‘Fencotes must take the credit for its discovery. He went to kneel on the spot where Carton died, to pray and cleanse the chapel after the violence that sullied it. While he was there, he saw this in a crack between the flagstones. It was near where Carton’s right hand would have been.’
Bartholomew frowned. ‘Are you saying Carton was holding it when he died?’
Norton shrugged. ‘It is possible. It is equally possible that the killer dropped it, perhaps when he was arranging the poor man’s limbs.’
‘And you are sure it was not there before Carton died? Perhaps one of your servants–’
‘They are not allowed in that chapel, which is the domain of canons alone. And, as I said, we have no need for this kind of talisman. The only explanation is that Carton or his killer must have brought it. Ergo, if you identify its owner, you may catch your murderer.’
Chapter 5
The sun beat down relentlessly as Bartholomew trudged along the Barnwell Causeway towards the town, and the air seemed more sultry and oppressive than ever. It was so hot he felt he could not catch his breath, and he was exhausted by the time he reached the King’s Ditch and passed back into civilisation. Junior Proctor Bukenham lived in a hostel near the Small Bridges, in the south of the town. To get there, the physician took a shortcut past some marshy land that was dominated by one of the town’s mills. The great waterwheel was still that day, because the river was too low to drive it, and the miller lounged outside his house with a stem of grass gripped between his teeth.
‘I need a spell to ward off the flux,’ he said, as Bartholomew walked past him.
‘Avoid bad meat,’ suggested Bartholomew helpfully. ‘It will serve you better than spells.’
‘You do not know any,’ said the miller, rather accusingly. ‘Magister Arderne the healer told me you were bereft of them, but I thought he was just being spiteful.’
‘No, he was right,’ said Bartholomew, the heat making him respond more tartly than was his wont. ‘I do not deal in magic.’
‘I had better consult a witch, then. Cynric will be able to tell me which one is best value.’
Bartholomew had not gone much further when he heard a rustle in the bulrushes at the side of the path. At first, he thought it was a cat or a bird, but the sound grew louder, and he realised it was something considerably larger. He glanced around uneasily, aware that he was alone in a fairly isolated part of the town. The nearest house was Bukenham’s, but that was still some distance away.
‘Physician! It is me.’
Bartholomew peered into the reeds, but could see no one there. ‘Who?’
‘Me,’ came the whisper, a little impatiently. ‘Who do you think?’
Bartholomew had no idea, but then he spotted a vague shape deep among the grasses. ‘Mother Valeria?’ he asked, recognising the crumpled hat, although there was not much more about her that was identifiable; he could not see her face. ‘What are you doing there? I thought you never left your house – that people came to see you.’
‘Of course I leave my house!’ She sounded disgusted with him. ‘How could I collect the plants I need for my charms if I was at home all day? I have been less mobile of late, because of my knee, but you helped with that and it is much better.’
‘It will not stay that way if you make a habit of sitting around in bogs.’
‘I have been collecting marsh-mallow, and this is the best place for miles, although I prefer to keep myself hidden. But I saw you coming and wanted to tell you something. It is about Carton, whose murder you are investigating. I hear things when I am about my business, and today I learned he was not the man you thought you knew. Prior Pechem is looking into his background.’
Bartholomew frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I overheard Pechem telling Mildenale that he could not find a record of Carton’s ordination. And, as I am here and you seem to be in the mood for listening, I shall tell you something else, too. The man they call the Sorcerer is growing in power, and you would be a fool to try to stop him.’
‘Last time I asked, you said you did not know him. Have you learned his name, then?’
‘No one knows his name, but he is stronger now than he was a week ago, and has twice as many followers. He frightens me. And he would frighten you, too, if you had any sense.’
There was a sharp rustle and the shape was gone, almost as if Valeria had vanished into thin air. Bartholomew shook himself, and dismissed such fanciful notions from his mind. It had been a long day and he was tired. He considered hunting for her, to demand a clearer explanation of her so-called intelligence, but someone was coming, and he did not want to be caught doing anything that might be deemed odd. He pretended to be buckling his shoe, then resumed his journey to the Junior Proctor.
‘You own a holy-stone, I see,’ said Bukenham conversationally, when the physician rummaged in his bag for camomile syrup and the talisman dropped to the floor. The Junior Proctor was a soft-faced, shy man, who had stuck at his post longer than most of Michael’s deputies; Bartholomew suspected it was only because he was too frightened to resign. He was patently terrified of the monk, and his current illness – an inexplicable aching of the head – was almost certainly a case of malingering. ‘I used to have one of those.’
‘Did you?’ asked Bartholomew in surprise. ‘Why?’
‘Arderne sold it to me. He said it would protect me from wolves, although wolves tend not to be much of a problem in the streets of Cambridge. But it was a pretty thing, and I grew used to it hanging around my neck. Then the cord broke and I lost it. Did you buy yours from Arderne?’
There was no reason not to tell him the truth – Bukenham was Michael’s deputy, after all. ‘Fencotes found it in the chapel after Carton was killed, but I never saw Carton wearing an amulet of any description, so I am inclined to think it belonged to his killer.’
‘You are probably right. Carton was a friar, and they usually renounce objects of superstition.’
‘Was Carton a friar? I have been told the record of his ordination cannot be found.’
Bukenham shrugged. ‘That does not mean anything, especially with the Franciscans. They gather recruits by the cartload, and their registers are often unreliable. Did you know there is a rumour that Carton was the Sorcerer? I do not believe it, personally.’
‘Neither do I,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But what are your reasons?’
‘No scholar would dabble in such dark matters, so my feeling is that it will be a townsman.’
‘Scholars have dabbled before,’ said Bartholomew, unconvinced by this logic. ‘And they are, on the whole, clever men who like pitting their wits against the great mysteries of the universe. It would not be the first time one went down the wrong path.’
Bukenham sighed. ‘I was hoping to keep this to myself, but I see I shall have to confide. The Sorcerer’s Latin is poor, and that is why I think he is unlikely to be an academic.’
Bartholomew narrowed his eyes. ‘That suggests you have heard him speak. How?’
Bukenham sighed again, deeply unhappy. ‘About a week ago, I was on patrol when I stumbled across one of his meetings. I know I should have used my authority to stop it, but I was alone and I am no Brother Michael. So I watched instead, hoping to learn something that would allow our beadles to arrest him the following day.’
‘I did the same at All Saints last night,’ admitted Bartholomew. ‘So did William and Mildenale.’
Bukenham looked at him in surprise, then grimaced. ‘But the ceremonies in All Saints are always well attended, so it would be unreasonable for you and two friars to take action. However, the one I witnessed was in the charnel house, with only two disciples present.’