Susanna GREGORY - The Devil's Disciples

‘It is not easy to knife yourself in the back, so I think we can safely conclude that someone else was responsible,’ he began, trying his best anyway. ‘The dagger was cheap and unremarkable, so we stand no chance of identifying its owner. It does not sound as though Norton took long to fetch the wine, so the killer must have been fairly sprightly – to run to the chapel, stab Carton, and escape before Norton returned.’

‘That does not help,’ said Michael acidly. ‘Most killers are sprightly. If they were not, they would not be contemplating murder in the first place, lest their victim turn on them.’

Bartholomew ignored him. ‘The only blood was that which had pooled beneath Carton. So, I think he died quickly – he did not stagger around, and there is no evidence of a struggle. Perhaps he knew his killer, and did not feel the need to run away when he appeared.’

‘Obviously, it was someone he knew,’ snapped Michael irritably. ‘And that is the problem. He knew a lot of people – through his teaching and the College, through his association with Mildenale’s band of zealots, and possibly even through his denunciation of the Sorcerer.’

Bartholomew ignored him again, knowing frustration was making the monk sharp-tongued. ‘The wound is high and angled downwards. I suppose that might mean it was inflicted by someone tall.’

Michael’s green eyes gleamed. ‘Now we are getting somewhere! Fencotes is tall.’

‘He is also a devout man, who is not a Dominican, who has probably never heard Carton preach, and who does not own a fanatical dislike of witches. What would be his motive?’

‘He was not always a canon; Cynric tells me he has lived a life that would make your hair curl. Norton and Podiolo are taller than Carton too. And so is Spaldynge.’

Bartholomew began to wish he had kept this particular piece of ‘evidence’ to himself. ‘On reflection, most people are taller than Carton. I do not think it is much of a clue.’

‘What do you think of the way Carton’s body was laid out? Was the killer mocking his vocation?’

‘Perhaps the culprit felt guilty about what he had done, and the crucifix pose was some bizarre way of trying to make amends. Or conversely, the body may have been arranged that way to taunt you.’

Michael’s expression hardened. ‘Then I will solve this crime, Matt. I vow it on Carton’s corpse. No one mocks the Senior Proctor.’

Langelee was shocked to learn he had lost a Fellow, and although violent death was by no means a stranger to the University’s scholars – or to a man who owned a dubious past as ‘agent’ for the Archbishop of York – he was still appalled when Michael broke the news. He stood next to the monk in St Michael’s Church, watching Bartholomew manhandle the body into the parish coffin.

‘He has only been a Fellow since Easter,’ he said hoarsely. ‘And I was just getting used to his oddities. Now I shall have to start again, with someone else.’

‘Which oddities in particular?’ asked Michael.

Langelee shrugged. ‘His inexplicable readiness to associate with William for a start. No one has done that before, because most of us find his zeal tiresome. Then there was his strange interest in witchery. Did you know he used to spy on covens with Cynric? I assumed that, as a friar, he was simply trying to ascertain the nature of the opposition, but now I am beginning to wonder.’

‘Wonder about what?’ demanded Michael.

Langelee glanced furtively behind him. ‘Not here, Brother. Have you finished, Bartholomew? Then come to my quarters. We should talk somewhere more private.’

They followed him down the lane, across the yard and into the pair of rooms that had been the Master’s suite since the College had been founded, some thirty years before. They were spartan for a head of house, not much more spacious than those of his Fellows. He had a sleeping chamber that he shared with two students – after he had enrolled additional undergraduates earlier that year, no one was exempt from crowded conditions – and a tiny room he used as an office. It was packed with accounts, deeds and records, and there was only just space for the desk and chair he needed to conduct his business. Bartholomew wedged himself in a corner, while Michael stood in the middle of the room, parchments and scrolls cascading to the floor all around him as his voluminous habit swept them from their teetering piles each time he moved.

Langelee squeezed his bulk behind the desk, his expression grim. ‘Carton’s murder is bad for the College, because it comes too soon on the heels of Thomas’s death.’

‘Thomas was not a member of Michaelhouse,’ said Bartholomew, puzzled by the comment.

‘No,’ agreed Langelee, ‘but his fellow zealots are, and so is the physician whose medicine killed him. He is intimately connected with us, whether we like it or not. So, you must catch Carton’s killer without delay, Brother. What have you done so far?’

‘Interviewed Barnwell’s canons,’ replied Michael. ‘But they had nothing of relevance to report, while Matt’s examination of the body revealed little in the way of clues, either.’

‘What about the lay-brothers?’ asked Langelee. ‘The servants. Barnwell has dozens of them.’

‘I have been talking to them,’ came a soft lilting voice from behind them. All three scholars jumped; none of them had noticed Cynric arrive.

‘I wish you would not do that,’ snapped Langelee. ‘Well? What did you learn?’

‘That not many layfolk were actually working when Carton was killed,’ replied the Welshman, grinning when he saw how much he had startled them; he was proud of his stealthy entrances. ‘All the canons were busy, so there was no one to supervise them. Most took the opportunity to abscond, to escape the heat by dicing in the cellars or sleeping under trees. And that is why the killer found it so easy to strike: the convent was essentially deserted.’

Michael rubbed his chin. ‘This helps us understand how the crime was committed, but not in ascertaining the identity of the culprit. It still might be anyone, including Norton, Podiolo or Fencotes, who have no convincing alibis. Or Spaldynge, who just happened to meet Carton on the Barnwell Causeway. He might have decided to turn around and follow him.’

‘Perhaps it was the Devil,’ suggested Cynric matter-of-factly. ‘There have been so many other unnatural happenings of late, what with the goats, Danyell’s hand, Margery Sewale’s grave, and the blood in the font, that perhaps Carton’s murder is just another–’

‘No,’ said Michael forcefully. ‘I smell a human hand in this, and I mean to see he faces justice.’

‘Michael is right,’ said Bartholomew, seeing Cynric was not in the least bit convinced. He did not want the book-bearer to start rumours that would be difficult to quell. ‘The Devil would not have used a cheap knife to stab Carton.’

‘You think he would use an expensive one, then?’ asked Cynric keenly. ‘Or are you saying he would employ his claws or teeth?’

Bartholomew tried to think of an answer that would not imply he had intimate knowledge of Satan’s personal arsenal. ‘It was a person,’ he settled for at last. ‘Not the Devil.’

Langelee scratched his jaw, fingernails rasping on bristle. ‘Carton was more interested in witchcraft than was decent for a friar; Cynric will tell you that they watched covens together. Then he stopped. This happened at about the same time that Mildenalus Sanctus took to preaching against sin and the Sorcerer began to attract more followers.’

‘Yes, it did,’ agreed Cynric. ‘Carton started preaching against sin, too, and anyone listening to his sermons was impressed by how much he knew about it.’