‘Perhaps they intended to conceal it then, too,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘But were disturbed before they could do it. Have you found anything yet?’
‘Holes in the garden,’ replied Cynric. ‘Someone has been digging it up.’
Michael was disgusted. ‘Perhaps they found what they were looking for, and we are wasting our time. They seem to have been very thorough.’
‘They mended the door but left holes in the garden?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Are they trying to hide what they are doing or not?’
‘Cynric said the craters are more recent than the damage to the door, which suggests they are becoming desperate.’
Cynric scratched his head thoughtfully as he considered the task that lay ahead of them. ‘I suspect randomly tapping floorboards and jabbing at ceiling beams will tell us nothing. We need to be methodical.’
‘You do it, then,’ said Michael, sitting on the stairs and waving a flabby hand. ‘You are used to this sort of thing, and I have had a difficult evening. You search while I tell Matt what happened when he was off drinking fine wine with his rich patients.’
‘I have been investigating,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘And I have solved some of your mysteries. For example, it was Mother Valeria who put the blood in the font.’
Michael regarded him uneasily. ‘Was it human?’
‘She claims chicken. She also stole Danyell’s hand, but says we can have it back. I think she plans to leave the town tonight, and I cannot imagine she will take it with her. You can collect it tomorrow.’
‘I will send a beadle,’ said Michael with a shudder. ‘So, we were right about that, at least: we said the blood and the missing hand were connected to witchcraft, and they are.’
‘But not to the Sorcerer. Further, I have learned that the talisman was Carton’s, not his killer’s, and that Margery was a witch. Your Junior Proctor says that may be why so many people are determined to buy her house, and why Beard and the giant have searched it so often.’
‘There must be a powerful charm hidden here, or a book containing satanic secrets,’ said Cynric, making his way carefully along a gap between two floorboards. ‘After all, Spynk, Arblaster and the canons of Barnwell are Devil-worshippers.’
‘Spynk and Arblaster are attending a coven as we speak,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘And I think I saw Podiolo, too. Dick Tulyet is not there, though – I imagine he is chasing robbers on the Huntingdon Way. Not that he would entertain attending a Devil-worshipping coven, of course.’
Cynric’s eyes were gleaming. ‘It will be something that will either allow the Sorcerer to become the most powerful man in Cambridge, or that will see him defeated.’
‘It is more likely to be treasure,’ said Michael. ‘People do not go to this sort of trouble for magic. Margery must have hidden riches in her house.’
‘I doubt it,’ said Cynric, dismissive of the notion. ‘She was too generous to the poor to have left a lot of gold lying around.’
‘Perhaps it is not charms or wealth,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps the people who want the house are telling the truth – it would make a good home for Dickon; it is a nice place to stay if you have business here; it will make a good site for a granary; and its grounds are big enough to store dung.’
Michael gave a derisive snort. ‘And I am the Pope. Of course this is about money!’ He sighed heavily before Cynric or Bartholomew could take issue with him, and changed the subject. ‘Do you want to know how I spent my evening? Trying to convince Mildenalus Sanctus and William that you are not the Sorcerer. It was not easy – they have heard a rumour that you talk to yourself in churchyards.’
‘Actually, I talk to the scoundrel who keeps pretending to be Goldynham,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘Unfortunately, he manifests himself only when there are no independent witnesses – and then he must spread tales about my reactions to his tricks.’
‘You have seen Goldynham?’ breathed Cynric, eyes bright with awe. ‘The Sorcerer must have resurrected him again, and chose you to bear witness. You are honoured.’
‘It is not Goldynham,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘It is someone who finds it amusing to dress like him.’
‘Could it be the Sorcerer?’ mused Michael. ‘I imagine that is the sort of jape he might enjoy.’
‘Of course it is not the Sorcerer,’ said Cynric scornfully. ‘Imitating corpses will be beneath his dignity, so it must be a minion. Unless it really is Goldynham–’
‘Do not tell Mildenale and William any of this, Cynric,’ warned Michael. ‘I could not convince them of Matt’s innocence earlier, and they may use this prankster’s antics as a way to incriminate him. Damned fanatics! They think he stole that witchery guide, and said I should abandon my other investigations and find it before he puts it to use.’
‘Do you want to know the real reason they want you to find it?’ asked Cynric. ‘It is nothing to do with Doctor Bartholomew being the Sorcerer – it is because it contains a spell for seeing into the future. William caught me reading it the other day, and was about to screech himself hoarse when he saw what it was about. He was very interested, and asked me if I thought it would work.’
Bartholomew did not believe him. ‘You misunderstood. William would never contemplate learning about such things.’
‘Well, you are wrong,’ said Cynric firmly. ‘He said he would be able to foil the Devil more easily if he could see into the future.’ He held up his hand suddenly. ‘What was that?’
He doused the lamp, then opened the shutter at the back of the house to let the moonlight in. As Bartholomew gazed into the garden, he saw a shadow. He pointed it out to the book-bearer, who drew his dagger and gestured that they should trap the intruder in a pincer movement.
‘You stay here,’ Cynric whispered to Michael. ‘It may be a diversion, to lure us out. Guard the house.’
‘Thank you very much,’ grumbled the monk. ‘You have given me the dangerous bit.’
Bartholomew was not very happy about the plan, either, but did as he was told and began to creep down the left side of the long toft. He could smell the river at the end of it, and hot soil. A compost heap smouldered gently.
Suddenly, there was a sharp crack and a violent rustle as vegetation was flung aside. Cynric yelled a warning, and Bartholomew braced himself as someone hurtled towards him. He had drawn his dagger, but turned it aside at the last moment. The intruder would have run straight on to it, and Bartholomew was no killer. He grabbed the man’s clothing, and the fellow spun around, lashing out with his fist as he did so. Bartholomew ducked and the blow went wide. He could hear Cynric battling off to his right, but knew the Welshman could look after himself.
He turned to his own attacker, who had drawn a knife. As the intruder hurled it at him he dodged to one side so it sailed harmlessly over his shoulder. When he had righted himself, he heard footsteps thumping away. He started to give chase, but tripped over something that lay in the dry grass and went sprawling. By the time he had staggered to his feet, his attacker was gone. Cynric was next to him, limping and swearing furiously because his own assailant had also escaped.
‘Damned villains,’ he muttered venomously. ‘Chopped at my ankles to slow me down.’
‘Let me see,’ said Bartholomew, concerned.