‘What about warts?’ called one parishioner. ‘The Sorcerer is better at curing them than any of the other witches, but if he is growing powerful and dangerous, does that mean we cannot approach him for help with warts?’
‘Of course you may approach him,’ replied Eyton amiably. ‘Just make sure you are wearing one of my amulets when you do so.’
Michael shook his head. ‘Eyton is a strange fellow,’ he murmured. ‘On the one hand, he claims to have hurled holy water over a demon-possessed corpse, while on the other he advocates visits to the Sorcerer for cures. But never mind him. What can you tell me about Goldynham?’
Reluctantly, Bartholomew turned his attention to the body. The silversmith had not fared well from his time in the ground. His skin was dark and mottled, and his stomach distended. The physician conducted the most perfunctory of examinations, unwilling to perform a more detailed one in front of spectators, so it was not surprising when he found there was little to say.
‘Rougham said he died of a quinsy,’ he replied in a low voice, so as not to be overheard. ‘And he seems to be intact – no missing fingers, toes, hands, ears or hair. He has been excavated in exactly the same way as Margery: the culprit took a spade and dug down to the body, throwing soil in all directions. He did not pile it neatly to one side, suggesting he had no intention of reburying his victim. He does not care who sees his handiwork.’
Michael was thoughtful. ‘Goldynham and Margery were decent folk, and I cannot believe either had serious enemies. They knew each other, but were not friends or kin. Ergo, I doubt this act of desecration is personal, so there must be another reason why they were picked. What could it be?’
Bartholomew shrugged. ‘They were both buried on Ascension Day. Perhaps that date has some dark significance for one of the town’s covens.’
‘It is possible,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘However, it is equally possible that someone wants the witches blamed, to bring them trouble. What else can you tell me?’
Bartholomew tried to review the situation objectively, closing his mind to the fact that he was in a churchyard at night, kneeling next to a corpse that had been unlawfully exhumed. ‘Perhaps we are reading too much into the situation. Margery and Goldynham were wealthy, so their graves are tempting targets for thieves. Hence Eyton saw not Goldynham moving about, but a robber, who fled because he was about to be caught, not because he was doused with holy water.’
Michael nodded. ‘You are almost certainly right. Has the villain left anything that might allow us to identify him this time?’
Bartholomew took a torch, and spent a long time inspecting the ground around the tomb, but despite the fact that the thief had almost been caught red-handed, he had left no clues behind.
Michael was disappointed by the physician’s findings – or lack thereof – although he was careful not to let his frustration show. He did not want it said that the incident had him confounded. Calmly, he asked Heltisle whether everyone might adjourn to Bene’t College. Heltisle was not keen on having laymen in his domain, but was not so rash as to refuse a direct request from the Senior Proctor. He nodded acquiescence, and led scholars, parishioners and Guild members through the back gate and into his hall. Younge was on hand to make sure no one misbehaved, and exerted his authority by forcing everyone to remove their shoes before stepping on the beautifully polished floors.
‘What shall we do about Goldynham?’ asked Heltisle, while they waited for the horde to assemble. He stood on the dais with Michael and Eyton, while Bartholomew hovered to one side. ‘We do not want him escaping a second time, so I am not sure reburial is a good idea.’
‘It is a good idea,’ countered Bartholomew immediately. ‘He represents a danger to health as long as he remains above ground. He should be re-interred tonight.’
‘I do not choose to toss him back in the earth like so much rubbish,’ declared Heltisle haughtily. ‘I know Michaelhouse did it to Margery Sewale, but Bene’t treats its dead with more respect. My porters will take him to the church, and I shall rebury him when I see fit.’
Bartholomew shrugged, knowing from the arrogant jut of Heltisle’s chin that there was no point in trying to persuade him otherwise. ‘It is your decision, and I suppose the chapel is cool …’
‘I had better splash a bit more holy water on him when we have finished here, then,’ said Eyton with a merry wink. ‘That and a prayer or two should stop him from wandering off again tonight.’
‘And that goes to show how fine is the line between religion and sorcery,’ murmured Michael to the physician. ‘Eyton’s incantations and charms are not so different from those used by warlocks to ward off undesirable forces.’
Bartholomew watched two porters leave to do their Master’s bidding, wondering whether he had acted with indecent haste when he had reburied Margery. He supposed he would find out if Eyton – who, as St Bene’t’s priest, would spend the most time in Goldynham’s noxious company – became ill.
Once everyone was in the hall, standing in shuffling, jostling rows, Michael began to speak.
‘Goldynham was a wealthy man, and his grave was robbed because a thief was after jewellery,’ he declared. ‘The same is true for Margery Sewale – she was buried without ornaments, but the culprit was not to know that. Eyton saw the thief – not Goldynham – who immediately took to his heels and fled when he realised he was about to be caught. This unsavoury incident has nothing to do with witchery.’
Sensible men, like the landlord of the Eagle, nodded acceptance of this version of events, but it was a dull explanation, and others were less inclined to believe it. Unfortunately, one was Heltisle.
‘You are letting Bartholomew’s opinions cloud your judgement,’ he said coldly. ‘Father William told me he dabbles in the dark arts, and is learning secrets from Mother Valeria. And he killed Father Thomas, too, when the poor man spoke out against heretics.’
‘Doctor Bartholomew is no heretic,’ shouted a familiar voice. It was Isnard the bargeman. He had lost his crutches, which was not an unusual occurrence when he was drunk, and was being held up by members of the Guild of Corpus Christi. ‘Nor does he kill his patients. Not deliberately, at least.’
‘Your testimony is tainted, Isnard,’ said Heltisle scornfully. ‘You are so desperate to be allowed back in the Michaelhouse Choir that you will say anything to curry favour.’
‘Well, yes, I would,’ admitted Isnard blithely. ‘But in this case, it happens to be the truth. And before you say it, he is not the Sorcerer, either. He has no time for that sort of caper, what with all this flux about.’
‘Who is the Sorcerer, then?’ demanded Heltisle, as if he imagined the bargeman might know. ‘The fellow holds half the town in his sway, but none of us know his name.’
‘I have a few ideas,’ said Eyton genially. There were calls for him to share his suspicions, so he began to oblige. His list was extensive, and included the Sheriff, Mother Valeria, Chancellor Tynkell, Podiolo, Arblaster and the University’s stationer. Bartholomew was relieved when no one from Michaelhouse featured in his analysis.
‘Can you not stop him?’ Michael asked of Heltisle, as people began to call out reasons why one suspect was more likely to be the Sorcerer than the others. ‘He is a member of your College, and you must have some control over the fellow. These accusations are likely to cause trouble.’