Susanna GREGORY: The Devil's Disciples

‘An experiment. Carton found some powder in Thomas’s room, and wants to know if it is poison.’

Michael regarded him in alarm. ‘Poison? You mean William might have been right when he claimed Thomas was dispatched by Dominicans? Lord knows, he gave them enough cause with his spiteful speeches. However, I was happier thinking you had killed him with the wrong medicine.’

Bartholomew recoiled. ‘That is an unpleasant thing to say.’

‘I am sorry, but it would be disastrous to learn Thomas was murdered. William, Mildenale and Carton will certainly accuse the Dominicans, and the Dominicans will object. And it will not be an easy case to solve after more than a week – Thomas was buried on Ascension Day. Do you remember Mildenale insisting he go in the ground then, because it might mean less time in Purgatory?’

‘Do you believe that?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Margery did, and so did Goldynham the silversmith, because they and Thomas were all interred on the same day.’

‘Superstition and religion are often difficult to separate,’ replied Michael, a little patronisingly. ‘But I do not believe a particular day is more or less auspicious for going into the ground. It is what you do in life that counts, not when you happen to be buried. However, I am more concerned with this poison than in discussing theology. What can you tell me?’

‘That I doubt you will be adding Thomas to your list of investigations. I do not think this powder is poison. It smells of violets, which are used in cures for quinsy, and Thomas often suffered from sore throats. And even if it does transpire to be toxic, there is nothing to say Thomas swallowed it. I told you – he died because I gave him the wrong medicine. I wish it were otherwise, but it is not.’

Michael rubbed his chin. ‘Carton does not share your beliefs, if he asked you to test this powder. He sees something suspicious in what happened to his friend.’

‘Immediately after the stone hit him, Thomas claimed the Sorcerer “poisoned” him with a curse. I suspect it was his odd choice of words that has encouraged Carton to look for alternative explanations – and the reason why he refuses to accept my culpability.’

‘Could it be true? Thomas did preach very violently against the Sorcerer.’

‘The Sorcerer may have lobbed the rock that caused the initial injury, I suppose. Thomas thought it was propelled magically, although I do not believe–’

‘So he was murdered?’ interrupted Michael uneasily.

‘Stones fall from roofs, they are flicked up by carts, they are thrown around by careless children. I doubt you will learn what really happened after all this time.’

But Michael was unwilling to let the matter lie. ‘I do not suppose you looked for evidence of poison when you inspected his body in your capacity as Corpse Examiner, did you?’

‘Rougham acted as Corpse Examiner for Thomas. It would have been unethical for me to do it, given that Mildenale and William had accused me of malpractice. But even if I had inspected him, I could not have told you whether he was poisoned. Most toxic substances are undetectable.’

Michael nodded at the experiment. ‘Then why bother with that?’

Bartholomew looked tired. ‘Because Carton said Thomas would have appreciated it. It is the least I can do.’

Bartholomew stepped out of the comparative cool of his room moments after Cynric had delivered the promised ale. The yard was a furnace, and he could feel the sun burning through his shirt and tabard. Michael started to follow, intending to visit the proctors’ office in St Mary the Great, but had second thoughts when he saw the heat rising in shimmering waves from the ground. Langelee spotted his Fellows, and beckoned them to stand with him in the meagre shade of a cherry tree.

‘Do you think William made a valid point in his Sermon?’ he asked uneasily. ‘Not about the Dominicans being responsible for desecrating Margery, obviously, but about there being fiends in our town – the Devil’s disciples? It would explain some of the odd things that have been happening: the blood in our font, Bene’t College’s disappearing goats …’

‘Stolen livestock is not odd,’ said Bartholomew, surprised Langelee should think it was. ‘Cattle go missing all the time, especially now, when meat spoils quickly. Goats are good to steal, because they are small, easily hidden, and can be butchered and eaten with a minimum of fuss.’

‘Yes, but goats also feature in satanic rites,’ said Langelee darkly. ‘Everyone knows that, and these were seven black ones. William said they are going to be sacrificed, to appease demons.’

Michael grinned. ‘Cynric told me they are only temporarily missing, and will return to Bene’t as soon as they have finished having their beards combed by the Devil. Unsurprisingly, Master Heltisle was not very happy with that particular explanation.’

Langelee winced as he looked over at the book-bearer. Cynric had been waylaid by Agatha, who was demanding to know who had been at the new ale; he was spinning her a yarn that would see William blamed for the crime. ‘Neither am I. Cynric knows far too much about that kind of thing. It makes me wonder how he comes by this intimate knowledge.’

‘Cynric is not a witch,’ stated Bartholomew firmly, keen to knock that notion on the head before it became dangerous. He ignored the nagging voice in his head that told him his book-bearer was rather more interested in unholy matters than was decent.

‘No, but he is not wholly Christian, either,’ countered Langelee. ‘He attends church, but he also retains his other beliefs. In other words, he hedges his bets, lest one side should prove lacking. Unfortunately, it does not look good for a senior member of the University to keep such a servant.’

‘I cannot be held responsible for what Cynric believes,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘Besides, he has always been superstitious, and no one has ever held it against me before.’

‘It is not just Cynric.’ Langelee began to count off points on thick fingers. ‘You killed Thomas, a vocal opponent of the Sorcerer. You make regular visits to Mother Valeria, a witch. The exhumed Margery was your patient. And it was you who discovered the mutilated body of the Norfolk mason.’

‘His name was Danyell,’ supplied Michael. ‘Fortunately, the deaths of visiting craftsmen are for the Sheriff to investigate, so at least I am spared looking into that nasty incident.’

‘Finding a body does not make me suspect,’ protested Bartholomew. ‘And it was hardly my fault Margery was excavated, either.’

Langelee regarded him uncomfortably. ‘Danyell was missing a hand. Why would anyone lay claim to such a thing, except perhaps someone interested in the evil art of anatomy?’

Bartholomew regarded him in horror. ‘You think I took it?’

Langelee studied him carefully, arms folded across his broad chest. ‘No,’ he said, after what felt like far too long. ‘You would not be so rash – not after that trouble with Magister Arderne earlier in the year. And there is the other rumour to consider, of course.’

‘What other rumour?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily.

‘The one that says Doctor Rougham made off with Danyell’s hand,’ replied Langelee. ‘He denies it, but his arrogance has made him unpopular, and people do not believe him. As a consequence, he has decided to visit his family in Norfolk before he is accused of witchery. He left you a message, asking you to mind his patients.’

Bartholomew was aghast. ‘How am I supposed to do that? I am overwhelmed already.’

‘Especially as you have promised to help me find out who pulled Margery from her tomb and put blood in our font,’ added Michael.