ordered Michael, slipping her a few coins. He watched her walk away, jangling the silver in her large, competent hands. ‘What did you learn from Carton’s books, Matt? Were they full of heresy?’

  ‘The witches’ manual and the recipes for charms are a bit dubious, but the rest are perfectly sound. He was over-reacting, just as he over-reacted with the medical texts.’

  Michael gazed down the hall, where Mildenale was advising his students on the safest route home. ‘We will need to replace Carton, but I do not want him to take the post.’

  ‘I doubt he would accept, anyway, not when he is on the verge of founding his own hostel.’ Bartholomew glanced at the monk. ‘Is it a good idea to grant him a licence? I suspect he intends to indoctrinate any students who enrol, so they all end up thinking like him.’

  Michael looked unhappy. ‘Unfortunately, he has the necessary charters. The College will benefit, though. We are planning to buy three shops from Mistress Refham, and arrangements are in place for him to rent them from us at a very respectable price.’

  Bartholomew frowned. ‘But Mistress Refham died months ago. How can she sell us property?’

  ‘Do you listen to nothing in Fellows’ meetings?’ demanded Michael in exasperated disgust. ‘On her deathbed, she left instructions that her son and his wife were to sell us the shops cheaply. Unfortunately, they are refusing to honour her last wishes, and the matter is with the lawyers.’

  Bartholomew mumbled something noncommittal – the monk’s explanation rang a vague bell – and watched Mildenale finish with his students. He started to move towards the man, but William got there first, and the two friars immediately began a low-voiced discussion. Mildenale seemed to be doing most of the talking, and Bartholomew picked up the word ‘Dominican’ in the tirade.

  ‘Carton was much less vocal about the Black Friars than the others,’ mused Michael, who had also heard. ‘I wonder what Mildenale and William thought about that.’

  Bartholomew regarded him uneasily. ‘You think one of them might have killed him over it?’

  Michael raised his hands in a shrug. ‘They are fanatics, and thus a law unto themselves. Who knows what they might do in the name of religion? I thought William knew the boundaries, but he is not intelligent and may have been persuaded that anything goes in the war against the Devil.’

  Bartholomew was appalled. ‘I sincerely hope you are wrong.’

  ‘So do I,’ said Michael grimly. ‘But let us see what Mildenalus Sanctus has to say about his fallen comrade. We will tackle William afterwards; I do not feel like interviewing them together.’

  As usual, Mildenale’s hands were clasped before him and he was gazing heavenward. A student mimicked his pious posture, although he desisted abruptly when Michael frowned at him.

  ‘I am not sure what I can tell you,’ said Mildenale, when the monk asked whether he knew anything that might solve Carton’s murder. ‘His devotion to stamping out wickedness earned him enemies, but that is to be expected in a soldier of God. I wonder who will be next, William or me?’

  ‘You think someone might be targeting zealots?’ asked Michael, rather baldly.

  Mildenale regarded him in surprise. ‘Carton was not a zealot, Brother. What a dreadful thing to say! He was just determined to speak out against sin, as am I. And with God’s help, I shall succeed.’

  ‘If you think you might be in danger, you should stay in,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘Until—’

  ‘I will take my chances.’ Mildenale’s smile was beatific. ‘God will stop any daggers that come my way, because He is keen for me to open my hostel.’

  ‘I hear you argued with Carton over the burning of some books,’ said Michael.

  Mildenale nodded, rather defiantly. ‘He was collecting evil texts for a bonfire, but I thought it was dangerous to keep them indefinitely, and wanted to incinerate them at once. We quarrelled about it on several occasions, but he stubbornly refused to see that I was right.’

  ‘Some people think Carton was the Sorcerer,’ said Michael, again somewhat bluntly. He did not bother to address the fact that Carton had doubtless thought he was right, too.

  Mildenale gaped at him. ‘Of course he was not the Sorcerer! What has got into you today, making all these odd remarks? If Carton had been the Sorcerer, do you think he would have railed against him so vehemently? He was by far the most outspoken of us on that particular issue. William and I tend to denounce evil in general, rather than damning individual heathens.’

  ‘Do you think the Sorcerer killed him, then?’ asked Michael.

  Mildenale thought for a moment, then shook his head. ‘No, because the Sorcerer has never stooped to violence before, and we have been battling each other for weeks now. Of course, fighting would be a lot easier if we knew who he was, but the fellow eludes us at every turn.’

  ‘He eludes me, too,’ said Michael with a weary sigh. ‘Where were you yesterday afternoon? No, do not look offended. It is a question I must ask everyone who knew Carton.’

