Michael stared at him for a long time. ‘Matt cannot tell the difference between human and animal blood,’ he said eventually. ‘And he is a physician, trained to detect subtle variations in the colour of bodily fluids. Your skill is a worrying one, Father, and not something to be admired in a God-fearing man. You should keep it quiet, or you will have half the witches in the county flocking to hire your expertise. They know a kindred spirit when they see one.’
William’s jaw dropped. ‘How dare you say such things! I am a friar, and I–’
‘You admit to special skills with blood,’ snapped Michael. ‘Friar or not, that is suspicious.’
‘This is outrageous!’ cried William. ‘You know I have no truck with witchery. I have always spoken out against wickedness, and–’
‘Sometimes men protest over-loudly, to distract folk from their real beliefs.’ Michael pressed his point relentlessly, cutting across the friar’s shocked protestations. ‘But I shall consider your claims of innocence later. Now, I want to talk about the blood. Did you notice anything odd or unusual that day? Think carefully before you reply, Father. You might know something that will allow me to solve this case, which may prove you are not in league with these demons you are so interested in.’
William opened his mouth to argue, but saw the expression on the monk’s face and thought better of it. Even he knew it was wise to capitulate sometimes. ‘There was nothing odd or unusual,’ he said. Then he frowned. ‘Except … but no, that cannot be relevant.’
‘Let me be the judge of that,’ ordered Michael curtly.
‘There was a glove near the font. It is too hot for anyone to wear gloves, so I assume someone used it as a cloth, perhaps to wipe up some spillage. I threw it in the ditch on my way home.’
‘Was it stained crimson, then?’ demanded Michael.
William shrugged. ‘I think so. I did not look very closely.’
‘Was it human blood?’ pressed Michael mercilessly. ‘I am sure you noticed the colour.’
‘Well, I did not,’ snapped William, becoming agitated. ‘The glove is almost certainly irrelevant, as I told you. You forced me to mention it, even though I am sure it means nothing, so do not try to batter me with it. It could have been in the church for weeks.’
‘Actually, it could not,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I swept the nave myself the day before all this happened. There were no gloves lying around then, because I would have noticed.’
And he knew he had done a thorough job, because he had gone to the church for some peace. His students had been engaged in a lively debate in his room, the conclave had contained William and his accusing stares, and the streets were full of patients who wanted to tell him about their ailments. He had sought refuge in St Michael’s, and had spent an hour with a broom, enjoying the solitude and the act of doing something that did not require him to think.
William rounded on him. ‘You were alone there? Here is something you have kept to yourself! You might have used the opportunity to despoil the font, leaving it for me to find the next day.’
‘You are the one with the sinister knowledge of blood, not him,’ retorted Michael. ‘Incidentally, was it Mildenale who told you to give Langelee that particular grace to read just now?’
‘What if it was?’ demanded William. ‘He is right. Matthew does fraternise with unsuitable people, such as Mother Valeria. I do not want it said that my College houses warlocks.’
‘Has it occurred to you that no one would say anything, if you did not give these rumours credence?’ asked Michael archly. ‘If you were to tell everyone they are untrue, rather than race to condemn him as a necromancer?’
‘I did not start these tales,’ objected William. ‘Magister Arderne did. He was the first to say–’
‘His lies would have been forgotten by now, had you not kept them alive,’ snarled Michael. ‘If people do take against Michaelhouse it will be your fault, not Matt’s.’
‘No!’ cried William. ‘Can you not see what is happening? Satan is putting evil thoughts in your head. Mildenale is right: the Sorcerer is becoming more powerful by the day, and we must do all we can to fight him. People are leaving the Church in droves, and–’
‘Yes, they are,’ flashed Michael. ‘However, they would be less inclined to go if the Church’s chief proponents were not so frighteningly dogmatic. Your zeal is doing more harm than the Sorcerer, Mother Valeria and all the other witches put together.’
‘Was William right about the blood, Matt?’ asked the monk, as they walked across the yard, heading for the gate. It was time to speak to Spynk about Danyell again. ‘Was it human? You told me it was impossible to tell, and it did not occur to me to question your opinion.’
‘I cannot tell the difference, and there was not much of it, anyway – no more than a splash, as you said. Rougham and Paxtone take ten times that amount when they bleed their patients.’
Michael shuddered. ‘What do you think about this glove?’
Bartholomew looked away, so the monk would not see the unease he was experiencing. ‘William threw it away, so I do not see how it can be of any use as a clue.’
But Michael was not so easily deceived. ‘Prevaricating with me will not work for three reasons. I know you too well. You are by far the worst liar in Cambridge. And I happen to be aware, as do you, that one person always wears gloves, no matter how hot the weather.’
‘Mother Valeria,’ said Bartholomew heavily. ‘I was not sure you had made the connection.’
‘And you were not going to enlighten me,’ said Michael tartly, ‘which would have been wrong. She is a witch, and leaving blood in churches may well be part of some ritual she performs.’
‘Others wear gloves, too,’ said Bartholomew, alarmed that the old woman might be implicated in the strange events. ‘Or perhaps the culprit wore them to keep his hands clean. This glove does not necessarily imply that Valeria is responsible.’
‘No, but it implies that we should ask her about it – a treat I shall leave to you, since you seem to be the best of friends these days.’
‘She will not be responsible, Brother. She has been in the town for years and has never engaged in this sort of behaviour before. It will be the Sorcerer. After all, these odd events have coincided with his sudden rise to fame. And Valeria told me his magic is more dangerous than hers, which suggests he engages in activities other witches do not condone. Like putting blood in fonts.’
Michael did not answer, but his frown showed he was considering the physician’s points. They began to walk up St Michael’s Lane towards the High Street. Three beige dogs lay panting in the shade at the side of the alley. Bartholomew felt sorry for them, and fetched a bowl of water from the porters’ lodge. Nearby, sparrows twittered as they took dust baths, and the monk gagged as they passed the back of Gonville Hall; the runnel that carried the College’s waste to the river had been dry for so long that there was a blockage, and the resulting stench was eye-watering. Michael was still hacking when they reached the High Street, and his tears meant he could not see where he was going. He bumped heavily into someone walking in the opposite direction.
‘Have a care, Brother,’ cried Sheriff Tulyet, grabbing Bartholomew in an attempt to keep his balance. ‘A man of your girth cannot thunder around the town with no thought to other pedestrians.’
‘I am not fat,’ said Michael immediately. He had barely noticed the collision, but the Sheriff was less than half his weight and was lucky to be standing. ‘I just have big bones. Tell him, Matt.’
‘The biggest in Cambridge,’ said Bartholomew obligingly. The monk was always ordering him to invent anatomical excuses for his lard, and he had given up trying to explain that the size of his bones had nothing to do with his impressive girth.