The Devil's Disciples (22 page)

‘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 authority 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 are 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.’