‘How handsome?’ asked Bartholomew, surprising himself with the question. He rubbed his eyes and supposed he was more tired than he realised, because he was not usually in the habit of making such bald enquiries of recent widows, not even ones who so obviously revelled in their new status.
Cecily laughed. ‘Not handsome enough, probably, so you had better offer him a couple of ells of cloth as well. Tell him to invite me to dinner. I know for a fact that he prefers female company.’
There was a distinct bounce in her step as she flounced out of the Lady Chapel, and she was humming. Bartholomew hoped she would stop before she reached the street. It would not be considered seemly behaviour, and might lead folk to wonder whether she had killed Spynk herself.
Cynric watched the physician begin his examination. ‘Spynk was not much of a husband, but Cecily was not much of a wife, either. I cannot say I like either of them.’
Bartholomew did not reply, because his attention was focused on the corpse in front of him. There was a single stab wound in Spynk’s back, although it was lower than the one that had killed Carton. Cynric showed him a knife he had found near the body, and the physician saw it was another of the ones that could be bought for a pittance in the Market Square.
‘A cheap weapon that the killer did not bother to retrieve,’ he mused, more to himself than to the book-bearer. ‘It looks as though we have the same killer here.’
‘Why should Cecily kill Carton?’ asked Cynric, showing where his suspicions lay. ‘She has a good motive for killing Spynk, but she cannot have known Carton.’
‘Are you sure about that? Carton certainly met Spynk, because he told Langelee about a bid Spynk made on Sewale Cottage. I imagine Cecily was there when they bartered, so she probably did know him. However, a brief encounter cannot have been enough to warrant Carton’s murder.’
‘Maybe she made advances, and was piqued when he rejected her. Or she lost kin to the plague, and he told her it was her own fault. However, she did not kill Thomas, because he died of a snapped neck, while Carton and Spynk were stabbed. You probably have two murderers at large now.’
Bartholomew did not need reminding.
Michael was in the proctors’ office, signing deeds and letters with Chancellor Tynkell. Tynkell, a thin, unhealthy looking man, was setting his seal to whatever the monk ordered, and when Bartholomew arrived, he asked if he might be excused. The relationship between the Chancellor and his most powerful official had changed over the years, and there was no longer any question that Michael was in charge.
‘Well?’ Michael asked, when Tynkell had gone. ‘What can you tell me about Spynk?’
Bartholomew sat heavily on a bench. ‘Just that he was killed with the same type of knife as Carton. Both were stabbed in the back, which suggests some degree of stealth.’
‘Who would slaughter a Franciscan friar and a merchant? Cecily?’
‘Cynric thinks so. I have no idea.’
‘The Sorcerer is still my favourite suspect. If only we knew his name.’
‘Langelee gave me his list of potential candidates. It included virtually every prominent scholar and townsman in Cambridge.’ Bartholomew jumped when there was a sudden clamour outside, followed by the sound of smashing. They ran out of the office to find that one of the Lady Chapel’s fine stained-glass windows was now a mass of coloured shards on the floor.
Michael groaned. ‘Not again! We have only just repaired that after the last riot.’
He stalked outside, and was alarmed to see that a sizeable crowd had gathered. For a brief moment, Bartholomew thought he glimpsed the giant and Beard on the fringes, but when he moved to get a better view, they were not there. He found himself near the man who wore a rose in his hat, whom he had noticed during the near-lynching of the Market Square crone. The fellow made a moue of disgust when people began to yell at each other, and moved away, clearly having better things to do with his time. Bartholomew climbed on a tombstone so he could see what was going on over the heads of those in front. Michael stood next to him, hands on hips.
‘Tell me what is happening, Matt,’ he ordered wearily.
‘There is a squabble in progress. It seems William broke the window, to register his objection that the corpse of a self-confessed diabolist lies within. And Arblaster is berating him for destroying an attractive piece of artistry.’
‘From the vicious tone of the screeching, I would say Arblaster is doing more than “berating”, while William sounds deranged.’
Bartholomew stood on tiptoe. William was on one side of the ruined window, backed by a number of Franciscans from the friary; Mildenale lurked behind him, whispering in his ear. William’s eyes flashed with zeal, although his other colleagues seemed ill at ease. Heltisle was with them, his porters and Eyton at his back. The St Bene’t’s priest looked distressed, and was trying to pull Mildenale away from William, but Mildenale kept freeing himself, determined to continue his muttered diatribe.
On the other side of the window was Arblaster; his hands were stained, as though he had been busy with dung before breaking off to quarrel with William. Jodoca was next to him. She held a piece of the broken glass and her face was crumpled with dismay. Coven member she might be, but it was clear she deplored the destruction William had wrought. Refham and Joan were behind her, and so was Cecily. Joan was glowering, because Cecily was clinging to Refham’s arm, and Refham was grinning at the unsolicited female attention in a foolish, leering kind of way. Not far away was Spaldynge, slovenly and wild-eyed. Dark hollows in his cheeks suggested that his mental health continued to deteriorate.
‘Where are the Sheriff’s men?’ grumbled Michael. ‘I broke up the last Church versus Sorcerer spat, and Dick promised to tackle the next one. It is bad for University–town relations if I keep doing it. And bad for our windows, too.’
‘You may have no choice, Brother,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There is not a soldier in sight.’
‘Who is hollering now?’ demanded Michael, cocking his head. ‘Someone else has just joined in.’
‘Heltisle. He is accusing Isnard of being a necromancer, because of his penchant for sleeping in graveyards. Eyton is pointing out that these naps are drunken stupors and have nothing to do with witchery. Isnard is furious at the slur on his character, and people are taking sides about that now.’
Bartholomew saw Mildenale abandon William and go to stand behind Heltisle, lending him his support. He did not whisper at him, but the Master of St Bene’t College seemed to draw strength from his presence even so.
‘We shall cleanse the town of witches once and for all,’ Heltisle bellowed. He regarded Isnard in disdain. ‘Beginning with this vile specimen.’
‘A wicked heretic,’ Mildenale agreed, clasping his hands and gazing skywards. ‘God overlooked him during the plague, so He sent a cart to crush his leg instead, as a punishment for his sins. The Church despises such men, and they will all be damned to the fires of Hell.’
There was a murmur of consternation, mostly because Isnard was no worse a sinner than anyone else, and if he was damned, then so were a lot of people.
‘Now just a moment,’ said Arblaster, shocked. ‘There is no need for that sort of talk.’
There was a rumble of agreement, from folk on both sides of the debate.
‘Why should you care?’ snarled Heltisle. ‘As a coven member, you should be happy to go to Hell.’
‘Arblaster is a witch?’ cried Mildenale, staring at the dung-master with an appalled kind of disgust. ‘Then we should excommunicate him. William? Get me a Bible, a candle and a bottle of holy water.’