‘So,’ summarised Michael as they walked towards the house where Spynk and Cecily were staying, ‘I think I understand what is happening now.’
‘Do you?’ asked Bartholomew tiredly. ‘I do not.’
Michael cleared his throat and began to explain, using the pompous tone he often adopted in his lectures. ‘A few weeks ago, one of Cambridge’s witches decided he could do rather better for himself. He called himself the Sorcerer, and began to dig up corpses, purloin dead men’s hands, fill fonts with blood, draw circles and steal goats. As his activities were discussed, people decided to join his coven.’
‘Why would they do that?’ asked Bartholomew uncertainly.
‘It is obvious. First, many folk lost their faith in the Church when the Death took their loved ones. And second, men like William, Thomas, Carton and Mildenale are braying about the return of the plague and how it will claim all the sinners it missed the first time. When priests talk like that, it frightens people – in this case, it has frightened them into the arms of the Sorcerer.’
‘All right,’ acknowledged Bartholomew cautiously. ‘And so the Sorcerer killed Carton because Carton was one of those who spoke out against him?’
‘Precisely. All these incidents are connected – even Thomas’s death. After all, someone lobbed the stone that put him in need of a physician. I know your initial thought was that it dropped from a roof, but you are almost certainly wrong. After all, Thomas’s sudden demise has been a serious blow to those who are doing battle on the Church’s side.’
Bartholomew rubbed his eyes. ‘So not only did I kill a patient, but I helped a witch grow in power?’
Michael nodded blithely. ‘I wonder why the Sorcerer chose to defile Margery and Goldynham in particular – there are plenty of other recent burials to pick from.’
‘I have a theory about Goldynham,’ said Bartholomew, pushing uncomfortable thoughts of Thomas from his mind. ‘Dick clearly has no idea what the Book of Consecrations is about, but I do. It is a handbook of necromancy, containing spells for raising demons. You look surprised, Brother, but you should not be – we both know Dick’s father experimented with the dark arts after the plague. I assumed he returned to the Church when we exposed him, but perhaps he did not.’
Michael stared at him. ‘I am not surprised to learn Tulyet the Elder owned a sinister text, given his penchant for witchery. My amazement stems from the fact that you should be familiar with one.’
‘I skimmed through it at the University in Padua last year, although it seemed like a lot of nonsense to me. However, it is a famous treatise, and its incantations are alleged to work. Perhaps Goldynham believed in its efficacy, because it sounds as though he was very keen to lay his hands on the thing.’
‘Goldynham was a necromancer?’ Michael was shocked. ‘Is that why he was dug from his grave?’
‘I do not know. All I am saying is that if Goldynham was involved in witchcraft, then it means his exhumation may not be as random as we first assumed.’
‘And Margery? Was she a witch, too?’ demanded Michael. ‘A dear, gentle lady who never missed church and who left all her worldly goods to Michaelhouse in exchange for prayers for her soul?’
‘Of course not,’ replied Bartholomew tiredly. ‘Perhaps she was random.’
Michael shot him a dubious glance. ‘So, your theory is that Goldynham was excavated because he might have been a satanist, but Margery was excavated by chance? I am not sure that explanation is entirely logical. Either witchery is a factor in these desecrations or it is not – you cannot have it both ways. Incidentally, did you know Tulyet the Elder died last year, when you were in France?’
‘Yes – you told me when I came home.’
‘Dick wanted a Corpse Examiner to inspect the body, on the grounds that his father had been in excellent health and the death was completely unexpected. Rougham obliged, and decided Tulyet had died of a natural seizure.’
‘Did you believe him?’
‘I did at the time, although I confess that now I am not so sure. Perhaps Goldynham did away with him in order to acquire that book.’
‘Then he would have taken it immediately, not offered to buy it from Dick later.’
‘Just like the Hardys,’ said Michael, lost in his thoughts. ‘Rougham said they died of natural causes, too. Lord! I hope he did not make a series of terrible mistakes. I have been assuming that the Sorcerer began to gather his power a few weeks ago, but supposing he started to do it last year?’
‘You said the Hardys were diabolists themselves, so they and the Sorcerer were on the same side.’
‘Or were rivals,’ said Michael grimly.
‘There is no evidence to support that. And people do die of natural causes, even in Cambridge.’
‘But that is the problem, Matt! Everyone who perished in Cambridge last year died of “natural causes”. Your absence and Rougham’s presence may have precipitated something dangerous and foul. And now we are about to reap the consequences.’
Spynk and his wife were in the garden of the High Street house in which they were lodging, sitting under a tree. They were drinking ale, which they offered to share with their visitors, but it had been left in the sun, so was unpalatably hot. Neither scholar took more than a token sip. Spynk waved away Bartholomew’s solicitous enquiries about his recent brush with the flux, and said he was weak, but essentially recovered.
‘Fourteen marks,’ he said, as Michael sat on the bench and attempted to find a position where flecks of sunlight did not touch him. Bartholomew leaned against a nearby wall, in the shade.
‘What?’ snapped Michael irritably, squinting up at the sky and moving slightly to his left.
‘For Sewale Cottage,’ said Spynk. ‘Fourteen marks. That is higher than the last bid made by Barnwell. And if you ensure my offer is favourably received, I will give you a bale of silk.’
‘I shall bear it in mind,’ said Michael, flapping furiously at a wasp that hovered around his face. ‘But we are not here to discuss property. We want to talk about Danyell.’
‘You caught the villain who stole his hand?’ asked Spynk eagerly. ‘At last! Who is it? Scholar or townsman? I cannot see why either should have taken against us, given that we are strangers here, but this is an odd sort of place.’
‘Our enquiries are continuing, so we have no culprit yet,’ replied Michael coolly. ‘And why are you so keen to buy Sewale Cottage, if you find Cambridge an “odd sort of place”?’
‘Oddness does not bother my husband,’ said Cecily with a smirk. ‘And he is prepared to overlook a great deal if folk buy his goods. He plans to spend a lot of time here in the future, selling to the Colleges and wealthy townsmen, and says I am to come with him. Will that please you, Doctor?’
Heat and a lack of sleep had combined to make Bartholomew drowsy, and he had not given the discussion his full attention. Thus he was not sure how to reply.
‘Yes,’ he said, hoping it was the right answer. He saw a frown cross Spynk’s face. ‘Probably.’
Cecily lowered her eyelashes and smiled. ‘I thought it might. I suspect you are a man who likes having friends to visit of an evening. To walk with them in quiet places.’
Bartholomew blinked, not sure where the conversation was going, and was relieved when Spynk stepped in and changed its direction. ‘I learned something disturbing yesterday, Brother. A clothier named Stanmore told me you were the eyes and ears of the Bishop of Ely. That you are his spy.’