Susanna GREGORY - The Devil's Disciples

‘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?’

‘He has never been,’ said Podiolo, rather quickly. ‘I would have seen him.’

‘That is not what he told me,’ countered Bartholomew. ‘As we walked here together, he gave the impression that he liked coming, because you invited him to join your prayers.’

‘He may have dropped in once or twice,’ admitted Norton cautiously. ‘But I would not have said it was a regular occurrence. Podiolo was probably unaware of it, though.’

‘I was unaware,’ agreed Podiolo immediately. ‘I never saw him here before, although I knew who he was, because I have heard him preaching in the town. He said the people who died during the plague did so as a punishment for their sins, which cannot have made him popular. I suspect you will find the killer is a townsman who finds that sort of sentiment objectionable.’

‘People do not break God’s commandments for so paltry a reason,’ objected Fencotes, shocked.

‘They do,’ said Norton shortly. ‘And you are too good for this world, if you think otherwise.’

Podiolo’s expression was sly. ‘Let us not forget the tales that say Carton was the Sorcerer. He–’

‘He was no such thing,’ interrupted Michael angrily. ‘He was a Franciscan friar who preached hotly against sin. I doubt the Sorcerer would be doing that .’

‘Just because I mention the rumour does not mean I accept it as truth,’ said Podiolo, raising a defensive hand. ‘Besides, the Sorcerer is said to own considerable skill in curing warts, and Carton never made any such claim. Perhaps that fact alone is enough to exonerate him. Or perhaps it is not. After all, his speeches showed he was inexplicably familiar with the subject of sin – far more so than his fellow Franciscans. And one of them – Thomas – is dead.’

‘So?’ demanded Michael, struggling to keep his temper. ‘What is your point?’

‘My point is that Thomas’s death may not have been all it seemed,’ replied Podiolo, fixing the monk with his yellow eyes. ‘I know the official explanation is that he was struck by a stone, and died after imbibing overly strong medicine prescribed by Bartholomew. But I am unconvinced.’

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew tiredly. ‘It is what happened.’

‘I doubt a physician of your experience would make such a basic mistake,’ replied Podiolo. ‘And Thomas himself thought the Sorcerer had felled him with a curse, while I heard Carton suspected poison. Do not overlook the possibility that the deaths of these two friends might be connected. After all, both were Franciscans with outspoken opinions.’

‘I am sure Wolf-Face would like us to think so,’ murmured Michael in Bartholomew’s ear. ‘But perhaps he makes that comment to throw us off the real scent – his scent.’

‘You think Podiolo is the killer?’ whispered Bartholomew, alarmed. He had always been wary of Podiolo, but he did not see the infirmarian as a man who murdered friars in chapels.

‘Why not?’ asked Michael. ‘I have the distinct feeling he is not telling us the whole truth.’ He raised his voice and addressed the assembled brethren. ‘I want to speak to each of you separately, to ascertain your whereabouts when Carton was dispatched.’

‘Of course, Brother,’ said Norton with a pained smile. ‘We have nothing to hide.’

Establishing alibis transpired to be easier than Michael expected, because most of the canons had been in their dormitory, which faced north and so was cool. They were in the process of having it redecorated, and as they all had strong views about colours and themes, they had gathered to harass the artist. The only ones who had not been so engaged were Podiolo, Norton and Fencotes.

‘Egg-Eyes, the Wolf and the Walking Corpse,’ muttered Michael to Bartholomew. ‘What a trio!’

‘I was in the infirmary with the old men,’ offered Fencotes helpfully. ‘They like me to read to them of an afternoon. However, half were asleep while the rest have lost their wits, so I doubt they will confirm my tale to your satisfaction. You will just have to trust me, I am afraid.’

Michael turned to the infirmarian. ‘Podiolo? You were not in the hospital, or you and Fencotes would have used each other as alibis.’

‘I was in my cell,’ replied Podiolo. ‘Studying a scroll that explains how to make gold from a mixture of sulphur and silver. I can show you the pages I read, if you like.’

‘I am sure you can,’ said Michael. ‘And I am also sure you know this text backwards.’

‘Well, yes,’ admitted Podiolo. ‘But that does not mean I am lying.’

‘I have already told you where I was: fetching wine,’ said Norton. He rolled his eyes. ‘Lord, but this is a black day for Barnwell! How could God let such wickedness loose in our haven of peace?’

‘How indeed?’ muttered Michael.

When the monk had finished interviewing the canons, Bartholomew took Podiolo to Arblaster’s house, where the dung-merchant already seemed better. Cynric had persuaded him to drink more of the boiled water than Bartholomew would have expected, given its uninspiring taste, although he was not pleased to learn that the patient had been told it contained magical properties – Arblaster was swallowing as much as he could in the belief that it would protect him from Mother Valeria.

‘But it will,’ objected Cynric, when Bartholomew remonstrated with him. ‘If he drinks your potion and lives, she will not have his soul. So, it will protect him from her, albeit indirectly.’

Bartholomew was too tired to argue, and Carton’s death had upset him more than he would have imagined. He had not been particularly close to the Franciscan, but Carton was a colleague, and it had not been pleasant to see him with the knife in his back. When he told Cynric what had happened, the book-bearer did not seem as surprised as Bartholomew thought he should have been.

‘He preached a violent message,’ said Cynric with a shrug. ‘He accused people of killing their loved ones during the plague because they were steeped in sin. Of course folk are going to take exception to that. He distressed a lot of people with his opinions. Men like Spaldynge, for example.’

‘You think Spaldynge killed him?’ asked Bartholomew, recalling the spat Carton had engineered when they had met the scholar from Clare. Spaldynge was hot-headed and spiteful, and might well take action against a man who knew an unsavoury secret about him. And if he really had murdered someone in the past, then killing was no stranger to him.

‘He might have done. And do not forget that Carton’s friends were Thomas, Mildenale and William – all men who waged war on those hapless Dominicans.’

‘God’s teeth!’ muttered Bartholomew, daunted. There were at least sixty Black Friars in Cambridge, both in the friary and holding town appointments as priests, teachers and chaplains, and he realised that any one of them might have taken exception to Michaelhouse’s Franciscans. Then he reconsidered. ‘But Carton was not especially damning of Dominicans. He agreed with the others if they pressed him, but he never made derogatory remarks of his own volition.’