‘But why would a stranger kill Carton?’ asked Bartholomew.
Michael performed some fancy wheels on his fine stallion while he waited for the physician to mount up. ‘Because Carton spoke out against sin – not as uncompromisingly as William and Mildenale, but a lot more rationally. Perhaps the Sorcerer thought that made him the most dangerous of the three. And there is always the possibility that Carton had worked out the Sorcerer’s identity.’
‘Carton remains a mystery to me,’ said Bartholomew, flinging himself across the saddle and clinging on gamely while the pony bucked at the unexpected manoeuvre. ‘He wanted me to test the powder he found in Thomas’s room because he did not believe my medicine had killed his friend.’
‘I know – although his hopes were unfounded, because the substance was a remedy for quinsy. So what is your point?’
Bartholomew struggled into the correct position at last; both he and the pony heaved a sigh of relief. ‘That he may have thrown the stone that hit Thomas. He was certainly there when it happened.’
Michael gaped at him. ‘How in God’s name did you reach that conclusion?’
‘At the time, I assumed part of a tile had fallen from a roof, because I could not imagine anyone hurling rocks at friars. But perhaps I was wrong. Later, Carton was very insistent that I should not blame myself – he even told Deynman that he disliked me feeling guilty.’
Michael frowned. ‘But your explanation makes no sense: Carton lobs a stone at Thomas – although he had no reason to do so, because they preached the same message about witchcraft and sin – and then tells you that Thomas died of poison. It is tantamount to announcing that a murder has been committed, and needs to be investigated, and no sane killer does that. Besides, I am not sure Carton did care whether you were distressed over Thomas. He was not a kindly man, not once he became a Fellow.’
Bartholomew supposed he was right, but there were so many questions about Carton that he was not ready to dismiss his theory just yet. It would sit at the back of his mind until there was more evidence to consider. He followed Michael out of the yard and on to the High Street, not quite at ease with the pony’s rhythmic walk. The animal smelled of manure and dry hay, which was a lot more pleasant than the waft from the meat stalls as they rode through the Market Square. As they passed the booths that sold spices, they met Heltisle of Bene’t College. Younge hovered behind him with a basket over his arm, scowling furiously.
‘It is his punishment for being rude to you yesterday,’ explained Heltisle, when Michael raised questioning eyebrows. ‘He hates shopping.’
‘I am sure it will teach him not to be offensive again,’ said Michael, his tone of voice suggesting that he would have imposed something rather more radical. ‘But it is not his rudeness that concerns me – it is the fact that he wanted to chop me into little pieces with his dagger.’
Heltisle’s expression was cold. ‘You provoked him. He is paid to protect the College, and it is unfair to penalise him for doing his job. Incidentally, my Fellows have voted unanimously to pay the fine you levied against him. Three groats, was it?’
Michael gave him a smile that was all teeth and no humour. ‘And it will be six if I have occasion to deal with him again.’
Because he was impotent against the Senior Proctor, Heltisle rounded on Bartholomew. ‘I met Refham just now, and he told me you attacked him. We hope to benefit from his generosity, so I would be grateful if you did not antagonise him with loutish behaviour. It took me a long time to pacify him.’
Bartholomew almost laughed. ‘I doubt Bene’t will see anything from Refham. He does not seem the kind of man to make benefactions.’
‘Perhaps, but we are unwilling to take that chance. Food will be expensive this winter, with the crops on the verge of failure, and that will drain our resources. We need all the money we can get. Refham asked me to make Michaelhouse’s Franciscans desist in their denunciations of the Sorcerer, too.’
‘Did he indeed?’ asked Michael, exchanging a glance with the physician. Did that mean Refham was the Sorcerer? Bartholomew knew the blacksmith belonged to the All Saints coven, and he was certainly unpleasant enough to be a demon-master. ‘How interesting. Pray tell us more.’
But Heltisle was not of a mind to be helpful. He turned his attention to the spices on sale, mumbling something about using them to disguise the taste of some mutton he had bought. ‘This heat will not last much longer,’ he muttered, more to himself than the Michaelhouse men. ‘It will break soon. The Sorcerer said so.’
‘How do you know what the Sorcerer thinks about the weather?’ demanded Michael immediately. ‘Are you acquainted with him? Does he look anything like Refham?’
Heltisle’s eyebrows shot up. ‘No, he does not. And if you must know, I heard the Sorcerer speak at All Saints. But he was swathed in a dark cloak and I did not see his face, so I cannot tell you his name.’
‘You heard him speak?’ Michael sounded shocked. ‘Surely you do not attend covens?’
‘I went with Refham once, because he invited me and I did not wish to offend him by refusing. The Sorcerer swept in, threw some powder, bones and various other oddments in bowls, and created a lot of smelly fumes. Then he left, and his disciples took requests.’
‘Requests?’ echoed Michael warily.
‘For cures, curses and so on. He was not there long, but his presence was imposing nonetheless.’
‘Was Refham with you when the Sorcerer made his appearance?’ asked Bartholomew.
Heltisle regarded him coldly. ‘He may have wandered away to talk to friends – I do not recall. However, I advise you to stay away from the Sorcerer, because he will make for a formidable enemy.’
‘Did Refham tell you to pass us that particular message, too?’ asked Michael archly.
Heltisle’s expression was distinctly furtive. ‘He may have done.’
‘Do you think Refham is the Sorcerer?’ asked Michael, as he and Bartholomew continued their journey towards Barnwell. ‘There is proof, of sorts.’
‘Or Heltisle,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘He is clever enough to deceive you about it by feeding you information that makes Refham look suspect.’
‘You are just saying that because you do not like him.’
‘No, I am saying it because there is evidence,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘First, he was defiant about attending a coven – blaming Refham for his presence there, but careless of the fact that it is hardly an activity for the head of a powerful College. Second, if he is the Sorcerer, then Younge and his cronies will make for excellent helpmeets – and they are definitely members of the All Saints cadre, because we have been told so by several people.’
‘That is not evidence, that is conjecture. However, we shall bear your suspicions in mind.’
They passed the Franciscan convent just as Prior Pechem was emerging. The leader of Cambridge’s Grey Friars was a dour, unsmiling man, who was nevertheless embarrassed by the excesses of some of his brethren. He did his best to curb their diatribes, but was better at scholarship than at imposing discipline and was not the most effective of rulers. William, Mildenale, Thomas and Carton had ignored his pleas for moderation, and he had proved himself powerless to restrain them.
‘Ah,’ said Michael blandly, reining in. ‘Just the man I have been looking for.’
Pechem blanched. ‘I have asked Mildenale and William to stop preaching until the Sorcerer crisis is resolved, but they ignore everything short of a bolt of divine lightning. And sometimes I wonder whether even that would work. However, they are members of Michaelhouse, so I should not bear all the responsibility for their unfettered tongues.’