‘I am a good judge of people, Brother,’ said the merchant eventually. ‘And I sense you are an honest, straightforward fellow. You will have had nothing to do with the Bishop’s reign of terror.’
Bartholomew stifled a laugh, thinking Spynk was not as good a judge as he imagined; Michael was the last man who could be considered straightforward. Or honest, for that matter. Then he was obliged to jump away smartly, when Cecily edged even closer to him.
‘You examined Danyell’s body,’ she said, reaching out to rest her hand on his chest when his sideways jig trapped him between the wall and a tree. ‘Are you sure he was not murdered?’
‘No one can ever be sure about such matters,’ replied Bartholomew. When she frowned, considering the implications of his remark, he seized the opportunity to slither past her. His new position put him in the full glare of the sun, but that seemed a small price to pay.
‘What do you mean?’ demanded Spynk. His eyes narrowed as he became aware of the curious dance that was taking place between his wife and her intended victim.
‘What I say,’ replied Bartholomew, balancing on the balls of his feet, ready to initiate evasive manoeuvres if Cecily advanced again. ‘Determining causes of death is not an exact art. However, your descriptions of the pain Danyell had been experiencing in his chest and arm strongly indicate a natural seizure. Why do you ask whether he was murdered?’
‘Because the case against the Bishop is weakened without his testimony,’ replied Spynk, going to take Cecily’s hand and pushing her rather unceremoniously on to the bench next to Michael. She glowered sulkily at him. ‘And we are suspicious of it. Perhaps de Lisle ordered Danyell’s death.’
‘De Lisle is not stupid,’ said Michael, standing hastily and going to lean against the wall. ‘He would not kill in any circumstances, but he is not such a fool as to attack someone who has challenged him in a court of law. How will he prove his innocence, if the complainant is dead?’
Spynk shot him a look that said it was impossible de Lisle could be innocent. ‘What about Danyell’s clothes?’ he demanded. ‘Have you found them yet?’
‘His body had been stripped when Doctor Bartholomew found it,’ explained Cecily, when Michael looked blank. ‘He said Danyell had been dead for hours, so there was plenty of time for thieves to act.’
‘Damned vultures!’ snapped Spynk, resting a heavy hand on her shoulder as she attempted to rise. ‘They even stole the sample stone he carried. I saw it under his arm when he left the house that night.’
‘More importantly, what about his missing hand?’ asked Cecily, trying to squirm away. Spynk’s grip intensified, and she winced. ‘The Bishop—’
‘The missing hand had nothing to do with de Lisle,’ said Michael quickly. He did not want her to start the rumour that the Bishop had a penchant for dead men’s limbs, because that was a tale that would be popular. The prelate’s haughty manners had not earned him many friends in Cambridge.
Spynk did not look convinced. ‘Perhaps his henchmen took it, to prove Danyell was dead.’
‘What henchmen?’ asked Bartholomew, puzzled. ‘You mean his vicars?’
‘I mean the louts who run his estates. There are about fifteen of them, all surly villains who would slit anyone’s throat for a piece of silver. The two worst are Osbern le Hawker and John Brownsley. Osbern persecuted me while Brownsley led the attack on Danyell’s house.’
Bartholomew was not sure what he was saying. ‘Are you telling us these men are in Cambridge?’
Spynk looked shifty. ‘Well, I have not seen them personally, but Danyell’s death has their mark upon it. They are the kind of villains who would hack a limb from a man while he still lives.’
‘The physical evidence suggests the hand was taken after Danyell died,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I know this because the blood vessels of a corpse are—’
‘The Bishop and his people played no role in Danyell’s death,’ interrupted Michael, before the Spynks could be told something they would probably rather not know. ‘Your friend died of natural causes, and someone later stole his fingers because witches are rather active here at the moment. However, the outrage will not go unpunished, and I will catch the man who desecrated him. But I need your help.’
‘We know about Cambridge’s warlocks,’ said Cecily, finally managing to escape her husband’s restraining grip. Bartholomew aimed for the table, putting it between her and him. ‘There was a tale only this morning that a silversmith dug his way clear of his grave in order to visit his favourite tavern. Perhaps you are right in claiming that this has nothing to do with de Lisle, Brother. It will not be the first time my husband has been proven wrong.’
