The Devil's Disciples (28 page)

‘What?’ snapped Michael irritably, squinting up at the sky and moving slightly to his left.

‘For Sewale Cottage,’ said Spynk. ‘Fourteen marks. That is higher than the last bid made by Barnwell. And if you ensure my
offer is favourably received, I will give you a bale of silk.’

‘I shall bear it in mind,’ said Michael, flapping furiously at a wasp that hovered around his face. ‘But we are not here to
discuss property. We want to talk about Danyell.’

‘You caught the villain who stole his hand?’ asked Spynk eagerly. ‘At last! Who is it? Scholar or townsman? I cannot see why
either should have taken against us, given that we are strangers here, but this is an odd sort of place.’

‘Our enquiries are continuing, so we have no culprit yet,’ replied Michael coolly. ‘And why are you so keen to buy Sewale
Cottage, if you find Cambridge an “odd sort of place”?’

‘Oddness does not bother my husband,’ said Cecily with a smirk. ‘And he is prepared to overlook a great deal if folk buy his
goods. He plans to spend a lot of time here in the future, selling to the Colleges and wealthy townsmen, and says I am to
come with him. Will that please you, Doctor?’

Heat and a lack of sleep had combined to make Bartholomew drowsy, and he had not given the discussion his full attention.
Thus he was not sure how to reply.

‘Yes,’ he said, hoping it was the right answer. He saw a frown cross Spynk’s face. ‘Probably.’

Cecily lowered her eyelashes and smiled. ‘I thought it
might. I suspect you are a man who likes having friends to visit of an evening. To walk with them in quiet places.’

Bartholomew blinked, not sure where the conversation was going, and was relieved when Spynk stepped in and changed its direction.
‘I learned something disturbing yesterday, Brother. A clothier named Stanmore told me you were the eyes and ears of the Bishop
of Ely. That you are his spy.’

Bartholomew seriously doubted his brother-in-law had said any such thing. Stanmore was far too sensible to risk the Senior
Proctor’s ire by gossiping about him to strangers. He said so.

‘Well, perhaps he did not use the term
spy
,’ admitted Spynk. ‘But that is what you are, regardless.’

Michael’s expression was glacial, and the hapless wasp met a sudden end between the table and his fist. ‘I keep de Lisle apprised
of University affairs. Why? Is there a problem?’

‘Not with you,’ said Spynk. ‘But there is a huge one with your Bishop. His men have bullied me for years, and I detest the
man.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Michael flatly. ‘You are one of the people who complained about him to the King. That is why you and Danyell
went to London. I had forgotten.’

‘Well, someone needed to take a stand,’ said Spynk stiffly. ‘De Lisle cannot be allowed to terrorise anyone he pleases. And
do not tell me he is innocent, because there were sixteen charges in all, including arson, murder, abduction, extortion and
blackmail. Why do you think he has fled to Avignon? Because he knows there is not a court in the country that will find in
his favour.’

‘I do not think this is the best way to secure Michaelhouse’s good graces, dearest,’ said Cecily with a
good deal of sarcasm. ‘And I am sure Brother Michael knows all about the Bishop’s intrigues.’

‘He has nothing to do with them,’ said Bartholomew sharply, unwilling for people to think the monk complicit in anything de
Lisle might have done.

Cecily came to stand closer to him than was decent, and he recalled thinking she had probably behaved improperly with Danyell,
too. He supposed she could not help herself, and tried to ignore it.

‘Are you sure about that, Doctor?’ she asked, adjusting the neckline on her kirtle. It slipped, revealing more frontage than
was civilised. ‘Every man has his secrets. And so does every woman.’

Bartholomew shot her husband an uneasy glance, but Spynk’s attention was on Michael, whom he was regarding minutely, as if
he thought he might see something there if he looked hard enough. The physician was tempted to tell him not to waste his time
– he had known Michael for years, and the monk was not that easily read. Indeed, there were still occasions when Michael said
or did things that made Bartholomew think he barely knew him at all.

‘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 seemed 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.’