He turned to his own attacker, who had drawn a knife. As the intruder hurled it at him he dodged to one side so it sailed harmlessly over his shoulder. When he had righted himself, he heard footsteps thumping away. He started to give chase, but tripped over something that lay in the dry grass and went sprawling. By the time he had staggered to his feet, his attacker was gone. Cynric was next to him, limping and swearing furiously because his own assailant had also escaped.
‘Damned villains,’ he muttered venomously. ‘Chopped at my ankles to slow me down.’
‘Let me see,’ said Bartholomew, concerned.
The book-bearer shook his head. ‘Good boots, boy; I am all right. But it looks as if you were less easily defeated. You have killed one of our attackers. Well done!’
Bartholomew whipped around, and saw that Cynric was pointing at the object he had tripped over. His stomach lurched when he saw it was Richard Spynk.
Chapter 10
It was still quite dark when Bartholomew woke the next day, and he was surprised to find Cynric in the room with him, lying on one of the students’ straw mattresses and staring at the ceiling with his fingers laced behind his head. Then the events of the previous night came rushing back to him. He and Michael had taken Spynk’s body to St Mary the Great, while Cynric had led the beadles in a search for the intruders. The monk had decided it was too late to tell Cecily what had happened, saying there was no point in waking her at such an hour just to dispense bad news. Recalling the way the couple had behaved towards each other, Bartholomew suspected the news might not be perceived as ‘bad’ at all.
‘Carton was stabbed in the back,’ said Cynric softly. ‘By someone tall, you said.’
Bartholomew supposed the book-bearer was reviewing events in his mind. He rolled over to face him. ‘You think Spynk was killed by the same man? By the Sorcerer?’
Cynric nodded slowly. ‘It is possible. Spynk joined a coven the moment he arrived in the town. Perhaps the Sorcerer thought that was a bit keen, and saw him as a potential rival.’
‘Was it the Sorcerer we fought last night, then?’ asked Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘Did you see his face? There were at least two of them, but I could not tell much else. Everything happened so fast.’
‘You did battle with Beard, and I had the giant. However, I saw a third person, too, dashing for freedom while we fought. Perhaps that was the Sorcerer, and Beard and the giant are his henchmen.’
‘So, one of these three must have killed Spynk. He cannot have been dead for long, because I had just seen him at the coven in All Saints.’
‘Their first priority was escape,’ mused Cynric. ‘Beard and the giant are decent swordsmen, and you were armed only with a dagger. They could easily have bested us, but they preferred to run rather than risk capture by skirmishing.’
Bartholomew sat up, knowing he should examine Spynk’s body as soon as possible. He washed in the bowl of water Cynric left for him each night, which was tepid, smelled brackish and did not leave him feeling as refreshed as it should have done. He donned a clean shirt, his black tabard, and supposed he was ready to face the world. Uneasily, he realised it was already Friday, which meant there were only two days and a night left before the Sorcerer made his move on Trinity Eve. Time was running out fast.
He was glad when Cynric offered to go with him to St Mary the Great, suspecting the prankster was unlikely to bother with his nasty tricks if his victim had company. They left the College just as the sky was beginning to lighten, and walked along St Michael’s Lane. Their footsteps echoed hollowly, and Bartholomew could hear someone coughing in nearby Gonville Hall. When they passed St Michael’s Church, Cynric stopped suddenly and peered into the gloom of its graveyard.
‘Is someone lying on the ground over there?’ he asked.
Bartholomew followed the direction of his pointing finger and saw a pale figure next to what looked like a hole. Piles of earth were scattered around. He swallowed hard as his stomach lurched in horror. ‘Oh no!’ he whispered. ‘It is another exhumation.’
‘It is,’ agreed Cynric unsteadily. ‘And this time I think the victim is Father Thomas.’
‘Christ!’ Bartholomew felt sick. ‘Are you sure?’
Cynric crossed himself, then drew his sword and walked towards the shape. Reluctantly, Bartholomew followed, closing his eyes in despair when he recognised the wiry hair and grey habit of the man whose death he had brought about. By rights, Thomas should have gone in the Franciscans’ cemetery, but St Michael’s had happened to have a ready-dug grave, and Langelee had persuaded Prior Pechem to accept it – the Master hoped the arrangement would encourage the town to think that the Grey Friars harboured no ill-feelings about Thomas meeting his death while under the care of Michaelhouse’s physician.
‘What shall we do?’ asked Cynric uneasily. ‘Will you stay here while I fetch Brother Michael?’
‘We cannot let anyone else see this,’ said Bartholomew, trying to pull himself together. He found his hands were shaking. ‘The last thing we need is another rumour that the Sorcerer has been at work. Help me carry him to the Stanton Chapel. Then I will stay with him while you prepare his grave, and we will rebury him as soon as you are ready.’
Cynric obliged, then took a shovel and went outside again, leaving Bartholomew alone with the body. The physician had just dropped to his knees, supposing he had better say some prayers, when a shadow materialised behind him. He yelled in alarm, which made the shadow howl its own fright.
