‘That should not surprise you,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He is a blacksmith, not a carpenter.’
Mildenale grimaced. ‘Yes, but he agreed to make the shelves for a very reasonable price, and told me he is talented with wood. But he lied: his craftsmanship is terrible.’
‘What did he say when you challenged him?’ asked Michael curiously. ‘I cannot imagine he was pleased, because no man likes to be told his work is shoddy.’
‘He said I have no eye for quality, and threatened to raise the price of his mother’s shops if I complained about him to anyone else. So you had better not let on I told you, Brother.’
Bartholomew had been looking at the titles of the volumes in Mildenale’s arms. He pointed to one called The Book of Secrets, which brazenly sported a black pentagram. It was similar to the tome that was missing from Michaelhouse, but was smaller, newer and far less worn. ‘Which friend gave you that?’
‘William found it in the servants’ quarters, and I intend to burn it. A bonfire of heretical texts will be the climax of my hostel’s inauguration ceremony, so I shall be collecting them avidly from now on. Carton was struck down before he could complete his work, so I have taken up where he left off.’
‘I am sure he would be very proud of you,’ said Michael flatly.
Mildenale did not seem to notice his colleagues’ distaste for what he was proposing. ‘You might want to give me some of your texts, Bartholomew. I know you own scrolls by the woman healer called Trotula, because I have seen them.’
‘Trotula’s works are not heresy,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘They tell how to cure common–’
‘I know what they contain,’ said Mildenale shortly. ‘Just because I consider them anathema does not mean I am unfamiliar with their content. That would make me an ignoramus, would it not?’
Michael watched him go. ‘God save us from zealots,’ he breathed, crossing himself vigorously.
They walked up Bridge Street, and Bartholomew looked at Sewale Cottage as they passed. The door had been repaired, and bright new wood showed where part of the door frame had been replaced. He went to inspect it more closely, and was unimpressed with the work. Blaston had been careless.
‘Actually, Refham did it,’ said Michael. ‘He charged half what Blaston wanted, and Langelee is always eager to save money. Unfortunately, the price kept going up as the work went on, and we ended up paying twice as much. And now you say he has done an inferior job into the bargain?’
‘By the time he migrates to Luton, there will not be a soul in Cambridge he has not cheated,’ said Bartholomew in disgust.
Michael pointed to the cottage’s single front window, where the shutter had been prised open, and then pushed closed to disguise the damage. ‘That was not broken when I last looked. Someone has been inside again, searching for God knows what. I suppose it was Beard and his giant friend. Still, we shall conduct our own hunt tonight, and we will find whatever it is they have been looking for.’
It was late afternoon by the time Bartholomew arrived home. He was obliged to leave again almost immediately, because there were several more patients who wanted him. Michael went to his office at St Mary the Great, but before he left he reminded the physician to meet him at Sewale Cottage at midnight.
Bartholomew visited Isnard first, but the bargeman had grown tired of waiting for him and had gone for a drink. Next, he went to the Chancellor, who had the flux, and then to a student in Clare, who had a dried pea lodged in his nose. The lad had partaken enthusiastically of the lunchtime wine, and his friends had played a prank as he lay insensible. Unfortunately, they had been none too sober themselves, and had rammed the pulse home with considerable force. Its removal was an unpleasant experience for everyone concerned, but particularly for Bartholomew, who had the misfortune to meet Spaldynge on his way out.
‘How dare you enter my College!’ The scent of wine was on Spaldynge’s breath, and his eyes had a glazed look that suggested the students were not the only ones who had had too much of it. ‘Get out!’
‘Willingly,’ said Bartholomew, trying to step past him.
But Spaldynge blocked his way. ‘I am going to tell the Sorcerer to put a curse on you. He will do it if I ask him nicely.’
‘You know him well, then, do you? Who is he?’
Spaldynge sneered. ‘That is for you to wonder.’
Bartholomew pushed past him and headed for the gate, sure Spaldynge was just as much in the dark about the Sorcerer’s identity as everyone else. Or was he underestimating the man? Spaldynge’s increasingly erratic behaviour might be an act designed to make people think he was losing his wits, while all the time he was amassing power. He sighed, disliking the way the case was making him question everyone. He tried to put Spaldynge from his mind as he walked to Bukenham’s house. When he arrived there, he found the Junior Proctor lying on his bed with a wet cloth draped across his forehead.
‘It is the weather,’ said Bartholomew, after an examination told him there was nothing amiss.
‘But I feel terrible,’ groaned Bukenham pitifully. ‘My head pounds.’
Bartholomew suspected he was not drinking as much as he should, and helped him sip some of his remedy for the flux. He was rapidly coming to the conclusion that boiled barley water was one of the most powerful medicines in his arsenal, although he knew he could never share his theory with anyone else. No one would believe him, and there was no point in deliberately courting controversy.
‘You can return to work tomorrow,’ he said, when Bukenham had finished the bowl and reluctantly conceded that he felt a little better. ‘That will please Michael. He needs your help.’
Bukenham looked alarmed, then clapped his hand to his temple. ‘I am having a relapse! No, do not remedy me. I would sooner be indisposed, because I do not fancy tackling the Sorcerer.’
‘Yes, the Sorcerer is dangerous, so it is unfair to lie here while Michael battles him alone.’
‘He has you. Besides, I do intend to assist, but in my own way. Michael came to see me earlier, and I have been mulling over what he told me, along with what I know myself – considering all the evidence in a logical manner. Perhaps that is why my head hurts: these are perplexing problems.’
‘And?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Did all this contemplation result in any useful answers?’
‘Not really,’ said Bukenham sheepishly. ‘But I shall continue my work. Unfortunately, logic tells me the Sorcerer could be just about anyone. However, I have recalled one thing I forgot to mention the last time we talked. Do you remember me saying I witnessed a gathering of the Sorcerer’s elite in All Saints’ charnel house?’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘You said he spoke dismal Latin.’
‘Well, I happened across a second, larger gathering a few days later, and I recognised one of the participants. It was Margery Sewale.’
Bartholomew gaped at him. ‘I do not believe you! She was a deeply religious woman.’
‘Yes, but she was also a witch. Did Michael not mention the magic circle that was drawn outside her house on the night she died? Witches do that as a warding spell, to protect each other’s souls when they die. One of her cronies put it there, as a final act of friendship.’
Bartholomew tried to see the gentle Margery crouched over a cauldron in a dingy hut, like Mother Valeria, and the image would not come. Respectable widows of the mercantile class simply did not do such things, and Bukenham’s suggestion was so ludicrous, it was amusing. ‘Next you will be telling me this is the reason so many people want to buy her house – they are keen to own a witch’s lair.’
Bukenham’s gaze was steady. ‘Spynk and Arblaster are diabolists, and so was Tulyet’s father.’