Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘Why would the Devil attack Goldynham? He was an upright man.’
‘The Sorcerer arranged it, I expect,’ replied Eyton with a shrug. A number of his parishioners nodded their agreement. ‘I cannot think of any other explanation. Can you?’
‘I can think of several,’ replied Michael coolly. ‘And I detect a human hand in this outrage, not a supernatural one. What happened next?’
‘I fetched Master Heltisle,’ said Eyton. ‘And we thought you should investigate the matter.’
‘Oh, I shall,’ said Michael. It sounded like a threat.
‘I wanted the Sheriff to come, too,’ said Heltisle. ‘The churchyard is University property, but Goldynham was a townsman – I am not quite sure where jurisdiction lies. But he is out chasing robbers on the Huntingdon Way, and so is unavailable.’
‘We will liaise,’ said Michael. He and Tulyet worked well together, and there were none of the usual territorial tussles that took place between powerful institutions.
Meanwhile, Bartholomew became aware that people were looking expectantly at him, and realised it was time to do his duty. He moved cautiously towards the body, forcing his feet to move, because although he did not believe Eyton’s tale it had done little to dispel the sense of unease that had been dogging him ever since he had left Michaelhouse.
‘Has anyone touched anything?’ he asked.
‘Certainly not,’ said Heltisle, shooting him an unpleasant glance. ‘I am no Corpse Examiner, thank you very much. And my porters have kept everyone else back.’
Bartholomew saw Younge by the grave, shoving the more ghoulish of the onlookers away with unnecessary force. He was assisted by three cronies, all rough, sullen men with missing teeth and scarred knuckles. Their Bene’t uniforms were filthy, and all four looked disreputable and unkempt.
As he approached the tomb, Bartholomew was painfully reminded of what had happened to Margery – loose soil scattered carelessly around a gaping hole, and a body flung across it like a piece of rubbish. One of Goldynham’s arms dangled into the pit, as if he was trying to crawl back in. A wooden cross, which had marked the tomb until a more permanent monument could be erected, had been hurled to one side. So had a shovel.
‘Goldynham was excavated with that,’ said Bartholomew, indicating it with a nod. It was old but in good repair, with a sharp edge for cutting through sun-hardened soil. Damp clay still adhered to it, indicating that the silversmith’s grave, like Margery’s, had been deep.
‘No, Goldynham exhumed himself,’ argued Eyton. ‘He used his bare hands.’
‘His hands are clean,’ said Bartholomew, kneeling to pick one up and show him. He resisted the urge to shudder at the feel of the cold, earth-moist skin. ‘Had he been scrabbling his way clear of a grave, there would be dirt on his fingers. He did not do this himself.’
Heltisle regarded him with a good deal of contempt. ‘You seem very sure of yourself. Why are you so familiar with what happens when a grave is despoiled?’
‘It is a matter of simple logic,’ said Bartholomew evenly, declining to let the man’s hostile manner rile him. ‘Clawing through soil results in dirty hands. And the spade is there, for all to see.’
‘He is right,’ said the Eagle’s taverner, stepping forward to look for himself. ‘The earth is damp at the bottom of the grave, and it matches the damp soil on the spade. That means it was used to—’
‘But I know what I saw,’ cried Eyton, dismayed. ‘There was no one digging but Goldynham himself. Perhaps he had the spade with him when he was buried.’
‘He did not,’ said Bartholomew, astonished that the priest should make such a claim – and alarmed that some of his congregation seemed ready to believe it. They were nodding and nudging each other, and there was more amulet-gripping. ‘Someone would have noticed. Besides, he was a wealthy man, and if he had wanted a spade in his coffin, he would have chosen a better one than that.’
‘He died suddenly, so perhaps he did not have the luxury of being selective,’ suggested Eyton, unwilling to give up. ‘Or perhaps that was a favourite implement, one he had owned a long time. Your colleagues – William and Mildenale – would understand what is happening here.’
‘And what is that?’ asked Bartholomew. The question was out before he could stop himself, and too late he realised he had provided the priest with the perfect opening for a rant. Eyton took a deep breath and began, advising his audience not to forget about the Sorcerer and his recent increase in power. Then he took the opportunity to let the crowd know that another batch of his holy amulets would be available for sale the following morning, and that God-fearing folk who did not want to fall prey to witches should consider investing in one.
‘What about warts?’ called one parishioner. ‘The Sorcerer is better at curing them than any of the other witches, but if he is growing powerful and dangerous, does that mean we cannot approach him for help with warts?’
‘Of course you may approach him,’ replied Eyton amiably. ‘Just make sure you are wearing one of my amulets when you do so.’
Michael shook his head. ‘Eyton is a strange fellow,’ he murmured. ‘On the one hand, he claims to have hurled holy water over a demon-possessed corpse, while on the other he advocates visits to the Sorcerer for cures. But never mind him. What can you tell me about Goldynham?’
