The Devil's Disciples: The Fourteenth Chronicle Of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew)

by Gregory, Susanna

  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.’

  ‘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 t
o 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.’

  Cynric shrugged again. ‘This will not be an easy nut to crack, because virtually anyone could have slipped into Barnwell and shoved a knife between his ribs. After all, he walked through crowded streets to come here, and lots of people saw him set off along the Causeway with you.’

  Podiolo was annoyingly inattentive when Bartholomew told him how to administer the barley water to Arblaster, and the physician was concerned when he saw him pull a book from his robes, clearly intending to pass the time by reading. Fortunately, though, Cynric’s claim about the remedy’s magical powers meant Arblaster was eager to down as much of it as he could possibly manage, and did not need an infirmarian to coax him to swallow more.

  Bartholomew returned to the convent, to see if Michael was ready to go home, and was about to enter when he saw a man named William Eyton walking along the Causeway towards him. Eyton was the vicar of St Bene’t’s Church, an affable Franciscan who laughed a lot. He was friends with William, and had a reputation for preaching inordinately long sermons. Bartholomew had attended one once, and had come away with his head spinning from the leaps of logic and false assumptions. William had been with him, and had fallen asleep somewhere near the beginning, awaking much later to applaud loudly and claim it was one of the best discourses he had ever heard.

  ‘I have come to purchase honey,’ said Eyton cheerily, standing with Bartholomew while they waited for a lay-brother to open the gate. Knocking felt foolish, since the physician now knew he could walk unchallenged through the back door, or even scramble over a wall. ‘I love honey, although it makes my teeth ache if I consume more than one pot in a single sitting.’

  ‘You eat it by the pot?’ asked Bartholomew, stunned. The canons sold their wares in very large vessels. ‘Does it not make you sick?’

  ‘Well, yes, it does, but it is said to keep witches at bay, so I do not mind a little nausea in a good cause. You should try it: William tells me you are more familiar with some of them than is safe.’

  Bartholomew sighed, and wished William would keep his opinions to himself.

  It was an unhappy gathering that prepared to travel from Barnwell Priory to St Michael’s Church. Carton rested on a makeshift bier, and Norton provided two lay-brothers to help carry it. The men did not voice their objections aloud, but it was clear that they disliked being given such an assignment, and their surliness persisted even after the monk offered them money for their trouble. Bartholomew did not blame them. It was an unpleasant task to be doing at any time, but the heat made it worse. It was still intense, even though the sun was setting.

  Eyton was one of a dozen men who watched Bartholomew cover his colleague with a blanket, his normally smiling face sombre. ‘Carton took a courageous stand against those who lead sinful lives, and I am sorry someone has murdered him because of it,’ he said.

  ‘You think that is why he was stabbed?’ asked Michael. He sounded weary, and Bartholomew suspected he had been regaled with a number of unfounded theories as to why the friar should have been killed. ‘Someone took exception to his views about what constitutes a decent lifestyle?’

  Eyton nodded sadly. ‘I doubt the Sorcerer appreciated Carton telling folk that joining his cadre was a sure way to Hell. He or a minion must have decided to silence him. Poor Carton. His views were a little radical for my taste – and I fear he was a bad influence on my dear friend William, who tends to listen rather too readily to anyone who decries heresy – but he was a good man at heart.’

  Michael indicated that the two lay-brothers were to take the back of the bier, while he and Bartholomew lifted the front. Normally, Cynric would have helped, but he had offered to stay and talk to the priory servants, who were more likely to confide in him than in the Senior Proctor.

  ‘William and Mildenale are sure to insist on a stately requiem for Carton,’ said Michael to the physician, as they set off towards home. ‘But it is an expense the College cannot afford at the moment. Our coffers are all but empty.’

  ‘Are they? I thought Margery Sewale’s benefaction meant we were financially secure.’

  ‘We will be, but only when her house has been exchanged for ready cash. Until then, we are worse off than ever, because we have had to pay certain taxes in advance. Why do you think there has been such a rush to sell the place? All the Fellows – except you, because you are hopeless at such matters – have been busy trying to drum up interest in the cottage among potential buyers.’

  Bartholomew was not sure whether to be offended because his colleagues did not trust him, or relieved that he had not been asked to squander his time on such a matter. ‘That was why Carton came to Barnwell,’ he said. ‘He was going to ask Norton how much he was willing to pay.’

  They walked in silence for a while. Ahead of them, the town was a silhouette of pinnacles, thatches and towers against the red-gold blaze of the evening sky. Each was lost in his own thoughts, Michael processing the mass of mostly useless information he had gleaned from interviewing the canons, and Bartholomew thinking about Carton’s unfathomable character.

  ‘This is a sorry business,’ said Michael eventually. He spoke softly, so the lay-brothers could not hear him. ‘And I fear it will prove difficult to solve. Why do you think Carton was killed?’

  Bartholomew tried to organise his chaotic thoughts. ‘There seem to be several possible motives. First, there is the rumour that he was the Sorcerer. If that is true, the Church will see him as an enemy, and you can include virtually every priest in Cambridge on your list of suspects, as well as religious laymen who dislike what the Sorcerer is trying to do.’

  Michael sighed unhappily. ‘And Barnwell’s twenty or so canons head that list, including their Prior. The only exception is Podiolo, who strikes me as the kind of man who might dabble in sorcery himself. He is definitely sinister.’

  ‘He is, a little,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘The second motive for killing Carton was his belief that people brought their plague losses on themselves. Such a stance is bound to attract angry indignation.’

  ‘Such as from Spaldynge?’ asked Michael. ‘He has always blamed physicians for the calamity, and will not like being told it is his own fault that his family died.’

  ‘Carton said Spaldynge killed someone called James Kirbee. Do you know if it is true?’

  Michael was thoughtful. ‘I had forgotten about that case. It was years ago, and was dropped for lack of evidence, although I recall thinking Spaldynge was probably guilty anyway. If Carton was going around reminding people about that, then it may well have led to murder.’

  Bartholomew resumed his list of reasons why Carton might have been stabbed. ‘And finally, there is his association with a group of very vociferous Franciscans who hate Dominicans.’

  ‘And one of that group died last week,’ mused Michael. ‘Carton was not convinced that Thomas’s death was all it seemed, and asked you to run an experiment to assess whether he was poisoned. Perhaps he was right, and your sedative really did have nothing to do with Thomas’s demise.’

  Bartholomew was not sure what to think. On the one hand, it would be good to be free of the burden of guilt, but on the other he did not like the notion that there was another suspicious death to explore. He said nothing, so Michael abandoned theories and began to think about evidence.

  ‘Tell me what you were able to deduce from Carton’s body,’ he ordered.

  Bartholomew disliked the way
the monk always assumed he could produce clues from corpses as a conjuror might pull ribbons from a hat. And with stabbings, the chances of learning anything useful were slim. Yet he always felt he was letting Michael – and the victim – down when he said there was nothing to help solve the case.

  ‘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?’