‘I have no wish to stop him,’ said Heltisle coldly. ‘He is right to warn folk of the dangers they face. The town has been plagued by some very odd happenings of late, and we should ignore them at our peril. Take our goats, for example. Seven were stolen – and seven is a mystical number.’
‘Is it?’ asked Bartholomew tiredly. ‘I did not know that.’
‘I am sure you did,’ countered Heltisle nastily. ‘It is the kind of thing all wicked–’
Michael interrupted by elbowing him and Eyton off the dais and repeating his speech about grave-robbers. By the time he had dismissed the crowd, half seemed ready to believe him, although the rest remained sceptical. He was disappointed not to have convinced more, although Bartholomew thought he had done well enough, given the town’s current preference for supernatural explanations over rational ones.
‘I suppose it could have been worse,’ said Heltisle, watching Younge oust the lingerers, so that only he, Eyton, Michael and the physician remained. ‘We buried a student today – the one you failed to save, Bartholomew. My lads would have been distressed had it been him rising from his grave.’
‘He would have been a prettier sight than Goldynham,’ quipped Eyton rather inappropriately. ‘However, we should be grateful it was not Mistress Refham. She is important to both our Colleges, because not only did she order those three shops sold to Michaelhouse at a very reduced rate, but she was generous to Bene’t, too. I would not have wanted to throw holy water at her.’
‘I thought it was her at first,’ said Heltisle. ‘I never have been very good at remembering who went where in cemeteries. Unlike the Corpse Examiner, I imagine.’
‘What do you mean by that?’ demanded Bartholomew, becoming tired of the man’s sly insinuations. There had always been a degree of antagonism between him and Heltisle, but they usually managed a veneer of civility. He wondered what he had done to upset the balance.
Heltisle regarded him with dislike. ‘I mean you have been implicated in some very dubious happenings of late. It was you who found Danyell’s mutilated corpse, and there was the blood in your College’s baptismal font. Moreover, you have never hidden your belief that anatomy is a viable branch of medicine. Perhaps the blood was Danyell’s, spilled as you lopped off his hand.’
‘You do not “lop off” limbs in anatomy,’ snapped Bartholomew, thinking the remarks highlighted the man’s ignorance. ‘It is a precise art, in which lopping plays no part.’
Heltisle took a step away, startled by his vehemence. Michael laid a warning finger on the physician’s arm, to prevent him from sharing any other details about a technique that was not only illegal in England but that was generally considered abhorrent. Fortunately, the discussion was cut short by Younge, who approached with two people trailing at his heels. He was scowling.
‘Here are David and Joan Refham, Master Heltisle. It is late for visitors, and I would have sent them packing, but you said I should be nice to them because you think they might give our College some of their mother’s money.’
Heltisle winced at his porter’s bold remarks, then turned to the couple with an ingratiating smile, although the indignant expression on Refham’s face suggested any effort to make amends for Younge’s words would be a waste of time. With oily charm, Heltisle ushered them to a bench and plied them with wine. Refham snatched the proffered goblet, downed its contents in a gulp, and tossed the goblet on the floor. Joan sniffed hers, then set it aside with a moue of distaste that was offensive.
‘Is that my mother’s grave, all dug up?’ demanded Refham. ‘Your lout Younge refused to tell me. Why you continue to employ him is a mystery to me. I would have hanged him years ago.’
‘It was Goldynham,’ replied Heltisle soothingly. ‘Your mother has not been touched.’
‘Good,’ said Refham coldly. ‘I would not have been happy if she had.’
‘Nor would I,’ added Joan. ‘And when we are not happy, it is not good for anyone.’
‘No?’ asked Michael mildly. ‘And why is that?’
‘Because I say so,’ replied Refham. ‘And woe betide anyone who steps in my way. Believe me, you want to keep me happy.’
‘And me,’ added Joan.
‘Well, there is no cause for unhappiness here,’ said Heltisle hastily. ‘Not yours, anyway.’
‘Good,’ said Refham again. ‘Better someone else suffers than me, I always say. Are you Michael? The University’s henchman?’
‘I am its Senior Proctor,’ replied Michael coolly. ‘I understand we may be seeing more of each other, if Michaelhouse decides to buy the three shops you have just inherited.’
‘Oh, you will decide to buy them,’ said Refham smugly. ‘I know what they are worth to you, being lodged between two plots you already own. The real question is whether you will get them. There are others who are interested, and we shall favour whoever offers us the most money.’
‘Your mother’s dying wish was that Michaelhouse should have them,’ said Michael, displaying admirable calm in the face of such unpleasantness. ‘You were in a tavern as she breathed her last, but I was at her side. She also stipulated a very reasonable price that we were to pay.’
‘My lawyer says I need not be bound by her deathbed babbles. And what can she do about it now, anyway? She is dead, and all her property is mine.’
‘And mine,’ added Joan. ‘And we intend to make as much money as we can from it. Then we shall leave this godforsaken town and go somewhere nice, like Luton.’
‘So prepare to loosen your purse strings, henchman,’ jeered Refham. He turned to Heltisle. ‘We might favour Bene’t with a donation. It depends on how we are treated, to be honest. I like good wine and decent horses.’
‘Are you sure Michaelhouse should do business with a man like him?’ asked Bartholomew in distaste, as Heltisle ushered the couple away, fawning over them in a manner that made even Younge cringe. ‘My brother-in-law says he cannot be trusted, and he may do us harm.’
‘Not as much harm as I will do to him, if he attempts anything shady,’ retorted Michael.
Because spectators had prevented Bartholomew from performing a thorough examination of Goldynham, Michael suggested he should do it before returning to Michaelhouse. It was late, he said, so St Bene’t’s Church would be empty and he could do what was necessary without fear of being seen. Reluctantly, the physician followed him inside the dark building; Meadowman and Cynric stationed themselves by the door, ready to cough a warning should anyone try to come in. When they reached the body, Bartholomew faltered, feeling he had already done more than should have been expected of him.
‘We need answers as a matter of urgency,’ said the monk tiredly, seeing his hesitation. ‘I have no idea where to begin looking for this fiend, and you are my only hope for clues.’
With a sigh, the physician did as he was asked. It was distasteful work and, as usual, he was assailed by the uncomfortable feeling that he was being watched by disapproving spirits. Manfully, he pushed his unease from his mind and tried to concentrate on the task in hand. Goldynham had been tall, even in old age, and had sported an unusually full head of white hair, like a puffball. The hair was still there, although it was lank and dirty from its time in the ground. He was also wearing a gold-coloured cloak he had always liked – it had been a kind of trademark with him, and he was seldom without it, even in the heat of summer. Bartholomew supposed his colleagues at the Guild of Corpus Christi had ensured it had accompanied him to his grave.