‘I was out,’ William replied, looking decidedly furtive. ‘Investigating things.’
‘What things?’ demanded Michael, eyes narrowing.
William looked as though he might prevaricate, but then sighed his resignation. ‘I was conducting my own enquiry, if you must know. I was trying to find out who put blood in our font, who took Bene’t’s goats, and who purloined Danyell’s hand.’
‘I see. And did you discover anything of relevance?’
‘Not really. The goats have disappeared without a trace, no one has been hawking severed hands to the town’s witches, and there have been no other incidents of blood left in holy places. Unfortunately, I know for a fact that the Dominicans had nothing to do with Danyell’s fingers, because they were all taking part in a satanic coven at the time.’
‘It was a holy vigil,’ corrected Bartholomew. ‘They prayed in their chapel the whole night before Ascension Day. I went there twice, to tend Prior Morden’s aching back.’
‘Call it what you will,’ said William unpleasantly. ‘I know the truth.’
The sun pouring through the windows had transformed Bartholomew’s room into a furnace, and it was far too hot for sleep. He tried, for he desperately needed rest, but tossed and turned in sweltering discomfort, even when he lay on the stone floor. He missed his room-mates, and awoke from several uneasy dozes with a start, dreaming that they had the flux and he was forced to watch them die. In the end, he decided to go for a walk, hoping exercise would calm his troubled thoughts.
It was almost dark, but the sun still bathed the western sky with shades of red and purple. A blackbird sang in a parched tree, and the town was noisier than usual, because everyone had their windows open. He could hear snatches of conversation, snoring and music as he left the College and began to walk along Milne Street. He took a deep breath, smelling scorched soil, the muddy ooze of the river, and a blocked sewer. He could detect something even more rank, too: the butchers’ stalls in the market and their festering produce. Insects whined in his ears, bats swooped and a dog barked frantically at a cat that sat just out of its reach and washed itself.
He was not the only person who thought an evening stroll might help him relax; a number of people were out, many of whom he knew. His patients nodded and smiled at him; some stopped to exchange pleasantries about the weather or, more usually, to confide some aspect of their health they thought he should know. One or two colleagues told him they had enjoyed the disputation he had conducted the previous week in St Mary the Great, and Eyton, the affable vicar of St Bene’t’s, informed him that he should make sure he was indoors by midnight, because the town’s witches intended to hold a celebration.
‘A celebration of what?’ asked Bartholomew suspiciously.
Eyton cocked a merry eyebrow. ‘A celebration of evil. What else? So if you go to see Mother Valeria, you will find she is not in.’
Bartholomew surmised that the priest had been talking to William. ‘I see.’
‘Of course,’ Eyton went on with a confidential wink, ‘tonight’s revelries will be nothing compared to what is scheduled for the witching hour next Saturday. It will be the night before Trinity Sunday, you see, which is a very holy occasion for warlocks.’
‘How do you know that?’
Eyton seemed surprised he should need to ask. ‘The Sorcerer’s disciples have been talking about it for weeks, buying in supplies of sulphur and pitch in anticipation. I shall have to make sure I have plenty of honey to hand.’
Bartholomew regarded him blankly. It was too late in the day for obscure allusions. ‘Honey?’
‘To keep these witches at bay,’ explained Eyton. ‘We discussed this yesterday, if you recall. I do not mind a few warlocks, but I am nervous of such a very large gathering. You never know what they might achieve when they mass in great numbers.’
‘I suppose not,’ said Bartholomew weakly.
‘And let us hope we have no more incidents like the one involving Margery Sewale,’ added Eyton fervently. ‘She was dragged from her grave for the purpose of black magic, and I do not want it to happen again. I am afraid that there will be so many Satan-lovers gathering in All Saints-next-the-Castle on Saturday that the Sorcerer may not be able to control them all.’
‘I have no idea what you are talking about,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘All Saints?’
Eyton chuckled inappropriately. ‘The biggest and most influential of the Cambridge covens meets there, because it was deconsecrated after its entire congregation died of the plague. It is a perfect place for such gatherings – remote, ruinous and sinister. It is the Sorcerer’s church, and he has invited all disciples of the Devil to join him there for the Trinity Eve celebrations.’
‘I will tell Michael,’ said Bartholomew. ‘His beadles will put a stop to it.’
Eyton’s smile faded to alarm. ‘No, do not do that! People will not like it. The point I am trying to make is that the occasion will be the Sorcerer’s début – his first appearance in front of all these different cadres. If you do not follow their ways, you would be wise to stay home in bed.’
‘Then I shall do as you suggest,’ said Bartholomew, purely to end the discussion. ‘Thank you.’
‘You are welcome,’ said Eyton jovially. ‘And now I had better go to guard the body of that student you failed to save today. We do not want anyone stealing his corpse.’
Eyton’s babble was unsettling, and Bartholomew knew it would be a while before he was able to sleep. What he needed was something – or someone – to take his mind off his worries, and he wished Matilde was still in Cambridge. She would know how to distract him from dark thoughts, and he felt loneliness stab at him as he walked. Then he realised he was outside the grand building owned by his brother-in-law. Although Oswald Stanmore spent his leisure hours at his manor in the nearby village of Trumpington and used the Cambridge house mostly for business, he sometimes worked late. Bartholomew knocked on the door, hoping that night might be one of those times, and was pleased when it was answered by the merchant himself.
Stanmore, a handsome man with a neat grey beard, ushered him in and offered him wine, which he served in the garden. His apprentices were being entertained by a juggler he had hired, and their laughter rippled across the yard. Bartholomew’s thoughts immediately returned to Matilde, because she had loved jugglers. He had planned to marry her, but, mistakenly believing he would never propose, she had left Cambridge one spring day. He had spent more than a year looking for her – his sabbatical leave had seen little time spent in foreign universities, despite what his colleagues believed – but she had disappeared like mist in sunlight. If she was not coming back, he liked to think of her happily settled with a man who would give her the kind of life she deserved. He certainly refused to contemplate what his friends thought: that a lone woman in a cart full of possessions had been too great a temptation for the murderous robbers who infested the King’s highways.
‘I like sitting out here in the summer,’ said Stanmore, taking an appreciative sip of his wine. ‘And if you look through that grille on the wall you can see right down the road, but no one can see you.’
‘So you can,’ said Bartholomew, thinking it was an odd thing to point out. ‘Do you spend much time peering down Milne Street, then?’
‘A fair amount, especially when your sister is not here. I find it takes my mind off her.’
‘Trumpington is only two miles distant. If you miss her that much, go home.’
‘She is not in Trumpington, she is in London,’ said Stanmore rather testily. ‘I told you she was going, and so did she – several times, although I had a feeling our words were not sinking in. You are always preoccupied with your own concerns these days, and ours do not seem to matter to you.’