‘I see,’ said Michael, exchanging a significant glance with Bartholomew. ‘This is interesting. We shall have to ask him about it.’
‘He will probably deny it,’ said Deynman. ‘He and Carton pretended they were the best of friends when I asked them to squabble somewhere other than around my books, but I know what I heard. But I am a busy man, and have no time to waste chatting. I want my books back today, and if you forget, I shall fine you. I can, because I am librarian.’ He turned on his heel and swaggered away.
‘Sometimes, I think promoting him to that post was not a very good idea,’ said Michael, watching him go. ‘He has turned into a despot.’
While Michael lingered, waiting to catch Mildenale and William as they left the hall, Bartholomew went to Carton’s room in search of the books. Normally, he would have been uneasy rifling through a colleague’s possessions, especially one so recently dead, but the fact that Carton had owned medical texts – albeit ones with which he was already familiar – made him hope that the Franciscan might have a few even more interesting items secreted away.
But he was to be disappointed. There was indeed a collection of texts locked in a chest at the bottom of Carton’s bed – his students showed him where he hid the key – but it contained nothing to excite the curiosity of a medicus. There were several essays on Blood Relics, all of which supported the Dominican side of the debate, and a series of tracts scribed by Jewish and Arabic philosophers that the Franciscan had evidently deemed unfit for English eyes. Then there were three scrolls that told their readers how to make magic charms, while a large, heavy book, carefully wrapped in black cloth, proudly declared itself to be a practical manual for witches.
‘He was going to burn them,’ said one of Carton’s room-mates, watching Bartholomew flick through the manual. It was not comfortable reading, even for a man who had encountered similar texts at the universities of Padua and Montpellier. ‘And he kept them locked away in the meantime, so no one would inadvertently see one and become contaminated.’
‘But you knew where he kept the key,’ Bartholomew pointed out, knowing that locked chests in Colleges were regarded as challenges, not barriers, and room-mates expected to be familiar with their friends’ intimate possessions. ‘You could have read these texts any time he was not here.’
‘We would not have dared,’ replied the student grimly. ‘He would have known, and we did not want to annoy him. He took his privacy far more seriously than you other Fellows.’
Bartholomew carried the theological and philosophical texts to Deynman, and handed the ones on the occult to Langelee. The Master started to peruse the guide to witchcraft, but soon became bored with its arcane language and secret symbols. He shoved it on a high shelf in his office, where Bartholomew imagined it would languish until it was forgotten.
The physician returned to the hall, to find Michael had been talking to Agatha the laundress. Agatha had exempted herself from the rule that no women were allowed inside University buildings, and ran the domestic side of the College with a fierce efficiency; scholars crossed her at their peril. She was, however, a valuable source of information, and Bartholomew was not surprised the monk had picked her brains about the various matters he was obliged to investigate.
‘So, I know nothing about any of it,’ she was saying. She sounded sorry; she liked to help the monk with his investigations, because it made her feel powerful. ‘Not about Carton, the desecration of Margery and Danyell, the blood in the font, or Bene’t’s missing goats. However, I can tell you one thing you should know: the meat is spoiled for tonight’s supper, and I only bought it yesterday.’
‘What are we going to eat, then?’ demanded Michael, alarmed.
‘You can either have onion soup, which is safe, or you can risk a stew.’
‘Not stew,’ said Bartholomew quickly, knowing the monk would go a long way to avoid eating anything that contained vegetables. ‘You know I think bad meat might be causing the flux.’
‘Then give the students the soup, but find a couple of chickens for the Fellows,’ ordered Michael, slipping her a few coins. He watched her walk away, jangling the silver in her large, competent hands. ‘What did you learn from Carton’s books, Matt? Were they full of heresy?’
‘The witches’ manual and the recipes for charms are a bit dubious, but the rest are perfectly sound. He was over-reacting, just as he over-reacted with the medical texts.’
Michael gazed down the hall, where Mildenale was advising his students on the safest route home. ‘We will need to replace Carton, but I do not want him to take the post.’
‘I doubt he would accept, anyway, not when he is on the verge of founding his own hostel.’ Bartholomew glanced at the monk. ‘Is it a good idea to grant him a licence? I suspect he intends to indoctrinate any students who enrol, so they all end up thinking like him.’
Michael looked unhappy. ‘Unfortunately, he has the necessary charters. The College will benefit, though. We are planning to buy three shops from Mistress Refham, and arrangements are in place for him to rent them from us at a very respectable price.’
Bartholomew frowned. ‘But Mistress Refham died months ago. How can she sell us property?’
‘Do you listen to nothing in Fellows’ meetings?’ demanded Michael in exasperated disgust. ‘On her deathbed, she left instructions that her son and his wife were to sell us the shops cheaply. Unfortunately, they are refusing to honour her last wishes, and the matter is with the lawyers.’
Bartholomew mumbled something noncommittal – the monk’s explanation rang a vague bell – and watched Mildenale finish with his students. He started to move towards the man, but William got there first, and the two friars immediately began a low-voiced discussion. Mildenale seemed to be doing most of the talking, and Bartholomew picked up the word ‘Dominican’ in the tirade.
‘Carton was much less vocal about the Black Friars than the others,’ mused Michael, who had also heard. ‘I wonder what Mildenale and William thought about that.’
Bartholomew regarded him uneasily. ‘You think one of them might have killed him over it?’
Michael raised his hands in a shrug. ‘They are fanatics, and thus a law unto themselves. Who knows what they might do in the name of religion? I thought William knew the boundaries, but he is not intelligent and may have been persuaded that anything goes in the war against the Devil.’
Bartholomew was appalled. ‘I sincerely hope you are wrong.’
‘So do I,’ said Michael grimly. ‘But let us see what Mildenalus Sanctus has to say about his fallen comrade. We will tackle William afterwards; I do not feel like interviewing them together.’
As usual, Mildenale’s hands were clasped before him and he was gazing heavenward. A student mimicked his pious posture, although he desisted abruptly when Michael frowned at him.
‘I am not sure what I can tell you,’ said Mildenale, when the monk asked whether he knew anything that might solve Carton’s murder. ‘His devotion to stamping out wickedness earned him enemies, but that is to be expected in a soldier of God. I wonder who will be next, William or me?’
‘You think someone might be targeting zealots?’ asked Michael, rather baldly.
Mildenale regarded him in surprise. ‘Carton was not a zealot, Brother. What a dreadful thing to say! He was just determined to speak out against sin, as am I. And with God’s help, I shall succeed.’
‘If you think you might be in danger, you should stay in,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘Until–’