Bartholomew followed him to the infirmary, where the canons formed a protective phalanx around their fallen comrade. Lay-brothers clustered at the door, and Bartholomew thought that if any robber should want to attack another part of the convent and make off with the silver, now was a perfect time. Even as the thought came into his head, he wondered whether that was Jodoca’s intention. Arblaster said they had lost everything. Did she intend to recoup their losses? Start a new life in another town, funded by monastic treasure, since Danyell’s property was unavailable?
‘It was Jodoca,’ Podiolo announced, as Norton came to greet them. ‘Bartholomew identified her.’
Norton’s eyes bulged in horror. ‘But she is a woman! And she was intent on murder – I could see it in her every move. She might have killed me, too if I had not screeched for help.’
‘She was loath to tackle twenty of us, so she ran off,’ explained another canon. ‘We have no idea where she went, which is why we are here, all crowded together. There is safety in numbers.’
‘How is Fencotes?’ asked Bartholomew, stepping towards the bed. ‘Did she harm him?’
‘He is more alarmed than hurt,’ said Norton. ‘But I am glad you are here. Podiolo is no physician.’
‘No, he is not,’ agreed Bartholomew, knowing from Fencotes’s grey, sweaty face that there was more wrong than just fright. It should have been obvious, even to the most inexperienced practitioner, that Jodoca’s blade had struck home, and that the old man had received a wound that was likely to be mortal. ‘Where are you hurt, Fencotes?’
The elderly canon gave Bartholomew a weak smile, but did not answer.
‘Be careful what you say,’ whispered Podiolo. ‘It took us a long time to calm him after the attack. The only way we managed in the end was by promising to buy Sewale Cottage. At any cost.’
‘He believes Sewale Cottage will be a good investment for our future,’ added Norton. ‘And that we will benefit in the long term, even if we pay over the odds now. Personally, I disagree, but we shall do what he says, to make him happy.’
‘Arblaster told me what is hidden in Sewale Cottage,’ said Bartholomew, kneeling by the bed and addressing the patient. The old man was icy cold, even more chilled than his usual grave-like temperature. ‘I know why you are so determined to have it.’
‘What are you talking about?’ demanded Norton. ‘It is just a house. Tell him, Fencotes.’
‘The physician is right,’ whispered the old man. He looked strangely at peace. ‘There is a great box of treasure buried there – enough to swell our coffers for years to come. Or perhaps you will use it to help the poor. It does not matter, only that Barnwell has it.’
Norton was appalled. ‘But great boxes of treasure do not fall from Heaven, and they are nearly always tainted. I am not sure whether we should take it.’
‘It will be yours if you buy the house,’ whispered Fencotes weakly. ‘And you will buy the house, because you have promised. You swore on the Bible.’
‘I did,’ said Norton, his eyes so wide that Bartholomew wondered whether he would ever be able to close them again. ‘But you should have told me the truth. I do not like being tricked.’
Gently, Bartholomew turned the old man over; blood had pooled on the mattress beneath him. Like Carton and Spynk, Fencotes had been stabbed in the back. Norton and the others gasped their horror, and the Prior looked accusingly at Podiolo.
‘How could I see that when he was lying on it?’ objected Podiolo defensively. ‘Besides, you told me Jodoca had been repelled before she could inflict any damage.’
‘Heal him, Bartholomew,’ cried Norton, distraught. ‘He is my oldest friend!’
‘I cannot.’ There was no cure for a wound in such a place, and to attempt one would cause the patient needless pain. It was kinder to let him die in peace.
‘Stabbed in the back,’ mused Podiolo. He still held his sword, and seemed less shocked by Fencotes’s condition than his colleagues. Was it because he was an infirmarian, and so inured to such sights? Somehow, Bartholomew did not think so, and he edged away from him, unnerved by his proximity. ‘Like Carton. Does that mean Jodoca murdered him, too?’
‘I think so,’ replied Bartholomew, relaxing a little when Norton indicated with a wave of his hand that Podiolo was to put his weapon away. ‘I know she killed Spynk, because her husband just told me.’ He turned back to Fencotes, but the old man was fading fast, and Bartholomew did not want to hasten his end by demanding what might be a lengthy explanation. ‘If I describe what I think happened to Carton, will you nod, to tell me if I am right? You do not need to speak.’
Fencotes inclined his head, so Bartholomew began.
‘Carton was a Dominican, ordered to disguise himself as a Franciscan by his Prior-General, and sent to watch a dangerous fanatic. An unexpected promotion meant he began to lose control of Mildenale, which, being a conscientious man, distressed him deeply. When he was left alone in your chapel, he was seized by the urge to pray.’
‘That amulet was his,’ interrupted Podiolo. ‘I have thought about it, and I remember seeing it around his neck. It is a powerful one, and should have protected him from evil.’
‘But Carton’s feelings about such items were ambiguous,’ Bartholomew went on. He gestured to the one that was just visible around Norton’s throat, and several other canons furtively hastened to conceal theirs. ‘Just like many men, I imagine.’
‘I always remove mine before I pray,’ said Norton sheepishly. ‘I only wear it when I am outside the sacred confines of our chapels.’
‘Which is exactly what Carton did,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He took it off, then lay on the floor in the pose of a penitent, with his arms out to either side. Fencotes found the charm later, between two flagstones. And what happened next is partly my fault. Cynric and I told Jodoca what Carton had come to do here. So, she and her husband engineered an excuse for her to leave their house, and she hurried to see what could be done to prevent the negotiations.’
‘She stabbed him where he lay?’ breathed Norton, appalled.
Bartholomew nodded. ‘I thought he might have been killed by a tall man, because the wound was high. But the wound was high because she inflicted it when he was on the ground. I made an erroneous assumption, and it left Jodoca free to kill again.’
Fencotes opened his eyes. ‘You cannot blame yourself for what Jodoca did,’ he whispered. ‘And you cannot blame yourself for Thomas’s death, either. Carton knew it was suspicious, and tried to tell you several times that your medicine was not to blame. He even gave you a packet of powder, in the hope that you would think poison had killed him. He did not want you agonising.’
‘I do not understand.’ Bartholomew experienced a lurch of misgiving. ‘Carton did not confess to killing Thomas, did he? Because Thomas was on the verge of exposing him as an impostor?’
‘No,’ said Fencotes firmly. ‘I knew Carton was a Dominican – he confided in me because he needed a confessor, and felt he could not go anywhere else. He spent a lot of time here, unburdening himself and praying with me.’
Bartholomew recalled having been told that before, and had been surprised. Yet it made sense: Carton could not have visited the Dominicans for solace, because that would have endangered his mission, and he could hardly go to the Franciscans. But Barnwell was well outside the town, and Carton could have talked to Fencotes without fear of being seen or overheard.
‘Carton thought Mildenale murdered Thomas,’ Fencotes was saying, ‘because Thomas kept asking awkward questions. He had no real evidence, but he knew Thomas’s death was not your fault.’