  ‘In church, praying. I am afraid no one can verify it, but I am not a man given to lies. There is no reason why you should not believe me.’

  ‘Right,’ said Michael. ‘Do you know of anyone who was especially irritated by Carton’s views?’

  ‘The Dominicans,’ replied Mildenale immediately and predictably. ‘And the canons at Barnwell were not keen on him, either, because he did something of which they did not approve.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘He told a lie about Sewale Cottage – the house they want to buy from us. He said a merchant called Spynk offered ten marks for it, whereas Spynk had actually only stipulated nine. They raised their bid to eleven marks, and were peeved when they later learned they had been misled.’

  ‘They said nothing about this to me,’ said Michael, startled and a little angry.

  ‘I am sure they did not,’ said Mildenale. ‘But it is true – Carton told me himself. He liked the canons, but was prepared to do all he could to secure Michaelhouse the best possible price.’

  Michael turned to Bartholomew. ‘It looks as though we shall have to visit Barnwell again.’

  ‘Mildenale did not seem overly distressed about Carton,’ said Bartholomew, sitting on one of the hall benches. They still needed to talk to William. ‘Carton was one of his closest companions, and they held similar views, yet he received news of the murder with remarkable aplomb.’

  ‘That did not escape my notice, either. He is almost as difficult to read as Carton, hiding as he does behind a veil of piety. Do you think they had a fatal falling out over these “heretical” texts?’

  ‘I cannot see Mildenale wielding a dagger, especially in a chapel.’ Bartholomew rubbed his eyes, which felt sore and scratchy. ‘I wish I was not so tired. We shall need our wits about us if we are to catch a man who has no compunction about killing priests.’

  ‘I would suggest you apply for sabbatical leave, because you do need a rest. But you were away all last year, so you have had your turn. And I would refuse to let you go, anyway. It was tiresome being without my Corpse Examiner.’

  ‘You had a Corpse Examiner: Rougham.’

  Michael grimaced. ‘Who did not diagnose a single suspicious death in fifteen months. I still wonder how many murderers walk our streets, laughing at me because their crimes have gone undetected. In fact, there was one case when I was certain something untoward had happened, but Rougham was unshakeable in his conviction that both deaths were natural.’

  ‘Both deaths?’

  ‘John Hardy and his wife. Do you remember them? He was a member of Bene’t College, but resigned his Fellowship when he married. Because he was an ex-scholar, I was asked to look into what had happened to him. The couple lived near Barnwell Priory.’

  Bartholomew frowned. ‘They owned a big yellow house. Cynric told me it had burned down.’

  ‘There was a rumour that it was set alight by the canons. Naturally, I questioned Prior Norton, but he said the inferno had nothing to do with t
hem. I was inclined to believe him, because there was no reason for the Augustinians to incinerate the place.’

  ‘Were Hardy and his wife in the building when it went up?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily.

  ‘No, the fire was weeks after they died, and the house was empty. The gossip that the canons set the blaze originated with Father Thomas.’

  Bartholomew regarded him askance. ‘And what was Thomas’s reason for starting such a tale?’

  ‘First, he pointed out that the Hardy house was very close to Barnwell Priory. And second, he claimed that Podiolo becomes a wolf once the sun goes down, and is assisted in his various acts of evil by Fencotes, the walking corpse.’

  ‘Lord!’ muttered Bartholomew, struggling not to laugh. ‘Was he serious?’

  ‘He never joked about religion. Fortunately, no one knew one small fact that might have lent his accusations more clout: the Hardys dabbled in witchcraft.’

  Bartholomew thought about the pleasant couple and found that hard to believe. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I found all manner of satanic regalia in their home. Prudently, I removed it before anyone saw, and Beadle Meadowman burned it for me. I do not think the Hardys were great magicians like the Sorcerer but there was certainly evidence to suggest they had pretensions.’

  ‘Then perhaps they were killed because they were Devil-worshippers.’

  ‘It is possible. But Thomas did not know what they did in their spare time, so there is no reason to suppose anyone else did, either.’

  ‘How did they die?’

  ‘Rougham said of natural causes. They were in bed, side by side, and slipped away in their sleep.’

  Bartholomew was incredulous. ‘Both of them? That is not very likely.’

  ‘I spent hours in their house, searching for an explanation. There was no evidence of a struggle, or that a killer had cleaned up after one. There was no sign of a forced entry, and the washed pots in the kitchen indicated they had dined alone – no visitors or guests. Their bodies were unmarked, and there was nothing that looked as if it might have contained poison. Nothing.’