The Devil's Disciples (10 page)

Bartholomew was not sure what to think. On the one hand, it would be good to be free of the burden of guilt, but on the other
he did not like the notion that there was another suspicious death to explore. He said nothing, so Michael abandoned theories
and began to think about evidence.

‘Tell me what you were able to deduce from Carton’s body,’ he ordered.

Bartholomew disliked the way the monk always assumed he could produce clues from corpses as a conjuror might pull ribbons
from a hat. And with stabbings, the chances of learning anything useful were slim. Yet he always felt he was letting Michael
– and the victim – down when he said there was nothing to help solve the case.

‘It is not easy to knife yourself in the back, so I think we can safely conclude that someone else was responsible,’ he began,
trying his best anyway. ‘The dagger was cheap and unremarkable, so we stand no chance of identifying its owner. It does not
sound as though Norton took long to fetch the wine, so the killer must have been fairly sprightly – to run to the chapel,
stab Carton, and escape before Norton returned.’

‘That does not help,’ said Michael acidly. ‘Most killers are sprightly. If they were not, they would not be contemplating
murder in the first place, lest their victim turn on them.’

Bartholomew ignored him. ‘The only blood was that which had pooled beneath Carton. So, I think he died quickly – he did not
stagger around, and there is no evidence of a struggle. Perhaps he knew his killer, and did not feel the need to run away
when he appeared.’

‘Obviously, it was someone he knew,’ snapped Michael irritably. ‘And that is the problem. He knew a lot of people – through
his teaching and the College, through his association with Mildenale’s band of zealots, and possibly even through his denunciation
of the Sorcerer.’

Bartholomew ignored him again, knowing frustration was making the monk sharp-tongued. ‘The wound is high and angled downwards.
I suppose that might mean it was inflicted by someone tall.’

Michael’s green eyes gleamed. ‘Now we are getting somewhere! Fencotes is tall.’

‘He is also a devout man, who is not a Dominican, who has probably never heard Carton preach, and who does not own a fanatical
dislike of witches. What would be his motive?’

‘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 grimly. ‘With Carton’s friends: William and Mildenale.’

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.’