He had just reached the Church of All Saints-in-the-Jewry when there was a sharp rustle of leaves. Remembering the poisonous remarks that had been hissed at him the last time he had passed a graveyard in the dark, he crossed to the opposite side of the street. If the whisperer was there, he did not want to hear what the fellow had to say. Then there was a slightly louder crackle, and he turned to see a figure, faintly illuminated by the light of the waning moon.
It was a tall man in a yellow cloak, who had a head of pale curls and a book under his arm; the book had a circle on its cover, as though it was a tome about magic. Unlike the incident in St John Zachary, when the sun had dazzled him, Bartholomew could see quite clearly this time. He sighed tiredly. Goldynham had been famous for his bushy white hair and gold cloak, and it was clear some prankster intended to give credence to Eyton’s tale about the silversmith’s post-mortem wanderings. He grimaced in disgust as the figure glided theatrically into the churchyard and disappeared among the shadows.
For the first time in weeks, Bartholomew was not required to visit a patient during the night. It was not a very long night, given that the summer solstice was not far off, but sleeping through it was a pleasant change regardless. He did not wake when the bell rang to summon the College’s few remaining scholars to their dawn devotions, and Michael, mistakenly assuming he had only recently returned home after tending the most recent victims of the flux, told Langelee to let him be; the monk wanted his friend alert to continue their investigations. William objected, maintaining Bartholomew needed to do penance for what had happened to Thomas, but the physician was a heavy sleeper, and did not stir when the Fellows began a bitter, sniping argument right outside his window.
Michael prevailed, and Langelee led a reduced procession to St Michael’s – just four Fellows, with Mildenale and Deynman bringing up the rear. Bartholomew was still asleep when they returned, and not properly awake at breakfast, when Deynman took it upon himself to act as Bible Scholar. His Latin, delivered in something of a bellow, was all but incomprehensible, and everyone was relieved when Langelee surged to his feet and recited a concluding grace.
‘The dung-master needs you,’ said Cynric to Bartholomew when the scholars trooped out into the yard. ‘He sent word at dawn, but I thought he could wait this time. It did not sound urgent, anyway.’
‘You are right to make him wait, Cynric,’ said Deynman, nodding approval. ‘He made Doctor Bartholomew run all the way to his house on Monday, when all he wanted was to chat about Sewale Cottage and latrines.’
‘If he mentions either matter again,’ said Suttone, ‘tell him that we have an offer of fifteen marks from Spynk, and that we have promised the manure to Isnard.’
‘But neither arrangement is sealed in stone,’ added Wynewyk hastily. ‘We are open to offers, and Michael is not very keen on Isnard at the moment.’
‘No, I am not,’ agreed the monk. ‘But do not worry about remembering all this, Matt, because I am coming with you. I want to speak to the canons of Barnwell about Carton. Again.’
‘The canons have asked you to visit them, too,’ said Cynric to the physician. ‘Fencotes took a tumble in the night, and Podiolo needs you to tell him whether to use elder or figwort for the bruises.’
Either would work, and Bartholomew was reminded yet again that the infirmarian was not a very proficient practitioner.
‘What will another trek to Barnwell tell you, Brother?’ asked Langelee curiously. ‘Surely, there are only so many times you can demand to know what the canons saw, and be told they saw nothing?’
Michael shrugged, unwilling to let anyone know he was not sure how else to proceed. ‘Perhaps one will be so exasperated by repeating himself that he will let something slip.’
‘Do you think one of them is the killer?’ asked Suttone unhappily. ‘I hope you are wrong. I do not like the notion of murder between Orders. It will cause trouble.’
‘If an Augustinian has killed an innocent Franciscan, there will be trouble,’ vowed William hotly.
‘Have you written your speech for the Guild of Corpus Christi yet, Suttone?’ asked Langelee, before William could start a tirade. ‘Heltisle says he is sure it will be memorable.’
Suttone preened himself. ‘No one knows the plague like me. However, I intend to stay away from your notion that it came because everyone is sinful, William. It might put folk off their wine.’
‘But it did come because folk are sinful,’ said William immediately. ‘It is your sacred duty to–’
‘What wine?’ interrupted Deynman curiously. ‘It is a meeting, not a feast. It is to be held in All Saints-next-the-Castle on Saturday night.’
‘Is it?’ asked Michael, his eyes round. ‘I thought that was the time and place set for the Sorcerer’s grand appearance. Are you saying the Sorcerer is supported by the Guild of Corpus Christi?’
‘You are mistaken, Deynman,’ said Suttone, startled. ‘I have not been told to orate in All Saints.’
‘I am quite sure,’ said Deynman. ‘I heard about it from Peterhouse’s Master Suttone, who is disappointed that he was not the one invited to give the speech. He says he would relish the opportunity to pontificate in a half-derelict church at the witching hour.’
‘Well, I shall not go if it is true. I do not lecture in ruins, especially in the dark and when they are full of witches.’
‘You said you would have Carton’s killer, once you discovered the Sorcerer’s identity, Brother,’ said Langelee, more interested in his dead Fellow than in Suttone’s preferences for speech-giving venues. ‘The man is everywhere you turn these days, so surely it cannot not be too hard to find out who he is?’
Michael sighed wearily. ‘I wish that were true, but he is more elusive than mist.’ He looked at each Fellow in turn. ‘Do you have any idea who he might be? Or a suspicion to share?’
‘I certainly do not,’ replied William indignantly. ‘I do not consort with that sort of person.’
‘How do you expect to defeat him, then?’ demanded Langelee. ‘You say you are ready to pit yourself against him when he appears on Saturday, but only a fool engages an enemy he knows nothing about.’
‘We will know him when he shows himself,’ said Mildenale in a way that sounded vaguely threatening. He looked hard at Bartholomew. ‘No matter who he turns out to be.’
‘He will not be one of us,’ said Wynewyk, angry on the physician’s behalf. ‘How dare you!’
‘He will be someone with an interest in necromancy,’ hissed Mildenale, clasping his hands. He glanced at William, silently demanding his support. ‘And God will help us to defeat him.’
‘We believe the villain will be a man who loves anatomy,’ added William, although he would not meet the physician’s eyes. ‘Someone who procures body parts to practise on.’
‘What is wrong with your hand, Bartholomew?’ asked Mildenale suddenly. He crossed himself. ‘It looks like a bite. Is it the Devil’s mark?’
‘In a manner of speaking,’ said Bartholomew, looking at the clear imprint of teeth along the side of his hand. ‘Dickon did it.’
‘Definitely Satan’s sign, then,’ said Langelee, laughing.
They all turned when the gate opened and a visitor was ushered in. Bartholomew was surprised to see it was Eyton, although Mildenale and William seemed to be expecting him. The vicar trotted across the yard towards them, eyes twinkling merrily. He nodded a genial greeting and immediately launched into an account of how he had spent the previous night in his churchyard, making sure no corpse tried to follow Goldynham’s example. He had just finished his vigil, he claimed, and had come to say a few prayers with his fellow Franciscans. He carried a pot.