Reluctantly, Bartholomew turned his attention to the body. The silversmith had not fared well from his time in the ground. His skin was dark and mottled, and his stomach distended. The physician conducted the most perfunctory of examinations, unwilling to perform a more detailed one in front of spectators, so it was not surprising when he found there was little to say.
‘Rougham said he died of a quinsy,’ he replied in a low voice, so as not to be overheard. ‘And he seems to be intact – no missing fingers, toes, hands, ears or hair. He has been excavated in exactly the same way as Margery: the culprit took a spade and dug down to the body, throwing soil in all directions. He did not pile it neatly to one side, suggesting he had no intention of reburying his victim. He does not care who sees his handiwork.’
Michael was thoughtful. ‘Goldynham and Margery were decent folk, and I cannot believe either had serious enemies. They knew each other, but were not friends or kin. Ergo, I doubt this act of desecration is personal, so there must be another reason why they were picked. What could it be?’
Bartholomew shrugged. ‘They were both buried on Ascension Day. Perhaps that date has some dark significance for one of the town’s covens.’
‘It is possible,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘However, it is equally possible that someone wants the witches blamed, to bring them trouble. What else can you tell me?’
Bartholomew tried to review the situation objectively, closing his mind to the fact that he was in a churchyard at night, kneeling next to a corpse that had been unlawfully exhumed. ‘Perhaps we are reading too much into the situation. Margery and Goldynham were wealthy, so their graves are tempting targets for thieves. Hence Eyton saw not Goldynham moving about, but a robber, who fled because he was about to be caught, not because he was doused with holy water.’
Michael nodded. ‘You are almost certainly right. Has the villain left anything that might allow us to identify him this time?’
Bartholomew took a torch, and spent a long time inspecting the ground around the tomb, but despite the fact that the thief had almost been caught red-handed, he had left no clues behind.
Michael was disappointed by the physician’s findings – or lack thereof – although he was careful not to let his frustration show. He did not want it said that the incident had him confounded. Calmly, he asked Heltisle whether everyone might adjourn to Bene’t College. Heltisle was not keen on having laymen in his domain, but was not so rash as to refuse a direct request from the Senior Proctor. He nodded acquiescence, and led scholars, parishioners and Guild members through the back gate and into his hall. Younge was on hand to make sure no one misbehaved, and exerted his autho
rity by forcing everyone to remove their shoes before stepping on the beautifully polished floors.
‘What shall we do about Goldynham?’ asked Heltisle, while they waited for the horde to assemble. He stood on the dais with Michael and Eyton, while Bartholomew hovered to one side. ‘We do not want him escaping a second time, so I am not sure reburial is a good idea.’
‘It is a good idea,’ countered Bartholomew immediately. ‘He represents a danger to health as long as he remains above ground. He should be re-interred tonight.’
‘I do not choose to toss him back in the earth like so much rubbish,’ declared Heltisle haughtily. ‘I know Michaelhouse did it to Margery Sewale, but Bene’t treats its dead with more respect. My porters will take him to the church, and I shall rebury him when I see fit.’
Bartholomew shrugged, knowing from the arrogant jut of Heltisle’s chin that there was no point in trying to persuade him otherwise. ‘It is your decision, and I suppose the chapel is cool …’
‘I had better splash a bit more holy water on him when we have finished here, then,’ said Eyton with a merry wink. ‘That and a prayer or two should stop him from wandering off again tonight.’
‘And that goes to show how fine is the line between religion and sorcery,’ murmured Michael to the physician. ‘Eyton’s incantations and charms are not so different from those used by warlocks to ward off undesirable forces.’
Bartholomew watched two porters leave to do their Master’s bidding, wondering whether he had acted with indecent haste when he had reburied Margery. He supposed he would find out if Eyton – who, as St Bene’t’s priest, would spend the most time in Goldynham’s noxious company – became ill.
Once everyone was in the hall, standing in shuffling, jostling rows, Michael began to speak.
‘Goldynham was a wealthy man, and his grave was robbed because a thief was after jewellery,’ he declared. ‘The same is true for Margery Sewale – she was buried without ornaments, but the culprit was not to know that. Eyton saw the thief – not Goldynham – who immediately took to his heels and fled when he realised he was about to be caught. This unsavoury incident has nothing to do with witchery.’
Sensible men, like the landlord of the Eagle, nodded acceptance of this version of events, but it was a dull explanation, and others were less inclined to believe it. Unfortunately, one was Heltisle.
‘You are letting Bartholomew’s opinions cloud your judgement,’ he said coldly. ‘Father William told me he dabbles in the dark arts, and is learning secrets from Mother Valeria. And he killed Father Thomas, too, when the poor man spoke out against heretics.’
‘Doctor Bartholomew is no heretic,’ shouted a familiar voice. It was Isnard the bargeman. He had lost his crutches, which was not an unusual occurrence when he was drunk, and was being held up by members of the Guild of Corpus Christi. ‘Nor does he kill his patients. Not deliberately, at least.’
