‘Lord!’ breathed Michael in horror. ‘I sincerely hope not!’
Bartholomew did not want to talk about Dickon, either, so he told Tulyet about the giant and Beard, and the various encounters he had had with them. ‘Refham has been renting them his forge,’ he concluded. ‘It lies on the Huntingdon Way – the road your felons have been haunting.’
‘You believe they might be two of my robbers?’ asked Tulyet. ‘There must be fifteen or twenty villains in this gang, so it is certainly possible that a couple slink into the town on occasion. They are not known to the people who live on the highway, which is unusual, because most criminals are local.’
‘Outsiders, then?’ asked Michael.
‘I believe so. The resident felons object to this invasion of their territory, so they are actually trying to help me. My men tell me the Sorcerer is responsible – not by taking part in the raids himself, but by providing the robbers with charms that render them invisible to my men. I am beginning to think they might be right, because no thieves are that good. I do not understand how they continue to elude me.’
‘I heard they have killed people,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Is it true?’
Tulyet nodded. ‘Several times, so as to leave no witnesses. They are careful and ruthless.’
‘And they are keeping you occupied, so you cannot help me with the Sorcerer,’ mused Michael. ‘Perhaps they are just one more strand in the mystery we are trying to unravel.’
‘How so?’ asked Tulyet. He leaned against a wall and took the jug of ale that the landlord brought him, gulping it thirstily. But his eyes never left Michael’s face. ‘Explain.’
‘We believe Carton was murdered by the Sorcerer,’ began Michael. ‘We also think the Sorcerer is responsible for leaving blood in the baptismal font, for stealing Danyell’s hand, for making off with Bene’t College’s goats, and for exhuming Margery and Goldynham.’
‘He is also setting the town at each other’s throats, as people begin to align themselves with him or the Church,’ added Bartholomew. ‘Older, established witches, like Mother Valeria, are said to be losing their power, and charms and amulets appear wherever we look.’
‘Everything is connected to the Sorcerer,’ concluded Michael. ‘And now it seems that even your robbers may have a link with him.’
Tulyet finished his ale and headed for the horses. ‘Then we must work together to ensure his nefarious plans do not succeed.’
Watching Tulyet drink reminded Michael that he was thirsty, too, and he suggested going inside the Brazen George for refreshment. Bartholomew agreed, because tavern ale was likely to be better than anything on offer at Michaelhouse, and it was time they analysed some of what they had discovered.
‘The Sorcerer. The murder of Carton. Sewale Cottage,’ said Michael, counting points off on his fingers once they were settled. ‘If we can determine the identity of this wretched warlock, we will know Carton’s killer and why everyone is so determined to have Margery’s house.’
‘I am not so sure about the last bit,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Just because some of our would-be buyers are diabolists does not mean the house is connected to the Sorcerer.’
‘Actually, I am inclined to think all our would-be buyers are diabolists.’
‘Not Dick. I know his father was one, but Dick is not.’ Bartholomew turned his thoughts to the other buyers. ‘Arblaster belongs to the All Saints coven, while Spynk hates the Church because of his quarrel with the Bishop. And we should not forget that Spynk arrived in Cambridge just before Ascension Day, which is when all these odd events began.’
Michael nodded thoughtfully. ‘Meanwhile, the canons of Barnwell are unusual fellows. Podiolo is an alchemist, and Norton and Fencotes have both revealed superstitious beliefs.’
‘But there is nothing to say any of them is the Sorcerer. However, it might be someone like Refham, who is a ruthless, grasping sort. Or Spaldynge, who seems to be losing his sanity.’ Bartholomew was thoughtful. ‘Yet while I am uncertain whether Sewale Cottage is central to our investigation, I am not sure the same can be said for Danyell.’
‘I have no idea what you are talking about,’ said Michael wearily.
Bartholomew took a moment to rally his thoughts. ‘He died of natural causes, but someone mutilated his body. He was returning from London, where he was complaining to the King about your Bishop. He was travelling with Spynk, who is desperate to buy Sewale Cottage, and he was probably enjoying romantic relations with Cecily.’
‘Along with anyone else who has the time,’ muttered Michael.
‘He believed in witchery, and Spynk thought he might have been going to see Mother Valeria for a remedy the night he died. She told me he did not arrive. She also said she did not take his hand, and thought the Sorcerer might have had it …’ He fell silent.
‘Is this analysis going somewhere?’ asked Michael. ‘Or am I supposed to guess what it all means?’
‘I am afraid you are going to have to guess,’ said Bartholomew apologetically. ‘I thought I saw the beginnings of a solution, but I was wrong. All I see are more questions. However, there is something about Danyell that makes me think he is important.’
They were quiet for a while, each racking his brains for answers, but none were forthcoming, so they left the tavern and braved the outside again, squinting in the sun’s brightness after the gloom within. They met Isnard, who said Cynric was looking for Bartholomew because he was needed by a patient who lived near St Giles’s Church. Bartholomew began to walk that way, and Michael accompanied him, vainly hoping that the physician might have a flash of insight regarding Danyell.
‘Look,’ said the monk suddenly, pointing. ‘There is Mildenalus Sanctus, loaded down with books. I hope he has not taken them from the library, or Deynman’s displeasure will be felt from here to Ely.’
‘I hope he is not going to burn them,’ said Bartholomew, alarmed. ‘He sees heresy in the most innocent of texts, and books are too valuable to be tossed on a bigot’s pyre.’
‘I noticed you two did not leap to the Church’s defence earlier,’ said the Franciscan accusingly as he approached. He was red-faced and panting; the books were heavy and he was carrying a lot of them. ‘I expected more of you.’
‘And I expected more of you,’ flashed Michael. ‘You encouraged Spaldynge’s belief that Matt dabbles in witchery. How could you accuse a colleague of necromancy in public?’
‘I do what God tells me,’ replied Mildenale coolly. ‘And amulets, mugwort and a love of anatomy are things that should not be swept under the carpet. It is my duty to expose heretics.’
There was no point in arguing once God was involved, and Michael did not try. ‘Where are you going with those?’ he asked, gesturing to the tomes.
‘They are for my hostel – gifts from friends. I firmly believe Michaelhouse will succeed in purchasing the Refham houses, and I plan to open my doors to students by the end of the term. I shall call it St Catherine’s.’
‘I am astonished by your confidence,’ said Michael, a little suspiciously. ‘Because I think Refham will force the price too high for us. I have seen you with him on several occasions of late. Were you discussing the sale? Or perhaps negotiating a price for the painting job you offered him?’
‘Neither – he has been building me some bookshelves. Unfortunately, they are not up to standard, and I have been obliged to tell him they will have to be reassembled.’