‘So do I,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Although I suspect the hand is directed by a very clever mind. Heltisle is right: it will not be easy to slip past Younge, grab a goat and leave with no one noticing.’
Michael looked thoughtful, then abruptly headed for the porters’ lodge. Bartholomew held his breath as the monk marched inside. Younge was massaging his neck, but his hand dropped to the hilt of his dagger when Michael appeared.
‘I am about to look very closely into your missing goats,’ said the monk without preamble. ‘Is there anything you would like to tell me before I begin? I will not be pleased if I later learn that information has been withheld from me – and when I am not pleased, I fine people.’
‘We would never steal from Bene’t,’ said Younge, understanding perfectly what was being asked. He seemed genuinely shocked by the notion. ‘We have no idea who is taking them, but if I catch the villain, he will not live to explain himself. I will run him through.’
The sun was setting in a blaze of red gold as Bartholomew and Michael left Bene’t. The monk went to his office in St Mary the Great, to brief his beadles on the night to come. He ordered them not only to watch for students sneaking illicit cups of ale in the town’s taverns, but to be alert for any covens that might convene, too. They nodded obediently, but he suspected they would not do much about the witches; they were superstitious men and would sooner leave such matters well alone. Not for the first time, he felt he was fighting alone, and that the only ally he could trust was Bartholomew.
Meanwhile, several patients had sent summonses for the physician while he had been out, including three new cases of the flux and a crushed finger. The latter was normally the domain of the town’s surgeon, but Robin of Grantchester had also been hurt by Magister Arderne’s accusations earlier in the year. Now he confined himself to cutting hair and drawing teeth, and could not be persuaded to do anything more complicated. Bartholomew was not sure whether the situation was good or bad: on the one hand, Robin was not a skilled practitioner and lost a large number of clients, but on the other, he was better than having no surgeon at all.
He decided to deal with the finger first, because the victim was a child – one of Stanmore’s apprentices, whose hand had been squashed in a door. To reach him, Bartholomew had to walk past Clare College, and he was unfortunate in his timing, because Spaldynge happened to be coming out.
‘How many people have you killed today, physician?’ the Clare man asked unpleasantly.
‘None yet,’ said Bartholomew, hot and weary enough to be goaded into responding. ‘But that might be about to change. I am getting a bit tired of you and your accusations.’
‘Are you threatening me?’ demanded Spaldynge, clenching his fists and looking as though he would very much like to use them.
‘Yes, I suppose I am,’ replied Bartholomew. He thought about the last time he had met Spaldynge, when Carton had been with him. ‘My colleague told me about the man you killed – James Kirbee. How can you condemn me, when you are guilty of taking a life yourself?’
Spaldynge’s expression became dark and angry. ‘You will be sorry you mentioned that.’
‘And you will be sorry if you provoke me again,’ snapped Bartholomew. ‘I was not your family’s physician during the plague, and neither were Paxtone and Rougham. Leave us alone.’
There must have been something in his voice that told the Clare man he was treading on dangerous ground, because he growled something unintelligible and slunk away. Bartholomew watched him go and wondered whether he should have applied a little aggression months ago, when Spaldynge had first started issuing his nasty challenges. But confrontation did not come readily to the physician, especially with men who might not be in command of all their faculties, and once Spaldynge was out of sight, Bartholomew felt vaguely ashamed of himself.
He treated the apprentice’s injury with a poultice of comfrey, and left him to rest, watched over by solicitous friends. He wished Edith was there, because cronies, no matter how well meaning, were no substitute for her motherly care. Stanmore escorted him to the door.
‘You seem to be in town all the time these days,’ said Bartholomew. ‘When were you last home?’
‘Not since Edith left,’ replied the merchant. ‘Trumpington is not the same without her, so I engross myself in work – which has paid off, because I have just signed an agreement with Spynk, who can find me a cheaper source of dye for my cloth. And it is advisable to be here when the town is on the verge of one of its episodes, anyway. It means I can protect my property myself, rather than leaving it to my steward.’
‘You refer to the unrest brought about by the Sorcerer? He is due to make his appearance on Trinity Eve, apparently.’
‘At midnight,’ agreed Stanmore. ‘He has people seriously rattled, because they are joining his coven in droves – no one wants to be on the losing side. Arblaster and Jodoca must be delighted – the little cadre they established in All Saints has gone from having a dozen members to being the largest in the shire, all in the space of a few weeks.’
‘Do you think Arblaster is the Sorcerer, then?’ asked Bartholomew, a little surprised. The dung-master had not seemed the type. Of course, he reflected wryly, Arblaster had not seemed the type to be in a Devil-worshipping cult at all, so clearly Bartholomew’s notions of what constituted a diabolist were sadly off course. ‘Michael has been struggling to learn his identity, but no one is talking.’
‘If it is Arblaster, folk will be disappointed,’ grinned Stanmore. ‘They will not like paying homage to a man who has made his fortune in muck.’
‘Hiding his identity until he has accrued a decent amount of power is clever,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is difficult to fight someone you do not know and cannot see. He is proving to be a formidable adversary.’
Stanmore nodded. ‘The Church has a lot to answer for.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean that its most vocal proponents are William and Mildenale, who are not nice men – the Sorcerer is a lot more appealing. He does not tell us it is our own fault the plague took our loved ones, or that it is sinful to buy good-luck charms from witches. And he cures warts into the bargain.’
‘What about Eyton? He is a member of the Church, but his beliefs seem rather more flexible.’
‘If all Franciscans were like Eyton, the Church would be a lot more popular. But enough of religion. I hear Michaelhouse is forcing Barnwell, Arblaster, Spynk and Dick Tulyet to bid against each other for Sewale Cottage, and that you are almost certain to sell it for more than it is worth. Is it true?’
‘If Arblaster is the Sorcerer, then perhaps we should let him have it,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We do not want an enraged magician after our blood.’
He had been joking, but Stanmore nodded quite seriously. ‘It is certainly something to bear in mind, although I would rather see it go to Dick, personally. He is a friend – you should show him that means something.’
Bartholomew left him, and began to walk to his next patient. He was passing the unkempt jungle of churchyard around St John Zachary when he glimpsed movement. A figure was in the shadows, but the sun was in his eyes and he could not see clearly. It looked to be wearing a long pale cloak and to have a head of thick white hair. He blinked, for his first thought was that it looked like Goldynham. But the silversmith was dead, and lay in St Bene’t’s Church. Bartholomew squinted against the light and took a step forward, but the figure had gone, and he realised his eyes must have been playing tricks. With a sigh, he went on his way.