Spynk glared at her, but then a crafty expression infused his face. ‘If we help you prove the Bishop is innocent of harming Danyell, will you back my bid to buy Sewale Cottage?’
‘No,’ replied Michael curtly. ‘You will help me because obstructing my investigation might see you in prison. The house business is a completely separate matter.’
Spynk was unperturbed by the threat, and treated Michael to a conspiratorial wink. ‘I understand. You say this because you still want the silk I offered earlier.’
‘I will help you, Brother,’ said Cecily, cutting across the indignant denial. She stalked provocatively towards the table; Bartholomew tensed, waiting to see which way he would need to dodge to avoid her.
‘She knows nothing,’ said Spynk contemptuously. He turned to the monk. ‘However, I can repeat what I told you when we first learned Danyell was dead. He was a regular visitor to our Norwich home – I cannot recall all the times I found Cecily entertaining him. When I heard de Lisle’s other victims were going to formalise their complaints in London, I asked him to travel with us, and do likewise.’
‘He was the best company in Norfolk,’ added Cecily, shooting her husband a look that showed the remark was intended to wound. ‘He made me laugh. I imagine you like a joke, too, Doctor?’
‘He never laughs with women,’ said Michael, moving to interpose his bulk between predator and prey. ‘He prefers men.’
‘The best ones always do,’ sighed Cecily, with a grimace of resignation.
‘We are supposed to be talking about Danyell,’ said Michael irritably, trying to bring the discussion back on track. ‘You told me the last time we spoke that he went for a walk alone, even though he was not in the best of health. Why did he do that?’
‘Perhaps he wanted to consult a medicus,’ replied Spynk, shrugging in a way that said he thought the question was an irrelevancy.
‘He did not see Paxtone, Rougham or me,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And we are the only physicians in Cambridge. Or are you saying he went to consult a different kind of healer?’
‘He might have done,’ admitted Spynk. His tone was distinctly cagey. ‘He thought witches’ cures are more efficacious than those of book-trained men.’
‘I see,’ said Michael. ‘What else did he think? That sorcery offers more answers than the Church?’
Cecily smiled at him, and ran her fingers down his sleeve. ‘We all think that, Brother. I used to be a devout Christian, but then the plague came and showed me that priests are no better than the rest of us. However, I am ready to be persuaded otherwise.’ She winked at him.
‘My wife makes a good point,’ said Spynk, stepping forward to grab her hand and pull her back. ‘Who can respect an organisation that has de Lisle as one of its leaders?’
‘De Lisle worked untiringly during the Death,’ said Michael quietly. ‘Some prelates deserted their posts, but he went out among the sick and the dying, giving what aid he could.’
‘Perhaps that was why so many of his parishioners died,’ suggested Spynk. ‘God declined to answer the petitions of such a sinner. Do not try to make him a saint, Brother. He is a villain, and men like him are the reason why so many of us have lost our faith – not in God, but in the Church.’
‘The Church is run by men,’ added Cecily, her eyes fixed on the monk. They seem
ed to glisten. ‘And we all know how fallible men can be.’
‘Danyell,’ prompted Michael, ignoring her. ‘You suggested he went out that night because he wanted a cure for his illness. Which healer did he intend to consult?’
‘He heard Mother Valeria was good,’ replied Cecily.
‘No,’ said Bartholomew, his mind working fast. ‘You claimed a few moments ago that a sample stone was stolen from his body, but why should he carry such a thing to Valeria? It sounds to me as though he was going to see a potential client. You have developed business interests here, so perhaps he did, too. He was a mason, and there is always a demand for good craftsmen.’
Spynk inclined his head. ‘You may be right. He specialised in tile floors, and never lacked for clients. I hear Sewale Cottage is in need of a new floor and that Michaelhouse will lay one as part of the terms of its sale. You should ask whether any of your colleagues secured his services, Brother. After all, he did die opposite that very house. And then he died before he could buy his cure.’
