The Devil's Disciples (8 page)

It was not far to Barnwell Priory, but seemed further because the road was so fiercely hot. Bartholomew felt the energy drain
from him at every step. His senses swam, and he wondered if he was in line for a bout of the flux
himself. He hoped not, because it would leave Paxtone alone to physic the entire town. After what seemed an age, he arrived
at Barnwell’s sturdy front gate. He leaned against the gatepost for a moment, standing in its shade and squinting against
the sun’s brightness.

The convent was owned by the Augustinian Order, and comprised a refectory, guest hall, infirmary, almonry, brewery, granary,
stables and bake-house, all surrounded by protective walls and gates. In addition, there was a church and three chapels –
one for the infirmary, one attached to the almonry and the other dedicated to St Lucy and St Edmund. As Arblaster had mentioned,
the convent also owned a substantial amount of property in the town: houses, shops, churches and manors. Bartholomew could
not imagine why Prior Norton should want to purchase yet more of it in the form of Sewale Cottage. Not being an acquisitive
man himself, he failed to understand the bent in others, and was grateful Langelee had not given
him
the task of negotiating details with Prior Norton.

He knocked on the gate, thinking about what he knew of the Augustinians. Despite the convent’s opulence, Norton had just twenty
canons. There was, however, an army of servants and labourers who performed the menial tasks the brethren liked to avoid.
The canons’ lives were not all meals and prayers, however. They ran a school for boys, and the infirmary housed a dozen old
men who were living out their lives at the priory’s expense. They summoned Bartholomew not infrequently, because the infirmarian
was not very good at his job, and tended to shy away from anything more complex than cuts and bruises. As a result, the physician
should have known the canons reasonably well, but because they were mainly middle-aged, portly men who were
going bald, he found it difficult to tell them apart. The infirmarian and his assistant were distinctive, but the rest were
indistinguishable as far as Bartholomew was concerned, and he was glad Norton possessed a pair of unusually protuberant eyes,
or he would have been hard pressed to identify him, too.

He was surprised when his rap was answered not by a lay-brother, but by Norton himself. The Prior’s expression was one of
extreme agitation, and the thought went through Bartholomew’s mind that if he opened his eyes any wider, they might drop out.

‘Why have you arrived so quickly?’ Norton demanded, uncharacteristically brusque. ‘We have only just sent for you.’

‘Is something wrong?’ Bartholomew was concerned. Arblaster had mentioned two men dead of the flux, and it occurred to him
that the priory might be suffering from a more virulent outbreak than the one in the town.

‘Yes,’ replied Norton shortly. He turned, and Bartholomew saw his brethren ranged behind him, an uneasy cluster in their light-coloured
robes. They murmured greetings, and some sketched benedictions. Bartholomew nodded back, noting they were as nervous and unhappy
as their head.

Henry Fencotes, the infirmarian’s assistant, stepped forward. Unlike his fellows, he possessed a full head of white hair,
and he was thin. His skin was as pale as parchment, so his veins showed blue through it. He had consulted Bartholomew on several
occasions because his hands and feet were always cold, even in the height of summer. Older than the others, he had come late
to the priesthood, and it was said that he had lived a very wild life before his vows.

‘Where is Brother Michael?’ Fencotes asked, grabbing the physician’s arm. His hand felt icy, like that of a corpse. ‘We asked
him to come, too. Did you leave him behind, because he is too fat to run? Will he be here soon?’

‘I have no idea,’ replied Bartholomew, growing steadily more uneasy. ‘Is someone ill?’

‘You could say that,’ said Norton. ‘Will you see Carton now, or wait until Michael arrives?’

Bartholomew felt alarm grip his stomach. ‘Carton? What is wrong with him?’

‘We told you in the message we sent.’ Norton’s face was grim. ‘He has been murdered.’

Carton was in one of the convent’s chapels, a handsome building with a lead roof. It was a peaceful, silent place, with thick
stone walls and tiny lancet windows that made it dark and intimate. It was also cool, and Bartholomew welcomed the respite
from the heat. He tried to ask Norton what had happened as he was ushered into the porch, but the goggle-eyed Augustinian
was not of a mind to answer questions, preferring to give a detailed explanation of why he believed this was the first unlawful
killing ever to take place in the convent he ruled.

