Susanna GREGORY - The Devil's Disciples

‘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.’