Susanna GREGORY - The Devil's Disciples

‘Then I sincerely hope no one saw you. Your reputation already leans towards the unorthodox, and being spotted in the vicinity of satanic covens will do it no good whatsoever.’

‘William and Mildenale caught me.’ Bartholomew raised his hands in a shrug at Michael’s horrified expression. ‘They were doing the same thing – trying to see what might be learned in order to stop it. But I discovered nothing that might be of use to you, other than the fact that the Sorcerer has more followers than I realised.’

Michael regarded him with round eyes. ‘Please do not do it again, Matt. It might be dangerous. Besides, my beadles were there, mingling anonymously with the crowd. They know what they are doing, and they are paid for it.’

‘I was only trying to help.’

‘I would rather you helped in other ways, such as telling me what you think about the theft of Danyell’s hand. Did I tell you the poor man was only visiting Cambridge? He was passing through on his way from London to Norfolk, travelling with a friend called Richard Spynk.’

‘Spynk.’ Bartholomew had heard the name in a different context than pertaining to the hapless Danyell. ‘Carton spoke to him about buying the house Margery left us. He used Spynk to inflate the price for the canons of Barnwell.’

‘So, you do listen at Fellows’ meetings! Yes, Spynk is interested in the house. But recap what you told me about Danyell – your conclusions about his death.’

‘I am almost certain he died of natural causes. I found his corpse when I was returning home after tending Mother Valeria, and there was no sign of foul play. Except for the missing hand.’

‘You said he had probably had a seizure and the limb was removed after death, because there was no sign of a struggle or evidence that he was restrained. You then went on to explain that one cannot remove body parts from a live victim without the poor fellow doing all he can to stop you. It made me feel quite queasy.’

‘That was the heat. Did you know there is an ancient superstition that the hand of a dead man will help someone make really good butter?’

Michael regarded him askance. ‘Now you are teasing me.’

Bartholomew shrugged. ‘It is an old tale, but there are some who believe it. Severed hands are also said to cure warts. I think I mentioned that before.’

Michael nodded. ‘You did. Unfortunately, you said it in front of William, which led him to accuse you of stealing the thing. You told him people tend not to consult physicians for minor ailments like warts, at which point he decided you must have purloined it as a gift for Valeria.’

‘I am surprised Spynk wants a house in Cambridge, given what happened to his friend,’ said Bartholomew, declining to waste his time dwelling on William’s wild fancies. ‘If your hand were stolen in a distant town, I would be keen to leave the place as soon as possible.’

‘He claims to have discovered a liking for Cambridge – says he wants to do business here in the future. His trade is importing luxury goods from the Low Countries, and he thinks we are a good commercial opportunity – linked to the sea via the river, and with a population able to afford such commodities. Ergo , he wants a house for his visits, and says Sewale Cottage fits the bill perfectly.’

‘It is funny you should be talking about Spynk,’ came a soft voice from the door that made both scholars jump in alarm. ‘Because he has the flux, and wants you to visit.’

‘How many times have I asked you not to slink up on me, Cynric?’ demanded Michael, hand to his chest. ‘If you do it again, my Junior Proctor may have to charge you with murder. Mine.’

When Bartholomew went to see Spynk, Michael left for Barnwell Priory. The monk wanted to ask Prior Norton why he had failed to mention Carton’s attempt to manipulate a higher price for Sewale Cottage. It was an excellent motive for murder, and meant the canons should be questioned more closely. He hired a horse to take him, not just because it had been a long and unpleasant walk the day before, but because he wanted the brethren to know his visit was an official one. He was furious they had withheld information from him, and intended to intimidate them to the point where they would not dare do it again.

Bartholomew went to the High Street, where Spynk was staying in a pleasantly airy suite of rooms overlooking the road. His windows afforded magnificent views of St Mary the Great one way, and King’s Hall’s gatehouse the other. As these were two of the finest buildings in Cambridge, the physician wondered whether they had given Spynk a false impression of its prosperity.

‘Thank God you are here,’ Spynk said when he arrived. ‘I have the flux. Make me well – immediately, if you would be so kind.’

He was a large man with wiry hair and thick, callused hands that suggested he was not averse to manual labour. When Bartholomew had gone with Michael to break the news of Danyell’s death on Ascension Day, Spynk had spent an inordinate amount of time bragging about the fact that he had personally supervised the repair of Norwich’s defensive walls. He also claimed he had paid for most of the work, and said the city had granted him lifelong exemption from certain taxes in appreciation. He gave the impression that he was a man of power and influence, although the physician had thought him vulgar, and was not sure whether to believe most of his self-aggrandising declarations.

‘There is no such thing as an instant cure for the flux,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It takes time to–’

‘I hear you have a better success rate than the other fellow – Paxtone. Meanwhile, Rougham has fled because his ineptitude was killing people. Well, that is one rumour. The other is that he stole poor Danyell’s hand for anatomy and has gone into the Fens to complete his dark business.’

‘Rougham would never entertain anatomy,’ said Bartholomew truthfully. ‘And he has gone to visit his family. It is half-term, so he is within his rights to go.’

Spynk seemed ready to argue, but was interrupted by the sudden need to dash for a bucket. While he was busy, Bartholomew inspected the sample of urine that had been provided, then asked for a pot of boiled water. It was brought by Spynk’s wife, a pretty woman with dark hair and a kirtle that revealed an impressive amount of frontage.

‘You might have decanted it into a better jug, Cecily,’ snapped Spynk, peering out through the curtain that gave him his privacy. ‘That one is chipped.’

‘They are all chipped,’ she replied sullenly. ‘Look for yourself, if you do not believe me.’

‘It is fine,’ said Bartholomew hastily, reluctant for them to embark on a domestic squabble in front of him. He added his powdered barley and angelica. ‘It is the water that matters, not the pot.’

Cecily watched him stir the mixture. ‘I hope those are powerful substances, Doctor. My husband is a strong man, and dislikes weak remedies.’

‘They are what will make him well again,’ replied Bartholomew, declining to admit that his cure contained two very innocuous ingredients. If Spynk believed the medicine was ineffectual he might decline to swallow it, and the flux was too serious an ailment for games.

‘It tastes like starch,’ objected Spynk, after a tentative sip. He thrust it back at the physician. ‘I am not drinking that. Tip it out of the window, Cecily.’

‘Tip it yourself,’ retorted Cecily churlishly. ‘I am not your servant.’

‘We can add honey,’ suggested Bartholomew, thinking of the priest Eyton and his penchant for the stuff. ‘That might make it more palatable.’

Cecily brightened. ‘That is a good idea. I bought some from Barnwell Priory on Saturday afternoon – it was an excuse for me to get inside and have a look around – and I do not want to carry it home to Norwich. The pot might break and spoil all my new dresses.’