Michael took it from him. ‘What is it?’
‘A holy-stone that is supposed to defend its wearer against wolves, apparently. Arderne sold them in the spring, regardless of the fact that wolves tend not to frequent Cambridge these days.’
‘Perhaps one of the canons bought it to protect himself from Podiolo,’ said Michael. ‘There is definitely something lupine about that man.’
‘Now who is being irrational? That sounds like something Cynric might say.’
Michael grimaced. ‘Yes, but in this case Cynric would have a point. Have you never noticed Podiolo’s yellow eyes and pointed teeth? Of course, everyone at Barnwell is strange, as far as I am concerned. All those fat, balding canons who look identical, Norton’s bulging eyes, Fencotes the walking corpse …’
‘They probably say the same about Michaelhouse: William’s fanaticism, Langelee’s criminal past, Wynewyk’s penchant for Agatha’s clothes, Clippesby’s lunacy, Suttone’s obsession with plague …’
Michael sniggered. ‘Did you hear about the shambles surrounding Suttone’s address to the Guild of Corpus Christi? The invitation was meant for Roger Suttone of Peterhouse, who is famous for amusing speeches. As head of the Guild, Heltisle wrote the letter but his porters did not listen to his instructions and took it to the wrong Suttone.’
Bartholomew smiled. ‘There will be nothing amusing about any homily our Suttone will deliver. Will they admit their mistake, and un-invite him?’
‘It is too late – our Suttone has accepted.’
Bartholomew watched Michael swinging the holy-stone around on its thong. ‘Your Junior Proctor seemed certain that was not Carton’s.’
‘Can we conclude the killer dropped it, then? Who is on our list of suspects?’
‘Norton claimed his brethren would never own such a thing, on the grounds that none of them are afraid of wolves. He did not explain why.’
‘Perhaps he trusts Podiolo to keep them all at bay,’ suggested Michael. ‘However, I do not accept Norton’s reasoning, so the canons can remain on the list. Not all of them – just Podiolo, Fencotes and Norton himself, who are the three without alibis.’
‘Then there is Spaldynge,’ said Bartholomew, thinking of the man who bore him such unjust animosity. ‘He was friends with Arderne, and might have bought one of his amulets. And being reminded of that ancient murder – James Kirbee – is a reason for him wanting Carton dead.’
‘They are the obvious culprits,’ said Michael. He sighed heavily. ‘But then we have all the folk who objected to Carton’s uncompromising sermons, and about sixty insulted Dominicans.’
‘Arblaster said something odd today. He told me Carton asked whether dung was poisonous. Carton seemed preoccupied with poison – he found that powder among Thomas’s possessions and insisted I test it for him.’
Michael’s agitation showed in the way he whipped the talisman around on its string. ‘Will you ask Mother Valeria whether she knows who owns this amulet? I had better not do it; the Senior Proctor cannot be seen fraternising with witches, especially a frightening and unpopular one.’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘But I doubt she will be able to help. Arderne alone sold dozens of the things, and–’ He ducked quickly when the thong broke and the holy-stone flew past his ear.
‘Damn!’ cried Michael, diving after it. ‘The wretched thing has a will of its own!’
‘You should watch yourself at St Bene’t’s, boy,’ whispered Cynric, taking the opportunity to speak to the physician alone, while Michael scrabbled about in the grass at the side of the road. ‘The Sorcerer will be behind this excavated corpse, just as he was behind what happened to Margery.’
‘How can he be? You told me Carton was the Sorcerer.’
‘The Sorcerer would not have let himself be murdered, so Carton is innocent.’ Cynric was never shy about abandoning one theory and adopting another. ‘But these bodies are being hauled from hallowed ground on the orders of the Devil. You had better take this.’
Bartholomew accepted the proffered bundle cautiously. ‘What is it?’
‘Bat-eyes,’ replied the book-bearer, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. ‘In a pouch. If you hang it around your neck it will render you invisible to Satan.’
‘Hang it round your neck, then,’ said Bartholomew, trying to pass it back to him. If William caught him wearing such an object there would be trouble for certain.
‘I already have one. Shove it in your purse if you do not want it at your throat, but do not refuse it. It cost me a groat.’
So as not to hurt Cynric’s feelings – and not to prolong the debate – Bartholomew slipped the pouch in his bag, intending to toss it in the midden when he went home.
‘I learned recently that June is a great month for witchery,’ Cynric went on conversationally. ‘The stars and moon are right, see. It explains why the Sorcerer is suddenly so powerful.’
‘I do not suppose you gleaned this from the witches’ manual in Langelee’s office, did you?’ asked Bartholomew coolly. ‘One of the tomes that Carton had collected for burning?’
Cynric looked furtive. ‘It fell into my hands when I was dusting, and it seemed a pity not to hone my reading skills on it. You are always saying I need to practise.’
‘Put it back,’ ordered Bartholomew. ‘William will have you dismissed if he catches you enjoying something like that. I am serious, Cynric. Put it back and promise you will not touch it again.’
Cynric pulled a disagreeable face, but nodded assent. He bent down and retrieved something from the ground. It was the amulet, and Bartholomew wondered whether he had known it was there all along – that he had delayed telling the monk because he wanted to give his master the bat-eyes.
Michael took it from him. ‘Good. And now we had better hurry, or Heltisle and Eyton will think we are never coming.’
‘Who has been laid to rest in St Bene’t’s recently?’ asked Meadowman as they walked. The beadle looked nervous, steeling himself for what was to come.
‘Sir John Goldynham was buried on Ascension Day,’ said Michael. ‘He was Rougham’s patient, one of his wealthiest. Then there were two Bene’t scholars and Mistress Refham the month before.’
Bartholomew had known both Goldynham and Mistress Refham, and did not want to see them excavated. He faltered. ‘Are you sure you need me, Brother? The culprit left no clues when he exhumed Margery, so why should this be any different?’
The monk grabbed his arm and pulled him on. ‘I am hoping he has been more careless tonight.’
St Bene’t’s was an ancient church with a sturdy tower that was said to pre-date the coming of the Normans. Bartholomew liked it, because its thick walls muffled the clamour of the streets, so it was always peaceful. Its churchyard was overgrown and leafy, a tiny haven of stillness next to a road that was full of taverns, shops and the houses of tradesmen. It was not quiet that evening, however, for a crowd had gathered. Bartholomew recognised scholars from Bene’t College, the taverner from the Eagle, and members of the Guild of Corpus Christi; some carried pitch torches, which threw an unsteady light through the trees. The Guild had helped found Bene’t College some five years earlier and was a rare example of University–town co-operation.
At the centre of the spectators was Eyton. The priest had a pot of honey under his arm and seemed to be anointing people with it, because a number of folk had sticky foreheads. Others wore charms, and Bartholomew recognised them as the ones Eyton had been selling outside All Saints. He could only suppose there had been a run on amulets after the discovery of a second exhumed corpse, so the priest was obliged to improvise in order to meet the demand for mystical protection. Watching him, not altogether approvingly, was Master Heltisle.