‘No Michaelhouse Fellow would have opened such negotiations without telling the rest of us,’ said the monk. ‘It is not how we operate.’
‘Really?’ asked Spynk slyly. ‘Your Franciscans are a law unto themselves, and neither you nor the Master seem able to silence their vicious tongues. Maybe one of them decided to see if he could get a good price for a new floor.’
‘And then chopped off Danyell’s hand to make it look as though witches killed him,’ added Cecily.
‘Cecily has taken a fancy to you, Matt,’ said Michael, as they left Spynk’s house. ‘Perhaps she hopes her amorous attentions will improve their chances of getting Sewale Cottage.’
‘Her interest faded the moment you made that remark about me preferring men. Now she will concentrate her efforts on you instead.’
Michael did not seem as discomfited as the physician felt he should have been. He smiled. ‘I will be a better proposition, anyway. You pay little attention to what transpires at Fellows’ meetings, so she was wasting her time if she expected you to put in a useful word on her husband’s behalf.’
‘I doubt that was her intention – there is scant affection in her marriage, and I suspect she is more likely to hinder Spynk than help him. Shall we go to see Mother Valeria, to ask if Danyell visited her the night he died?’
‘You can do that later, after dark, when hopefully no one will see you. We need to know whether she gave him a “cure” that may – deliberately or otherwise – have hastened his end.’
Bartholomew did not like the implications of that remark. ‘She is a healer, Brother. She does not kill her clients. Besides, I thought you had accepted my diagnosis that Danyell died of natural causes.’
‘I am inclined to keep an open mind, because nothing is as it should be at the moment. Perhaps the Sorcerer has an ability to bring about seizures, and saw Danyell – who seems to have been a fellow heathen – as competition. Or perhaps Valeria killed him because she wanted a dead man’s hand. You told me yourself that such items are believed to hold dark power.’
Despite the warmth of the sun, Bartholomew shuddered. ‘I will talk to her tonight.’
The monk sighed. ‘I dislike this kind of case – where we are obliged to tackle people’s religious convictions. I can tell Eyton that Goldynham did not scratch his own way out of his grave until I am blue in the face, but there is nothing I can do to make him believe me.’
‘It cannot last. Something will happen to show that all these events have perfectly logical explanations.’
‘Unfortunately, I suspect folk will be looking for supernatural ones for everything from now on, and that sort of thing is virtually impossible to combat. For example, William used a piece of cheese to mark his place in a library book last week, and it left a greasy stain. Deynman scattered the book with mugwort – a witch’s remedy – and this morning the blemish was gone. He says the Sorcerer is responsible, because the book was about astrology.’
Bartholomew looked sheepish. ‘That was me. I rubbed out the mark with chalk powder, because I could not sleep after the business with Goldynham, and it seemed a good way to pass the time.’
Michael grimaced. ‘But no one will believe you. It is much more exciting to think the Sorcerer mended the book, than a physician with chalk and time on his hands.’
They walked in silence for a while. It was a market day, and wares were being ferried to and from the stalls behind St Mary the Great. The heat was causing tempers to run high, and there was a fierce confrontation between Isnard and a butcher. The butcher was incensed by the accusation that he was selling bad produce, and hurled a kidney at the bargeman. It missed and struck a dog, which sniffed the missile, then trotted away with a whine and its tail between its legs.
‘Agatha says she will not buy any more meat until the Sorcerer has mended the weather,’ said Michael unhappily, watching the Sheriff ’s men step in when punches began to fly. ‘According to her, he intends to chant a few spells that will bring the heatwave to an end.’
‘And when the weather breaks of its own accord, he will say it was his doing. He cannot lose.’
Suddenly, Michael narrowed his eyes. ‘Refham is over there with Blaston the carpenter. What is a decent man like Blaston doing in such low company?’
‘I barely know Refham – his forge is out on the Huntingdon Way, so he does not spend much time in the town – but he does not seem overly pleasant.’