Bartholomew bit back his impatience. ‘A hundred and fifty murder-free years is an impressive record, Father Prior, but where
is Carton?’

‘In the chancel,’ replied Fencotes. ‘Podiolo is with him. Come, I will show you.’

‘Podiolo came the moment I discovered …’ Norton trailed off uncomfortably, gesticulating with his hand. ‘But he said there
was nothing he could do.’

Matteo di Podiolo was the infirmarian, and hailed from Florence. He had yellow eyes, a pointed nose and a mouth
full of long, sharp teeth; Cynric had once told Bartholomew that his mother was a wolf. He knew virtually nothing about medicine,
and did not seem inclined to learn, either, preferring to concentrate on his life’s ambition: to turn base metal into gold.
He had built a laboratory in the infirmary chapel, and spent far more time there than ministering to his elderly charges.
Perhaps, Bartholomew thought uncharitably, his lack of dedication was why two of them had died of flux.

‘There was nothing
anyone
could do,’ Podiolo said, emerging suddenly from the gloom of the nave and making them all jump. His curious amber eyes gleamed
in the semi-darkness.

Bartholomew ducked around him and hurried after Fencotes, but the abrupt plunge from bright sunlight had rendered him blind,
and he could not see where he was going. He could not even see Fencotes, although he could hear his footsteps a short distance
ahead. He slowed, recalling that the flagstones in that particular chapel were treacherously uneven. Unfortunately, Podiolo
was too close behind him, and failed to adjust his speed. He collided with the physician then stumbled into one of the plump,
balding canons, who gave a shriek as he lost his balance and fell. Something clattered to the floor with him, and there was
a collective gasp of horror.

‘The stoup!’ cried Fencotes, dropping to his knees with his hands clasped in front of him. ‘You have spilled the holy water!’

The other canons began to babble their horror, and Podiolo yelled something about a bad omen. Bartholomew glanced at the chancel,
itching to run to Carton’s side but loath to do so while his sunlight-dazzled eyes could not see where the holy water had
splattered.

‘No one move,’ ordered Norton, his commanding voice stilling the clamour of alarm. ‘Use your hood to mop it up, Fencotes.
Then we shall leave it on the altar until it dries. No harm is done – at least, as long as no one treads in it.’

With shaking hands, Fencotes dabbed at the mess, while Bartholomew started to ease around him, aiming for the chancel. It
would not be the first time death had been misdiagnosed – he had no faith in Podiolo’s dubious skills – and he might yet save
Carton’s life. He stopped abruptly when he became aware that the canons were regarding him with rather naked hostility. It
was unsettling, and for the first time in weeks, he shivered.

‘Prior Norton instructed you to wait,’ said Podiolo coldly. ‘There is nothing you can do for your friend. He is quite dead.
I may not be the best infirmarian, but I know a corpse when I see one.’

‘Please,’ said Bartholomew quietly. ‘Carton is my colleague, and I may be able to—’

‘He is also a devout Franciscan, who will not appreciate you defiling holy water to reach him,’ said Fencotes firmly. ‘Be
still, Doctor. I am going as fast as I can.’

‘And I shall tell you what happened, to occupy your mind,’ said Norton. ‘Carton came to discuss the house your College is
going to sell – Margery Sewale’s place. A number of people are interested in purchasing it, and he came to find out how much
we are willing to pay. He was going to tell us what others have offered, too, so we can decide whether we want to put in a
higher bid. It was good of Langelee to send him.’

‘Yes and no,’ said Podiolo. ‘It is in Michaelhouse’s interests to secure the best price, and Carton was just
facilitating that process. Langelee did not send him out of the goodness of his heart.’

‘I have no love of earthly wealth,’ said Fencotes, not looking up from his duties on the floor. ‘But do not condemn Carton
and Langelee for trying their best for Michaelhouse. It is not as if they are going to keep the money for themselves.’

‘True,’ acknowledged Norton. He opened his eyes further than Bartholomew would have believed possible. ‘Anyway, I invited
Carton to talk here, in the chapel, because it is the coolest place in the priory, and thus the most comfortable. Given the
heat, I thought he might appreciate some refreshment, too, so I left him alone for a few moments while I went to fetch a jug
of wine.’

‘A few moments?’ asked Bartholomew.

