‘Everyone is interested in property these days,’ Norton explained, when Bartholomew asked why the canons were so well informed. ‘Ever since the plague. First, house prices dropped, because there was no one to live in the houses. Now the cost of desirable properties is rising, because they are in good repair, while the uninhabited ones have fallen into ruin. It is all very exciting.’
‘Even for men sworn to poverty?’ asked Bartholomew, failing to see why such a subject should seize anyone’s interest, but particularly those who had vowed to eschew worldly vices.
‘I have no wish to own houses myself,’ said Fencotes, a little reproachfully. ‘However, I have always been interested in homes, and bought and sold more than my share before I took the cowl.’
‘He was a secular most of his life,’ explained Norton, adding mysteriously, ‘In Norfolk.’
‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, not sure how else to respond.
Fencotes drew his cloak more closely around his skeletal shoulders and shivered. ‘Is it my imagination, or has the temperature dropped? It feels as cold as the grave out here.’
‘It is your imagination.’ Norton’s eyes bulged as an idea occurred to him. ‘But you can have a hot tisane, while we enjoy some of the ale you keep in your crypt.’
‘His crypt?’ asked Bartholomew, regarding Fencotes askance.
‘The one under the infirmary,’ explained Fencotes, gesturing with one of his corpse-pale hands. ‘It was stuffed full of coffins when I first arrived, which did not seem appropriate, given all the old men living out their last days in the chamber above it, so Podiolo helped me clear it out. It is a horribly frigid place, which is why we store ale there.’
‘Michael came to see us earlier today,’ said Norton unhappily, as they walked across the courtyard. ‘He wanted to know why we failed to mention Carton deceiving us about the price of Sewale Cottage. I hope he believed our explanation – that it is common practice, and we were expecting fibs. I would hate him to think we were being obstructive, when we want Carton’s killer caught more than anyone.’
‘We did not tell Michael one thing, though,’ added Fencotes. ‘That Carton was not very skilled at manipulating a price war; we knew he was lying when he said Spynk had offered nine marks.’
‘He was too wrapped up in religious matters to pay the proper attention, you see,’ elaborated Norton. ‘It takes effort and care to drive such bargains, and he was always distracted.’
‘We have an offer of eleven marks now,’ said Bartholomew, resisting the urge to point out that friars were supposed to be wrapped up in religious matters, and that the comment said more about Barnwell than Carton. ‘From Arblaster.’
Norton stopped dead in his tracks and regarded the physician intently. ‘I cannot tell if you are bluffing or not,’ he said eventually. ‘You are good.’
‘I think he is bluffing,’ said Fencotes. ‘But even if he is telling the truth, we should offer twelve. It will be worth it. That property is perfectly situated for a granary.’
‘Actually, it is not, because the ground slopes,’ argued Norton. ‘And the house is very small.’
‘The building can be extended if necessary,’ countered Fencotes. ‘Sewale Cottage will be a good, solid investment.’
They were still debating when they entered the infirmary, where Podiolo abandoned doing something odoriferous with pipes, flames and metal dishes, and came to greet them.
‘I am experimenting with sulphur today,’ he said, in response to Bartholomew’s questioning glance. ‘If I succeed in making gold from lead, it will be the culmination of my life’s work.’
‘Do your patients not object to the smell?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking an infirmary was not a good place to conduct tests that involved rank substances.
‘They are used to it. Look at Norton and Fencotes bickering over Sewale Cottage! I shall be glad when the place is sold, because I am tired of hearing about it. Will you share your cure for the flux with me? I have three men sick of it at the moment, and I lost the last two who succumbed.’
Bartholomew not only gave him the remedy, but examined the patients. Podiolo remarked that the cure was mild for such a virulent sickness, but was uninterested in hearing Bartholomew’s theory about the beneficial properties of boiled water. He silenced the physician with an impatient wave of his hand, and turned the discussion back to sulphur.
‘People keep talking about the Sorcerer,’ said Bartholomew, thinking about the similarity between witchcraft and alchemy – both relied on powders, potions and a liberal sprinkling of incantations. ‘Do you have any idea who he might be?’
‘There are those who say it was Carton, because he was strange,’ replied Podiolo, grinning wolfishly. ‘There are others who claim it is I, because of my interest in making gold. I have even heard men say it is you, because you cure the flux where others have failed.’
Bartholomew was uneasy. ‘I hope you tell them it is not.’
‘I say you would not know how to cast a spell to save your life,’ said Podiolo, amusement in his yellow eyes. ‘And that if I were this great Sorcerer, I would have manufactured gold years ago.’
Bartholomew was then treated to a lengthy monologue about the advances Podiolo had made in his quest, but did not mind. It was cool in the infirmary, and Podiolo was generous with the ale. The Florentine was more interested in talking than listening, so all the physician had to do was nod occasionally. He began to relax for the first time in days. Eventually, Norton came to join them.
‘Will you pass this to Brother Michael? I meant to give it to him earlier, but his remarks about us not mentioning the bidding business were rather accusatory, and it slipped my mind.’
He held out his hand to reveal a stone with a hole it in, through which had been threaded a leather thong. Bartholomew had seen pebbles with natural cavities before, and knew they were highly prized as charms. This one was adorned with symbols that were unfamiliar. They were not Greek, Hebrew or Arabic, and he supposed they belonged to a language he had never seen written.
‘What is it?’ he asked, taking it and examining it with interest.
‘A holy-stone talisman,’ replied Norton, rather more knowledgeably than Bartholomew thought was appropriate for a man who should have known nothing of sorcery. ‘Used by folk who want to protect themselves against wolves. Obviously, it does not belong to any of us, so it must have been either Carton’s or his killer’s. Either way, it is a clue.’
‘How can you be sure it does not belong to any of you?’ asked Bartholomew, bemused.
Norton raised his eyebrows. ‘Because we are not afraid of wolves. Witches are another matter, but you do not wear a holy-stone to ward off witches. Any fool knows that.’
‘Of course,’ said Bartholomew, who had known no such thing. He thought about Podiolo, and the rumours of his lupine ancestry. ‘Why are you not afraid of wolves, exactly?’
Norton’s eyes bulged so much that Bartholomew found himself braced to catch them when they popped out. ‘Because wolves would never invade us,’ he said, as though the answer were self-evident and Bartholomew was lacking in wits because he had been obliged to ask.
‘Where did you find it?’ Bartholomew asked.