Not everyone had clustered around Eyton. Isnard was clinging to a nearby tree, clearly having come straight from the Eagle. Bartholomew smiled when he saw him, knowing perfectly well that the bargeman was hanging back because he did not want Michael to see him drunk, lest it damaged his chances of being readmitted to the choir. Behind Isnard, deep in the undergrowth, were the pair Bartholomew had seen lurking near the Great Bridge the previous night. One was identifiable by his enormous size, and the other by his bushy beard. He started to point them out to Michael, but the monk’s attention was elsewhere.
‘Damn!’ Michael muttered. ‘We could have done without an audience. And we could do without Eyton smearing everyone with honey on the pretext of repelling witches, too. The fact that a vicar believes there is a danger will send the rumour-mongers into a frenzy.’
‘Brother Michael, you are here at last,’ said Heltisle, striding forward imperiously. ‘We were beginning to think you might not come. And who can blame you? I do not appreciate being summoned to witness this sort of thing, either.’
‘Once men are in their graves, they should stay there,’ agreed Eyton with a cheerful grin, as if he were talking about the weather. ‘They should not be walking around the town.’
‘Walking around the town?’ echoed Michael uneasily. ‘Meadowman told me the body had been excavated by some evildoer, as happened to Margery Sewale. He said nothing about walking–’
‘Then he did not tell you the whole story,’ said Eyton. ‘Goldynham clawed his way out of his tomb, and was heading for his favourite tavern when I stopped him with a splash of holy water.’
Michael gaped at him. ‘But that is–’
‘Impossible?’ interrupted Eyton. ‘I would have said so, too, had I not seen it with my own eyes. The Devil imbued Goldynham’s corpse with sinister strength, and who knows where it might have wandered, had I not stopped it.’
‘Right,’ said Michael warily. ‘What did you see, exactly?’
Eyton was enjoying the attention. He stood a little straighter, and beamed at his listeners. ‘I had just finished saying compline, and was about to go home when I heard odd sounds coming from the graveyard. I grabbed a phial of holy water and set off to investigate.’
‘Why holy water?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking a cudgel might have been a more appropriate choice. It was not unknown for the graves of wealthy citizens to be plundered by robbers, and such degenerates were unlikely to be deterred by religious regalia.
‘Because it is an effective weapon against the denizens of Hell,’ replied Eyton matter-of-factly. He turned back to Michael. ‘I moved towards the source of the noise, and saw a shadow. It was Goldynham, rising from his grave. So I raced at him and sprinkled the water on his unholy form, shouting in nomine Patris, et filii et Spiritus Sancti as I did so.’
There was an awed gasp from the crowd. Amulets were clutched, and fingers touched honey-drizzled foreheads. One or two traditionalists even crossed themselves.
‘Then there was a great puff of smoke and he fell backwards,’ Eyton went on, brandishing his spoon for effect. ‘When the mist cleared, he was dead again – good had triumphed over the Devil.’
Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘Why would the Devil attack Goldynham? He was an upright man.’
‘The Sorcerer arranged it, I expect,’ replied Eyton with a shrug. A number of his parishioners nodded their agreement. ‘I cannot think of any other explanation. Can you?’
‘I can think of several,’ replied Michael coolly. ‘And I detect a human hand in this outrage, not a supernatural one. What happened next?’
‘I fetched Master Heltisle,’ said Eyton. ‘And we thought you should investigate the matter.’
‘Oh, I shall,’ said Michael. It sounded like a threat.
‘I wanted the Sheriff to come, too,’ said Heltisle. ‘The churchyard is University property, but Goldynham was a townsman – I am not quite sure where jurisdiction lies. But he is out chasing robbers on the Huntingdon Way, and so is unavailable.’
‘We will liaise,’ said Michael. He and Tulyet worked well together, and there were none of the usual territorial tussles that took place between powerful institutions.
Meanwhile, Bartholomew became aware that people were looking expectantly at him, and realised it was time to do his duty. He moved cautiously towards the body, forcing his feet to move, because although he did not believe Eyton’s tale it had done little to dispel the sense of unease that had been dogging him ever since he had left Michaelhouse.
‘Has anyone touched anything?’ he asked.
‘Certainly not,’ said Heltisle, shooting him an unpleasant glance. ‘I am no Corpse Examiner, thank you very much. And my porters have kept everyone else back.’
Bartholomew saw Younge by the grave, shoving the more ghoulish of the onlookers away with unnecessary force. He was assisted by three cronies, all rough, sullen men with missing teeth and scarred knuckles. Their Bene’t uniforms were filthy, and all four looked disreputable and unkempt.
As he approached the tomb, Bartholomew was painfully reminded of what had happened to Margery – loose soil scattered carelessly around a gaping hole, and a body flung across it like a piece of rubbish. One of Goldynham’s arms dangled into the pit, as if he was trying to crawl back in. A wooden cross, which had marked the tomb until a more permanent monument could be erected, had been hurled to one side. So had a shovel.
‘Goldynham was excavated with that,’ said Bartholomew, indicating it with a nod. It was old but in good repair, with a sharp edge for cutting through sun-hardened soil. Damp clay still adhered to it, indicating that the silversmith’s grave, like Margery’s, had been deep.
‘No, Goldynham exhumed himself,’ argued Eyton. ‘He used his bare hands.’
‘His hands are clean,’ said Bartholomew, kneeling to pick one up and show him. He resisted the urge to shudder at the feel of the cold, earth-moist skin. ‘Had he been scrabbling his way clear of a grave, there would be dirt on his fingers. He did not do this himself.’
Heltisle regarded him with a good deal of contempt. ‘You seem very sure of yourself. Why are you so familiar with what happens when a grave is despoiled?’
‘It is a matter of simple logic,’ said Bartholomew evenly, declining to let the man’s hostile manner rile him. ‘Clawing through soil results in dirty hands. And the spade is there, for all to see.’
‘He is right,’ said the Eagle’s taverner, stepping forward to look for himself. ‘The earth is damp at the bottom of the grave, and it matches the damp soil on the spade. That means it was used to–’
‘But I know what I saw,’ cried Eyton, dismayed. ‘There was no one digging but Goldynham himself. Perhaps he had the spade with him when he was buried.’
‘He did not,’ said Bartholomew, astonished that the priest should make such a claim – and alarmed that some of his congregation seemed ready to believe it. They were nodding and nudging each other, and there was more amulet-gripping. ‘Someone would have noticed. Besides, he was a wealthy man, and if he had wanted a spade in his coffin, he would have chosen a better one than that.’
‘He died suddenly, so perhaps he did not have the luxury of being selective,’ suggested Eyton, unwilling to give up. ‘Or perhaps that was a favourite implement, one he had owned a long time. Your colleagues – William and Mildenale – would understand what is happening here.’
‘And what is that?’ asked Bartholomew. The question was out before he could stop himself, and too late he realised he had provided the priest with the perfect opening for a rant. Eyton took a deep breath and began, advising his audience not to forget about the Sorcerer and his recent increase in power. Then he took the opportunity to let the crowd know that another batch of his holy amulets would be available for sale the following morning, and that God-fearing folk who did not want to fall prey to witches should consider investing in one.