‘No,’ said Michael firmly. ‘I do not believe it.’
‘Do you really think this book is why so many people want Sewale Cottage?’ asked Bartholomew, not sure what to make of it all. ‘Spynk, Arblaster, the canons and Dick?’
‘Well, it does strengthen our theory that everything is related to witchery,’ said Michael. ‘Arblaster, and Spynk – and some canons, too, I am sorry to say – attend covens. Ergo, curses will be of great interest to them. Yet I still think we are missing some detail …’
‘We are missing more than a detail,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘I understand nothing.’
‘Then let us review what we know chronologically,’ suggested Michael. ‘First, we had Margery Sewale unearthed. We know she was a witch, and Mother Valeria drew a magic circle on her doorstep. Margery carefully hid her false Book of Consecrations, and left Michaelhouse everything she owned.’
‘Then goats were stolen from Bene’t College,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Heltisle is concerned because the thefts stopped at the mystical number of seven. Arblaster has seven black goats and I think Barnwell Priory does, too, but neither has made any effort to hide them, so perhaps this is irrelevant.’
‘Next, there was Danyell, who died of a seizure, but who lost his hand to Mother Valeria after he was dead,’ continued Michael. ‘He was interested in witchery, and so was his friend Spynk.’
‘Spynk said Danyell was carrying a brick under his arm when he left their High Street lodgings,’ said Bartholomew. ‘That is odd, is it not?’
‘Why?’ asked Michael. ‘He was probably going to do some business – masonry business.’
‘It is odd because Danyell had been complaining of chest pains, and Spynk said he intended to visit Mother Valeria, for a cure. Why was Danyell toting a stone around, when he probably felt very ill?’
‘But he never reached Valeria,’ mused Michael. ‘She said she did not see him.’
‘She said she did not see him,’ repeated Cynric meaningfully.
‘I believe her,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Why would she deny that he visited her, but admit to chopping off his hand? And he did die of a seizure – I do not think there is anything suspicious about his death.’
‘Could you be wrong about that?’ asked Michael.
‘I could, but I am fairly sure I am not.’ Bartholomew continued with his analysis. ‘Danyell and Spynk fell foul of the Bishop, and travelled to London to complain about him. Spynk was interested in Sewale Cottage, and was killed in its garden. He arrived in Cambridge shortly before Ascension Day.’
‘And Margery was buried on Ascension Day,’ added Michael. ‘Along with Goldynham and Thomas. All three have been hauled from their graves.’
‘I am beginning to see a pattern,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We have been assuming that all these events are connected to the Sorcerer, and there are strong reasons to support that. But perhaps we are wrong.’
‘Explain,’ ordered Michael.
Bartholomew marshalled his thoughts. ‘We know Osbern and Brownsley searched Sewale Cottage on several occasions. We also know that Spynk, Arblaster, Barnwell and Tulyet are all eager to purchase the place. I believe Tulyet’s reason for wanting it, but the others I distrust. They know something is secreted there, and that is the reason they want to buy it.’
‘The Book of Consecrations,’ said Cynric, waving it in the air.
Bartholomew shook his head. ‘It cannot be that.’
‘Why not?’ asked Michael. ‘If people believe it contains powerful magic, then perhaps it is worth more to them than money. Although, I still do not think the Bishop …’
‘Because Dick has a copy of Consecrations and, apart from Goldynham who wanted to destroy it, no one has tried to take his. It is no secret that he owns it: Goldynham probably told others about him having it, and Tulyet may have done, too. If it is the book that is attracting these buyers, then someone would have tried to purchase, borrow or steal Dick’s. And no one has.’
‘Goldynham wanted the Sheriff’s copy because he intended to destroy it?’ asked Cynric.
‘Valeria said so. Perhaps he was afraid of what might happen if Dickon got his hands on it.’
‘He has a point,’ said Cynric worriedly. ‘Perhaps I will steal it from the Sheriff’s house, then, because Dickon will be a lot more dangerous than the Sorcerer in a few years’ time.’
‘So what were they looking for, if not Margery’s book?’ demanded Michael, ignoring him. ‘I said it might be hidden treasure, and you told me I was wrong.’
‘But now we know the Bishop is involved, it seems logical to assume money is at the heart of it,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He is unlikely to be interested in anything else.’
Michael grimaced at the verdict on his master’s morals, but did not argue.
Cynric looked from one to the other. ‘So,’ he concluded, ‘all this time, you thought the raids on Sewale Cottage were something to do with the Sorcerer, but now you think they are not?’
The physician nodded. ‘He is gathering his resources for some sort of play for power, but I do not think it has anything to do with whatever is going on at Sewale Cottage.’
‘So we now have two cases to solve,’ said Michael heavily. ‘And we cannot say which is the more important, because we still do not really know what is hidden in Margery’s house.’
‘Which will you deal with first?’ asked Cynric. ‘Sewale Cottage or the Sorcerer’s matters – the murders, the goats and the exhumations?’
‘The Sorcerer stabbed Carton and may have exhumed those bodies,’ said Michael with more conviction than Bartholomew felt was warranted. ‘Perhaps he killed Thomas, too. So, we shall begin with the goats. Maybe they will lead us to this wretched warlock – hopefully before tomorrow night.’
Bartholomew trailed after the monk as he walked to Bene’t College. It was late afternoon, and the warmest part of the day. People wilted, their enjoyment of the balmy weather vanished long ago. Tempers were frayed, and Bartholomew was sure the heat was responsible for some of the insults he heard bandied back and forth as folk began to declare their support for the Sorcerer or the Church. He knocked on Heltisle’s gate, but there was no reply. Michael gave it a shove, more in frustration than in an attempt to enter, and was astonished when it swung open. The porters’ lodge was deserted, and the only sign of life was a chicken scratching in the dirt.
‘I did not like the mood of that crowd earlier,’ said Michael. ‘Supposing some of them came here and attacked Heltisle for what he said about Isnard? We should make sure he is all right.’
Bartholomew followed him across the yard, but the hall was empty. The only person they found was a servant, who was sleeping under a bench. He shot to his feet when he became aware of the monk looming over him.
‘The students are at a lecture in Peterhouse,’ he gabbled. ‘And all the Fellows have gone with them, except Master Heltisle, who is in the walled garden, reading.’
The monk set off towards the arbour, but Bartholomew stopped him. The hall had been pleasantly cool, and he was suspicious of the boy’s claim that Heltisle would go to relax outside. He pushed the monk behind him and walked first, drawing his dagger as he did so.
‘What are you doing?’ demanded Michael, alarmed by his reaction. ‘Heltisle is reading. Scholars do it all the time, I am told, although we have scant opportunity for such pleasures these days.’
‘There is something odd about this. Stay behind me – unless you have a dagger of your own?’
‘Certainly not. I am a man of God. However, I shall grab a stick if you think we might need it.’