‘God’s teeth, Brother!’ he exclaimed, feeling his heart hammer furiously as he scrambled to his feet. ‘Was it really necessary to creep up on me like that? What are you doing here, anyway?’
‘I came to recite an early mass.’ Michael leaned heavily against the wall, hand to his chest. ‘You scared the life out of me, shrieking like that – the Sorcerer has us as skittish as a pair of virgins in a brothel. Cynric told me what happened, by the way. You did the right thing by bringing Thomas in here. Will you inspect him while we wait for the grave to be readied?’
Bartholomew gazed at the friar’s face, which was beginning to be unrecognisable after its time in the ground, and was assailed by a wave of guilt. ‘It should not be me,’ he said, trying to control the tremor in his voice. He was unwilling to let even Michael see how much the situation bothered him. ‘Not with him.’
‘You have no choice. Paxtone refuses to touch corpses, and Rougham is still away – not that I would trust him anyway, with his penchant for verdicts of natural causes. I am still haunted by the Hardys.’
‘The Hardys,’ repeated Bartholomew, knowing he was using them as a tactic to delay dealing with Thomas, but unable to help himself. ‘I know what happened to them. I worked it out from comments made by the canons at Barnwell, Cynric and Mother Valeria.’
Michael looked worried. ‘Was I right to think there was something amiss?’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘Cynric told me the witches’ handbook contains a spell for predicting the future. Mother Valeria was going to use it last night. It involves a potion that contains powerful herbs, and she said even skilled warlocks have died performing the ritual. She also said people have asked her for it in the past, but she always refused because of the risks involved.’
‘Lord!’ muttered Michael. ‘The fact that she feels the need to resort to it now bodes ill. The Sorcerer has even Cambridge’s most-feared witches uneasy.’
‘One person who asked her to perform was John Hardy; another was Tulyet the Elder. I have a feeling that when she refused, they took matters into their own hands. Henbane and mandrake are potent plants, and they miscalculated how much they could drink. The Hardys died side by side in bed – probably later, after they had tidied away the evidence, since your subsequent search found no sign of it – while Tulyet’s death was so sudden that Dick wanted the services of a Corpse Examiner.’
Michael’s face was white. ‘Not natural causes, then.’
‘No, but these substances are hard to detect, so you cann
ot blame Rougham for missing them.’
‘An accident?’
‘Yes, they learned the hard way that witchcraft is not a game. It was the plague that drove them away from the Church, though. That disease has a lot to answer for.’
‘It has,’ agreed Michael. ‘Look at Spaldynge – the man is still half-deranged with grief. So, you have solved two cases that have been nagging at me for more than a year, Matt. Thank you.’
Bartholomew tried to think of a way to prolong the discussion, but Michael was having none of it. He gestured that the physician was to begin his examination, and held the lamp to help him. As he did so, it illuminated a dark spot on the friar’s forehead, where the stone had struck him. Even now, it did not look serious, and Bartholomew wondered why the man had died.
‘I know how you feel about Thomas,’ said the monk, seeing him hesitate. ‘But here is a chance to make amends. When we catch the fiend who defiled his rest, you may find your conscience eases.’
Bartholomew doubted it, but did as he was asked. His hands shook, and it was one of the least pleasant tasks he had ever performed. He fought the urge to bolt for the door as he assessed the grave-clothes to see if anything was missing, and then did the same for fingers, ears and toes. Suddenly Thomas’s head rolled awkwardly to one side. Puzzled, he adjusted the lamp to look more closely. It took him a few moments to be certain, and he turned to Michael in confusion.
‘His neck is broken.’
‘Damaged as he was pulled from the ground?’ asked the monk. ‘Or perhaps when he was in it?’ ‘I do not think so, because there are marks – bruises – on his throat, and a sticky residue on the collar of his habit. It looks as though the garment was glued into place.’
‘What are you saying?’ demanded Michael, shocked. ‘He was strangled and his clothes arranged to disguise it? He was murdered?’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘But strangulation will not break a neck – at least, not usually. I imagine this was rather more savage, perhaps involving a violent tussle. And the presence of glue suggests someone was covering his tracks. Did Rougham examine Thomas’s throat?’
Michael’s expression was grim. ‘No, he only looked at the head – at the initial injury.’
‘Carton was suspicious of Thomas’s death,’ said Bartholomew, trying to piece the facts together. ‘He wanted me to test that powder he found, because he thought there was something odd …’
‘Do you think this is the reason Thomas was excavated? Someone wants justice done?’
But Bartholomew shook his head. ‘I think our discovery is incidental. There were several other burials on the day we put Thomas in the ground—’
Michael clapped a hand to his forehead as the answer became clear. ‘Margery and Goldynham! Like Thomas, they were interred on Ascension Day because they believed that could mean less time in Purgatory. But what are we to deduce from this? That witches like to exhume corpses entombed on that particular occasion?’
‘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 makin
g 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.
The Devil's Disciples: The Fourteenth Chronicle Of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 32