‘It has,’ agreed Michael. ‘Look at Spaldynge – the man is still half-deranged with grief. So, you have solved two cases that have been nagging at me for more than a year, Matt. Thank you.’
Bartholomew tried to think of a way to prolong the discussion, but Michael was having none of it. He gestured that the physician was to begin his examination, and held the lamp to help him. As he did so, it illuminated a dark spot on the friar’s forehead, where the stone had struck him. Even now, it did not look serious, and Bartholomew wondered why the man had died.
‘I know how you feel about Thomas,’ said the monk, seeing him hesitate. ‘But here is a chance to make amends. When we catch the fiend who defiled his rest, you may find your conscience eases.’
Bartholomew doubted it, but did as he was asked. His hands shook, and it was one of the least pleasant tasks he had ever performed. He fought the urge to bolt for the door as he assessed the grave-clothes to see if anything was missing, and then did the same for fingers, ears and toes. Suddenly Thomas’s head rolled awkwardly to one side. Puzzled, he adjusted the lamp to look more closely. It took him a few moments to be certain, and he turned to Michael in confusion.
‘His neck is broken.’
‘Damaged as he was pulled from the ground?’ asked the monk. ‘Or perhaps when he was in it?’
‘I do not think so, because there are marks – bruises – on his throat, and a sticky residue on the collar of his habit. It looks as though the garment was glued into place.’
‘What are you saying?’ demanded Michael, shocked. ‘He was strangled and his clothes arranged to disguise it? He was murdered?’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘But strangulation will not break a neck – at least, not usually. I imagine this was rather more savage, perhaps involving a violent tussle. And the presence of glue suggests someone was covering his tracks. Did Rougham examine Thomas’s throat?’
Michael’s expression was grim. ‘No, he only looked at the head – at the initial injury.’
‘Carton was suspicious of Thomas’s death,’ said Bartholomew, trying to piece the facts together. ‘He wanted me to test that powder he found, because he thought there was something odd …’
‘Do you think this is the reason Thomas was excavated? Someone wants justice done?’
But Bartholomew shook his head. ‘I think our discovery is incidental. There were several other burials on the day we put Thomas in the ground–’
Michael clapped a hand to his forehead as the answer became clear. ‘Margery and Goldynham! Like Thomas, they were interred on Ascension Day because they believed that could mean less time in Purgatory. But what are we to deduce from this? That witches like to exhume corpses entombed on that particular occasion?’
‘Danyell was buried on Ascension Day, too,’ Bartholomew reminded him. ‘Perhaps he will be next.’
‘I will set a watch on his grave. But let us think about Thomas. Who killed him?’
‘Our suspects must be the same as the ones we have for Carton. They were both Franciscans, both believed the plague was a punishment for past sins, and both made enemies of heretics.’
‘And let us not forget that William argued bitterly with Thomas the day before his death,’ said Michael soberly. ‘Perhaps he was still angry when Thomas was carried to Michaelhouse to recover from being hit by the stone – that he came to the sick-room and throttled Thomas in a fit of pique.’
‘No, Brother. William would still be on his knees doing penance, if that were the case. We would know he was guilty by his behaviour.’
Michael disagreed. ‘He is a fanatic, and such people are quite capable of putting their own unique interpretation on such incidents – that God asked them to do it, or some such nonsense.’
Bartholomew did not like the notion of his colleague being a killer. ‘Perhaps Mildenale put him up to it. He is the one who encourages William’s zeal.’
‘Mildenalus Sanctus would never stain his soul with murder. He is no hothead, not like William. However, I suspect we should be looking to the Sorcerer for our culprit. After all, Thomas and Carton did speak out very vehemently against him.’
The Michaelhouse Fellows arrived for mass shortly afterwards, all talking at once about what had transpired at All Saints the previous night. Apparently, the revelry had grown very wild towards dawn, and the people who lived nearby had complained about the noise. More worrying, however, was the fact that dung had been thrown at the houses of folk known to support the Church.
‘Where are William and Mildenale?’ asked Suttone, looking around him suddenly. ‘They were here with us a moment ago.’
Langelee scowled when a quick search revealed they must have slipped away. ‘Damn them! I issued orders this morning that everyone was to stay in College until this Sorcerer business is resolved. I should have guessed they would be unable to resist the temptation to do battle with him.’
‘Yes, you should,’ Suttone admonished him. ‘You know how strongly they feel about witchery. Of course they will not skulk inside Michaelhouse while a popular diabolist assumes his mantle of power. They were incensed by last night’s dung-lobbing, and will be eager to avenge it.’
‘Lord!’ groaned Michael, heading for the door. ‘I had better tell my beadles to be on the lookout for them. I would rather Michaelhouse men were not on the streets when there is trouble brewing. And I must tell Cecily her husband is dead, too.’
When the monk had gone, Bartholomew pulled Langelee aside and gave him a brief account of what had happened at Sewale Cottage the previous night. He told him about Thomas, too, and the Master agreed that the body should be replaced in the ground as soon as possible.
‘We had better do it now,’ he said grimly, immediately making his way outside. ‘And then you must go and examine Spynk for Michael. He will need a report as a matter of urgency, and you must catch this Sorcerer before he steps on his pedestal and proves difficult to push off.’
‘I do not suppose you have heard any rumours regarding his identity, have you?’
‘Lots – and you feature in more than is comfortable. So do Heltisle, Spaldynge, Refham, Younge the porter, Arblaster, Podiolo, Norton, Prior Pechem, Sheriff Tulyet, the Chancellor, Eyton, the Mayor, the Market Square crones, Michael, Wynewyk and Spynk. I think that is everyone. Oh, and there is also one that names Doctor Rougham, on he grounds that he is conveniently absent at the moment.’
When Bartholomew and Cynric arrived at St Mary the Great, the physician feeling soiled and uneasy after laying Thomas to rest a second time, Cecily was in the Lady Chapel. She smiled when he offered her his condolences, and rubbed her hands together gleefully.
‘He cannot tell me what to do now,’ she crowed. ‘I am free of him. I ran all the way here when Brother Michael brought me the good news, just to be sure it was true.’
‘What will you do?’ asked Bartholomew. He had met wives who were relieved by their husband’s demise before, but none had been as openly delighted as Cecily. ‘Go home to Norwich?’
‘I think I shall stay here a while. Not in that High Street house, though. I would rather have Sewale Cottage.’
‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, aware of Cynric shooting him meaningful glances from the shadows. Was it significant that Cecily – a coven member – should still want Sewale Cottage?
Cecily gave a sultry smile. ‘Perhaps you would take a message to your Master for me. Tell him I am willing to pay nineteen marks for the house, and might even make a handsome benefaction to your College, too – in return for prayers for my husband’s soul, of course. Richard would have hated that!’