‘Your testimony is tainted, Isnard,’ said Heltisle scornfully. ‘You are so desperate to be allowed back in the Michaelhouse Choir that you will say anything to curry favour.’
‘Well, yes, I would,’ admitted Isnard blithely. ‘But in this case, it happens to be the truth. And before you say it, he is not the Sorcerer, either. He has no time for that sort of caper, what with all this flux about.’
‘Who is the Sorcerer, then?’ demanded Heltisle, as if he imagined the bargeman might know. ‘The fellow holds half the town in his sway, but none of us know his name.’
‘I have a few ideas,’ said Eyton genially. There were calls for him to share his suspicions, so he began to oblige. His list was extensive, and included the Sheriff, Mother Valeria, Chancellor Tynkell, Podiolo, Arblaster and the University’s stationer. Bartholomew was relieved when no one from Michaelhouse featured in his analysis.
‘Can you not stop him?’ Michael asked of Heltisle, as people began to call out reasons why one suspect was more likely to be the Sorcerer than the others. ‘He is a member of your College, and you must have some control over the fellow. These accusations are likely to cause trouble.’
‘I have no wish to stop him,’ said Heltisle coldly. ‘He is right to warn folk of the dangers they face. The town has been plagued by some very odd happenings of late, and we should ignore them at our peril. Take our goats, for example. Seven were stolen – and seven is a mystical number.’
‘Is it?’ asked Bartholomew tiredly. ‘I did not know that.’
‘I am sure you did,’ countered Heltisle nastily. ‘It is the kind of thing all wicked—’
Michael interrupted by elbowing him and Eyton off the dais and repeating his speech about grave-robbers. By the time he had dismissed the crowd, half seemed ready to believe him, although the rest remained sceptical. He was disappointed not to have convinced more, although Bartholomew thought he had done well enough, given the town’s current preference for supernatural explanations over rational ones.
‘I suppose it could have been worse,’ said Heltisle, watching Younge oust the lingerers, so that only he, Eyton, Michael and the physician remained. ‘We buried a student today – the one you failed to save, Bartholomew. My lads would have been distressed had it been him rising from his grave.’
‘He would have been a prettier sight than Goldynham,’ quipped Eyton rather inappropriately. ‘However, we should be grateful it was not Mistress Refham. She is important to both our Colleges, because not only did she order those three shops sold to Michaelhouse at a very reduced rate, but she was generous to Bene’t, too. I would not have wanted to throw holy water at her.’
‘I thought it was her at first,’ said Heltisle. ‘I never have been very good at remembering who went where in cemeteries. Unlike the Corpse Examiner, I imagine.’
‘What do you mean by that?’ demanded Bartholomew, becoming tired of the man’s sly insinuations. There had always been a degree of antagonism between him and Heltisle, but they usually managed a veneer of civility. He wondered what he had done to upset the balance.
Heltisle regarded him with dislike. ‘I mean you have been implicated in some very dubious happenings of late. It was you who found Danyell’s mutilated corpse, and there was the blood in your College’s baptismal font. Moreover, you have never hidden your belief that anatomy is a viable branch of medicine. Perhaps the blood was Danyell’s, spilled as you lopped off his hand.’
‘You do not “lop off ” limbs in anatomy,’ snapped Bartholomew, thinking the remarks highlighted the man’s ignorance. ‘It is a precise art, in which lopping plays no part.’
Heltisle took a step away, startled by his vehemence. Michael laid a warning finger on the physician’s arm, to prevent him from sharing any other details about a technique that was not only illegal in England but that was generally considered abhorrent. Fortunately, the discussion was cut short by Younge, who approached with two people trailing at his heels. He was scowling.
‘Here are David and Joan Refham, Master Heltisle. It is late for visitors, and I would have sent them packing, but you said I should be nice to them because you think they might give our College some of their mother’s money.’
Heltisle winced at his porter’s bold remarks, then turned to the couple with an ingratiating smile, although the indignant expression on Refham’s face suggested any effort to make amends for Younge’s words would be a waste of time. With oily charm, Heltisle ushered them to a bench and plied them with wine. Refham snatched the proffered goblet, downed its contents in a gulp, and tossed the goblet on the floor. Joan sniffed hers, then set it aside with a moue of distaste that was offensive.
‘Is that my mother’s grave, all dug up?’ demanded Refham. ‘Your lout Younge refused to tell me. Why you continue to employ him is a mystery to me. I would have hanged him years ago.’
‘It was Goldynham,’ replied Heltisle soothingly. ‘Your mother has not been touched.’
‘Good,’ said Refham coldly. ‘I would not have been happy if she had.’
‘Nor would I,’ added Joan. ‘And when we a
re not happy, it is not good for anyone.’
‘No?’ asked Michael mildly. ‘And why is that?’
‘Because I say so,’ replied Refham. ‘And woe betide anyone who steps in my way. Believe me, you want to keep me happy.’
‘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.’
The Devil's Disciples: The Fourteenth Chronicle Of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 17