Norton’s face was almost as pale as Fencotes’s. ‘Just the time it took me to hurry across the yard, tell Podiolo which claret
to bring, and hurry back again. When I arrived, I found Carton …’

Bartholomew shot an agitated glance at the chancel. ‘Found Carton what?’

‘In the state he is in now,’ finished Norton unhelpfully. ‘I ran outside and yelled for Podiolo, who came to see what could
be done.’

‘But nothing could,’ added Podiolo, flashing his wolfish smile, rather inappropriately.

‘You said Carton has been murdered,’ said Bartholomew. ‘That means someone else must have been in here with him. Who was it?’

‘The chapel was empty when Carton and I arrived,’ replied Norton. ‘And you can see it is too small for anyone to hide here
without being spotted.’

Now Bartholomew’s eyes had become accustomed to
the gloom, he could see Norton was right. The chapel comprised a nave, which was empty of anything except six round pillars,
and a chancel. He could just make out a dark form lying behind the altar rail. There was no furniture of any description,
and the only way in was through the door. The windows were narrow, no wider than the length of a man’s hand, and it would
be impossible for anyone to squeeze through them.

‘So someone must have come in while you were away fetching the wine,’ he said to Norton.

‘Then whoever it was must have been very fast,’ said Norton. ‘I was not gone long. But it is possible, I suppose. However,
I sincerely hope you do not suspect one of us of this dreadful crime.’

‘Who has access to your grounds, other than canons and lay-brethren?’ asked Bartholomew. He glanced at Fencotes, who seemed
to be taking far too long with his mopping.

‘The inmates at the hospital and the boys in the school,’ replied the Prior. ‘Plus the folk who come to buy our honey. Then
the lay-brothers often invite their kinsman to visit. In fact, we tend not to exclude anyone who wants to come in.’

‘You keep your gate locked,’ Bartholomew pointed out, recalling how he had knocked and waited for an answer.

‘That is to deter the casual highway robber,’ replied Podiolo. ‘But we keep a back door open for anyone who might be in need.
We are not Michaelhouse, which requires tight security to avoid being burned to the ground.’

The holy water wiped away, Norton led the way to the chancel, where Carton lay on his face in front of the altar. The Franciscan’s
arms were stretched to either side,
and his legs were straight and pressed together in a grotesque parody of a crucifix. And in the middle of his back was a knife.

Podiolo had been right when he said there was nothing Bartholomew could do for his colleague. The dagger wound looked as though
it would have been almost instantly fatal, and Carton was already beginning to cool in the chill of the church. Bartholomew
inspected the body by the light of a candle, but there was nothing else to see. Carton had been in good health when he was
stabbed, and there were no other injuries or inexplicable marks.

Michael arrived eventually, gasping from what had been an unpleasantly fast hike along the baking Causeway. His eyes were
huge and sad as he stared down at the dead Franciscan. After a moment, he dropped to his knees and began to intone last rites.
The canons were silent, bowing their heads as he chanted his prayers. Bartholomew stepped away and began to prowl, looking
for anything that might provide him with some explanation as to why someone should have felt the need to stab Carton and arrange
his body in so unsettling a manner. He only confirmed what he already knew: that a killer must have taken advantage of Prior
Norton’s brief absence to walk through the door, kill Carton and leave the same way. When Michael finished his devotions,
Norton, Podiolo and Fencotes repeated what they had told Bartholomew.

‘So what you are telling me is that virtually anyone could have murdered him,’ said the monk. He sounded disgusted. ‘You have
no idea who might be in your convent at any given time. Moreover, the knife is one of
those cheap things that can be bought for a few pennies in the Market Square, and we are unlikely to trace its owner.’

‘Yes,’ replied Norton unhappily. ‘I suppose we are telling you that.’

‘I will have to mount an investigation,’ said Michael, rather threateningly. ‘Carton was a scholar of Michaelhouse, and I
am duty bound to discover what happened to him.’

‘I welcome it,’ said Norton. ‘The taint of death will hang over us, otherwise. Obviously, a canon had nothing to do with this,
and we want an independent enquiry to prove it.’

‘Right,’ said Michael, making it clear he would make up his own mind about whether the canons should be exonerated. ‘Was this
the only time Carton visited you? Or has he been before?’