‘He is sly and greedy,’ declared Michael uncompromisingly. ‘Is money changing hands between him and Blaston? Yes, it is! And look at the furtive cant of Refham’s eyes. Joan is there, too, shielding what is happening from passers-by. It is clear they are up to no good.’
Blaston was one of Bartholomew’s patients, along with his wife Yolande and their twelve children. He was an amiable, trusting soul, and the physician did not like the notion that Refham might be in the process of cheating him. He started to walk towards them. Joan saw him coming and grabbed her husband’s arm, trying to steer him down an alley, but Refham was not so easily shifted. He freed his hand impatiently, his attention fixed on the carpenter.
‘Doctor!’ exclaimed Blaston pleasantly, when he turned to see what was causing Joan to act so strangely. ‘Do you know David Refham? He is a blacksmith by trade, and—’
‘I have not bothered with that work for some time now,’ interrupted Refham. ‘Manual labour is not for me. I prefer making money in other ways, such as by the sale of the properties I inherited. My aim is to buy a cottage in Luton and do nothing but lie in the sun and drink ale.’
‘What do you want with us?’ asked Joan, regarding the two scholars with barely concealed dislike. ‘If you think you can persuade us to lower the price on those houses, you can think again. We mean to get as much as we can, and they will be sold to the highest bidder.’
‘Everyone hates the University, so you will not find many townsmen sympathetic to your plight,’ added Refham nastily. ‘You will have to pay what we decide we should have.’
‘On the contrary,’ said Michael with quiet dignity. ‘Your mother’s decency and kindness made her a popular lady, and lots of folk deplore the way you are flouting her last wishes.’
Refham’s expression hardened. ‘It is none of their damned business, and I shall do what I like with my inheritance. And now you can leave us alone, because Blaston and I have business to discuss.’
‘What kind of business?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘None that is your affair,’ said Joan indignantly. ‘Go away, or I shall summon the Sheriff and tell him you are harassing innocent citizens.’
‘There is no need for quarrelling,’ said Blaston, dismayed by the hostile remarks that were being bandied back and forth. ‘And no need for secrecy, either. I am delighted to be doing business with you, Refham, and do not see why we should keep it secret.’ He turned to Bartholomew and smiled, genuinely pleased. ‘He has asked me to do some work for him, on those three shops.’
‘You mean
the ones we are thinking of buying?’ asked Michael uneasily. He exchanged a brief glance with Bartholomew. What was Refham up to?
Blaston grinned happily. ‘He wants them in the best possible condition for when he makes his sale, and has asked me to replace the old rafters in the roof. It is a big job, and I could do with extra money at the moment, because Yolande is expecting again. This time, I think it might be twins, she is so big.’
‘I chose Blaston because I knew he needed the work,’ said Refham. His expression was unreadable and Bartholomew immediately suspected trickery.
‘Are you being paid in advance?’ the physician asked the carpenter, suspecting he could guess exactly what Refham planned to do.
‘I am to buy the timber myself and start work tomorrow,’ replied Blaston airily. ‘I will be paid half when the work is finished, and the rest when the buildings are sold.’
‘That is not a good—’ began Bartholomew, appalled.
Refham spat on his hand and thrust it towards the carpenter, an indication that he wanted the transaction agreed without further delay. Before Bartholomew could stop him, Blaston had seized it. Refham sneered at the physician. ‘The deal is made, and no one can undo it now.’
‘I will not renege,’ said Blaston, misunderstanding him. ‘You can trust me to be honourable.’
‘I know,’ said Refham. ‘Come, Joan. Let us celebrate our good fortune with a cup of wine.’
‘Note they are going to celebrate their good fortune,’ said Michael to Blaston when the pair had gone. ‘And did not invite you to join them. I doubt you will benefit from this arrangement.’
But Blaston was too gleeful to listen to doom-merchants, and Bartholomew recalled he had always been that way. It explained why he was poor, while his fellow craftsmen earned a decent living.
‘Yolande will be delighted,’ he crowed. ‘We are desperately short of money, and have nothing put by for the winter. And as she is with child, she cannot work.’
The Devil's Disciples: The Fourteenth Chronicle Of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 22