‘You have tales of walking corpses to quell, too,’ said Langelee, cutting across Bartholomew’s indignant retort. ‘Eyton’s claim that Goldynham dug himself up is circulating like wildfire and I am sure you want to provide an explanation that does not credit the Sorcerer with organising it.’
‘I do,’ agreed Michael. ‘But unfortunately, Eyton is a priest, so people are inclined to believe–’
‘Eyton is not a liar,’ said William fiercely, hastening to defend his friend. ‘He is a Franciscan.’
‘I am not saying he is a liar,’ snapped Michael. ‘I am saying he is mistaken. The churchyard was dark, and it was very late. Shadows can play strange tricks on agitated minds.’
‘Speaking of agitated minds, yours must have been deranged last night,’ said Langelee, rounding on Mildenale with sudden belligerence. ‘I saw you talking to Refham. How could you demean yourself by conversing with such a man? Do you not know he is trying to cheat us?’
‘Of course I do,’ said Mildenale, startled. ‘And if he sells those three shops to someone else, I shall not be able to establish my hostel, so I stand to lose a great deal from his cussedness. So, when our paths happened to cross yesterday, I politely informed him that deathbed wishes were God’s will and that he would be breaking holy laws by going against what his mother wanted.’
‘And what did he say to that?’ asked Langelee. ‘I cannot imagine he was moved.’
Mildenale raised his eyes heavenwards. ‘He was not. But then the Almighty spoke to me, and suggested I try a different tactic. So I offered Refham a commission – said he could have the job of decorating the buildings once they are in our possession.’
Langelee grinned, pleasantly surprised. ‘God is a clever fellow! We have said from the start that the shops will need a lick of paint before they can be rented out. Refham likes to think he can turn his hand to any trade, so that will be an extremely attractive proposition to him.’
‘So it might, but it will cost him his immortal soul,’ said William grimly. ‘He will be cursed by God if he does not do what his mother ordered with a willing heart – accepting bribes before complying with her wishes is essentially the same as disobeying her. And that is breaking one of the Ten Commandments.’
‘God does not curse people for defying their mothers,’ said Langelee disdainfully. ‘Ten Commandments or no.’
‘He does,’ argued William vehemently. ‘And He might curse you, too, if you take that sort of attitude with me. In fact, He will curse anyone who does not follow the straight and narrow, and they will find themselves condemned to the deepest pits of Hell. I know these things, because I am a friar, and one of those chosen to preach His message. Is that not so, Mildenale?’
‘Indeed it is,’ agreed Mildenale piously. ‘God only selects the truly righteous to do His work.’
‘We should talk to William about the blood in the font,’ said Michael to Bartholomew, when the meal had ended and the Master had intoned a final grace. ‘No matter how righteous Mildenalus Sanctus believes him to be.’
‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew, who wanted nothing to do with the Franciscan while he was in his current state of bigoted intolerance.
‘Because he was the one who discovered it, and he might have noticed something he later forgot to mention. Then we shall visit Spynk and ask more questions about Danyell. And finally, we shall go to Bene’t College and make enquiries about Goldynham. We can chat about the goats when we are there, too, so Heltisle will know I have not forgotten them.’
‘But we have done all this before,’ objected Bartholomew, suspecting none of the interviews would be likely to provide them with the answers they so desperately needed, and that they would be wasting precious time. ‘Or you have.’
Michael shot him a weary glance. ‘Do you have any better ideas? No? Then let us go and corner our rabid friar – preferably when he is alone and not being prompted by Mildenalus Sanctus.’
Bartholomew did not feel equal to an encounter with William. His sleepless night was taking its toll in the form of muddy wits, and the mouldy bread he had eaten for breakfast sat heavily in his stomach. But Michael was right: he did not have any better ideas as how to proceed, and he saw there was no choice but to follow the monk’s suggestions.
‘Let me do the talking,’ ordered Michael, as they walked to the north accommodation wing, where William lived. ‘Just listen to his answers, and see if you think he is holding out on us.’
‘You think he might try to mislead you?’ Bartholomew doubted William would do any such thing. The friar might be a zealot, but he was not normally obstructive of the monk’s investigations.
‘He is so obsessed by his war against heterodoxy at the moment that he has lost any grasp of reason he may once have had. He has always been suspicious of the way you practise medicine, but friendship – or comradeship, at least – has curbed his tongue in the past. Now he tells Langelee you are a necromancer.’
‘It is because of Thomas,’ said Bartholomew unhappily. ‘My mistake led to the death of a fellow Franciscan – a friend.’
Michael waved a dismissive hand. ‘He and Thomas were never close. Indeed, I was under the impression that Thomas did not like him – he accepted William’s companionship only because they held similar views about sin. William’s so-called grief derives from the fact that he said some very unpleasant things the day before Thomas died, and now he feels guilty about it.’
William’s voice could be heard booming through the open window as they approached, although Bartholomew suspected the friar imagined he was whispering. He was not surprised to learn the subject was heresy. Deynman was sitting on the bed, looking trapped, while William paced in front of him, finger wagging furiously. Bartholomew was seized by the urge to grab it; he had long been of the opinion that people who felt the need to wag fingers invariably did not know what they were talking about. The friar looked sheepish when Michael strode in with the physician at his heels.
‘I am not saying there is actual evil in you,’ he said to Bartholomew with a pained smile. ‘Just that you are incapable of telling the difference between the sacred and the profane.’
‘How odd,’ said Michael, watching the librarian escape. ‘I was just saying the same about you.’
William was indignant. ‘Me? I have been preaching on the subject for years, and know it better than anyone alive. Of course, my ideas have become a lot clearer since I joined forces with Mildenale, Carton and Thomas. It is a pity two of them are dead.’ He glared at the physician, who was unable to meet his eye.
‘Never mind that,’ said Michael curtly. ‘Today, we are here to discuss the blood you found in our baptismal font.’
‘Good,’ said William, pleased. ‘It is time someone took these matters seriously. Have you come to procure my help? I was your Junior Proctor once, and excelled at weeding out heretics.’
‘How could I forget?’ murmured Michael. ‘Tell me what happened that day.’
William frowned. ‘But you were there, Brother. You both were. Why do you need me to recount the incident?’
‘Humour me,’ instructed Michael tersely.
William looked bemused, but did as he was told. ‘I went to church early, to pray for Thomas. As I was collecting some candles to light, I realised there were a lot of flies about, and that most were congregating by the font. Curiously, I pulled off the cover, to reveal it filled with blood.’
‘Not filled,’ corrected Michael pedantically. ‘There was a dribble.’
‘It was certainly human, though,’ said William, determined, as always, to have the last word. ‘I could tell by its particular shade of red.’