‘Concentrate on Godrich, Hopeman and Kolvyle,’ replied Michael. ‘And re-question as many witnesses as will talk to me.’
‘I need to visit patients,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But I will listen for rumours, and I will challenge Cook if I see him. And Whittlesey, who we need to ask about the discussion he held with Lyng on Thursday night – the one witnessed by Richard.’
‘No!’ exclaimed Michael and Tulyet in unison; Michael continued. ‘Whittlesey is too influential a man to irritate, while your dislike of Cook will not allow you to be objective. Leave them to us, if you please.’
Unfortunately, Bartholomew’s customers were of scant help in providing useful nuggets of information. The general consensus was that the Devil was responsible for all the murders, and that anyone who tried to investigate would be wasting his time. The theory was propounded particularly strongly by Marjory Starre, who had summoned Bartholomew to tend her rash. He was glad to see her, as it happened, because he wanted to explore what she had said in Isnard’s house – about a clandestine connection between Moleyns, Tynkell and Lyng.
‘I understand you met Satan in Maud’s Hostel,’ she said conversationally, as she opened her door and ushered him inside. ‘You are lucky he likes you, or he might have resented being chased down the ivy like a common felon.’
Bartholomew blinked. ‘I hardly think–’
‘But he let it peel from the wall in such a way that you would not be hurt,’ she declared with conviction. ‘He appreciates everything you do for us, see.’
‘Please do not say that to anyone else,’ begged Bartholomew. ‘I will be dismissed from the University if my colleagues think I am one of the Devil’s favourites.’
‘Yes, most scholars are narrow-minded fools,’ she said sympathetically. ‘It will be our little secret then. Of course, Lucifer does not like the University.’ She spoke as though this was something he had confided personally. ‘It has too many priests for his taste.’
‘I am sure it does,’ muttered Bartholomew, and hastily moved to a safer subject. ‘You mentioned the last time we met that Moleyns, Lyng and Tynkell were associated in some way. Will you tell me how?’
‘Why, through Satan, of course,’ replied Marjory; she sounded surprised that he should need to ask. ‘All three solicited his help on occasion, but they must have angered him in some way, so he decided to make an end of them.’
Bartholomew cursed himself for a fool. He should have known better than to expect sensible intelligence from a woman who made no bones about the fact that she was a witch.
‘Moleyns, perhaps,’ he said, ‘but not the other two. Lyng was a priest, for a start.’
‘Yes, but we never hold that against anyone,’ she replied graciously. ‘Yet I see you do not believe me, so ask yourself this: why was Master Tynkell covered in those marks?’
‘What marks?’ Bartholomew kept his attention on her rash, lest she read the truth in his face.
‘The ones inked all over his body. You know what I am talking about, Doctor, so do not play the innocent with me.’
He looked up accusingly. ‘Did you open his coffin?’
‘Of course not – there are beadles minding it.’ From that response, he assumed that she would have done, had it been left unattended, and was glad he had taken precautions against such liberties. ‘I saw them on another occasion.’
‘How? He went to considerable trouble to keep them hidden.’
‘He was not always ashamed of them.’ Marjory pulled up her skirts to reveal a pale white calf, and he was startled to see a horned serpent drawn there. ‘I have one, but he had lots. We put them on ourselves as a mark of respect to darker powers. Of course, I have a cross on the other leg, as a sop to Jesus. It is reckless to put all your eggs in one basket, after all.’
It was an uncomfortable discussion for a man who spent a lot of time in church, but Bartholomew felt obliged to persist anyway – the secret Tynkell had worked so hard to keep would likely be spread about the town if Marjory’s claim went unchallenged, so it was his duty to see it nipped in the bud. ‘Tynkell’s symbols were inked on him while he was drunk – by friends, who did it as a joke.’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘Is that what he told you? Pah! These take hours to make, and the process is painful. No one could slumber through all of it, not even a man in his cups. He lied to you, Doctor, because the truth is that he wanted them there.’
‘Then it was a youthful mistake and he recanted,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘Which explains his determination to hide the things. Besides, Lyng and Moleyns had no such marks. I would have noticed when I examined their bodies.’
‘Did you inspect the soles of their feet? No? Then of course you did not see them! Go and look at Master Lyng if you do not believe me, although if you want to view Sir John Moleyns, you will have to dig him up, because he was buried today.’
Bartholomew rubbed a hand through his hair. ‘But Lyng was a priest,’ he said again.
‘A priest who was terrified of the plague,’ she said quietly, ‘when many folk learned that God and His saints could not be trusted to save them. Master Lyng wanted to survive, so he enlisted the help of another power. I could name dozens of people who did the same. Most returned to the Church when the danger was over. Master Lyng was one of them.’
‘You cannot claim that Tynkell weakened during the plague, though – that was only a decade ago, and his marks are much older.’
‘He was a devout Christian most of the time, but he came to me when he needed extra help. The plague was one such time, and the last election for the chancellorship was another.’
‘Lord!’ muttered Bartholomew, not liking to imagine what the town would make of the claim that it was Lucifer who had picked the University’s last leader.
‘Yes,’ said Marjory serenely. ‘But which one?’
Bartholomew’s thoughts were reeling. So, was a shared interest in witchery – whether current or past – why Tynkell, Lyng and Moleyns met in St Mary the Great? And if so, was it significant that Cook was there, too? He asked, but Marjory’s expression turned haughty.
‘I never discuss the living – only the dead, to whom it no longer matters. However, your brother-in-law said the Devil could have his soul if Edith were spared. Satan was so touched that he allowed them both to live. Look on his tomb if you do not believe me. Round the back, you will see a horned serpent. It will protect him in the afterlife, should God forget.’
Bartholomew was so unsettled by Marjory’s revelations that he was not sure where to go first – to look at Lyng or to inspect Stanmore’s tomb. In the end, he opted for Lyng, where it took but a moment to see that she had been telling the truth. He scrubbed at his face with shaking fingers. So was she right about Stanmore, too? His brother-in-law had certainly dabbled in such matters on occasion, and might well have bargained with the Devil for Edith’s life, given that she had meant the world to him.
With a heavy tread, he turned towards St John Zachary. He saw Cook on the way, and received a furious glare. As the barber had just emerged from the home of Siffreda Sago, an old friend, Bartholomew felt obliged to knock on her door, to make sure she was still alive.
‘We are not ill,’ Siffreda said cheerfully, waving him inside. Her house was not very clean, and smelled of rotting cheese. ‘He came to cut our hair. He has a two-for-one offer this week, you see. But he visited my mother yesterday and gave her a potion – this cold weather plays havoc with her lungs – and she has not been very well ever since. Would you look at her?’
Supposing Stanmore’s tomb could wait, Bartholomew allowed himself to be conducted to a hovel north of the castle, where he learned with relief that Cook’s medicine comprised nothing more sinister than nettles and arrowroot. However, the old woman needed an expectorant that worked, so he sent to the apothecary for a syrup of hyssop and horehound instead. When he had finished, he emerged to find a small crowd waiting for him.