The physician was relieved when he and Podiolo reached the church unscathed. The monk was in the nave, issuing urgent orders to the beadles who dashed in and out with messages. Cynric was with him, his dark face alight with excitement.
‘I still have not found Mildenalus Sanctus,’ said the monk when he saw Bartholomew. ‘And nor have I learned the Sorcerer’s identity. But you were a long time. What happened?’
Bartholomew leaned against a pillar while Podiolo gave a precise and almost accurate account of all that had transpired. The physician was exhausted, and the atmosphere of electric anticipation was doing more to drain his flagging reserves of energy than shore them up. His head ached, and he could not remember a time when he had been more weary.
‘So the killer of Carton, Spynk and Fencotes is no longer at large,’ said the monk in relief. ‘Thank God! That is one less thing to worry about.’
‘There are a number of things you no longer need to worry about,’ said Cynric, to be encouraging. ‘You solved the mystery of Bene’t’s missing goats, and you know Mother Valeria was responsible for the blood in the font and stealing Danyell’s dead hand. All you have to do now is defeat the Sorcerer and discover why Margery, Thomas and Goldynham were excavated.’
‘I know the answer to the last question,’ said Bartholomew, forcing himself to stand upright. ‘Danyell hid the treasure he stole from the Bishop on the night before Ascension Day.’
‘We know that,’ said Michael impatiently, when he paused. ‘What is your point?’
‘That all three exhumations were of people who were buried on Ascension Day. We suspected from the start that it was not the work of witches, because there were no signs of ritual, mutilation of corpses, or theft of grave-clothes. I think Brownsley and Osbern are the culprits, because they thought Danyell might have hidden the treasure in one of those graves.’
‘That is one of the least convincing theories I have ever heard you devise,’ said Michael scathingly.
‘Then think about it logically, Brother. Brownsley and Osbern had a discussion – a confrontation, if you prefer – with Danyell before he died. Arblaster overheard it. He said Danyell mentioned digging holes. The Bishop’s men later did dig holes in Margery’s garden, but they hedged their bets and searched other holes, too – graves.’
‘He is right,’ said Cynric, when the monk continued to look dubious. ‘All three of those graves were dug before Ascension, and were left open overnight. It is entirely possible that Danyell might have put his treasure in one – and what a perfect hiding place! No one would ever think of looking there.’
‘Osbern and Brownsley did,’ remarked Podiolo dryly.
Michael was thoughtful. ‘The bodies were pulled clean out, as though someone was making sure there was nothing underneath them.’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘So, now you have solved that case, too, Brother. You can tell your Bishop to deal with Brownsley and Osbern, because I am sure he will not want their antics made public, not with so many other accusations dangling over him.’
But Michael shook his head. ‘The Sheriff can arrest them, and de Lisle can take his chances in the lawcourts. I am tired of defending a man who is transpiring to be such a rogue.’
‘Very wise,’ said Podiolo. Bartholomew could not tell if he was being sarcastic or approving.
‘Brother!’ called a beadle urgently, hurrying down the aisle towards them. ‘People are beginning to flock towards All Saints-next-the-Castle.’
‘Of course they are,’ said Bartholomew, bemused. ‘That is where the Sorcerer’s coven meets. Bowls and potions have been prepared, and his disciples were working hard there yesterday.’
‘But my intelligence indicates the Sorcerer will appear here, at St Mary the Great,’ argued Michael. ‘Cambridge’s biggest and most important church. All Saints was a ruse, designed to keep me up the hill when the real action will be in the town. Why do you think I am here?’
‘Intelligence from whom?’ demanded Bartholomew.
Michael paled suddenly. ‘Oh, Lord! It was from Heltisle – but he had it from Mildenale.’
‘Yet more evidence to suggest Mildenalus Sanctus is not as holy as you thought,’ said Podiolo crisply. ‘He has been fooling you for months – and fooling Carton, too.’
‘But not Father Thomas,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He was a nosy, inquisitive sort of man, as we saw over Carton’s ordination. I suspect he discovered something about Mildenale, too – or perhaps he just started asking questions. Either way, Mildenale decided to silence him. He lobbed a stone at Thomas in the High Street, and when that did not kill him, he broke his neck as he lay on his sickbed.’
‘And let you bear the blame for his death,’ said Cynric angrily. ‘You gave Thomas a sedative, which probably was the right medicine in the circumstances, but he let you think you had killed him. He is a ruthless fellow, and I shall not mind plunging my sword into his gizzard tonight.’
Another beadle tore into the church, bringing news that supporters of the Church had set some of the market stalls on fire. As he spoke, a flash of lightning blazed through the church, before plunging it into darkness again. Several beadles crossed themselves. Podiolo touched something that hung around his neck, then began to press the messenger for details about the chaos in the Market Square. While he did so, Michael grabbed the physician’s arm and hauled him to one side.
‘Your Florentine friend seems very eager for me to think Mildenale is the Sorcerer,’ he said in a fierce whisper. ‘Why is that?’
‘We have more than enough evidence to prove it,’ said Bartholomew, although he understood the monk’s reservations about Podiolo – the canon had outlined their findings in a strangely gleeful manner. ‘Mildenale has been clever – using William, Thomas and Carton to turn folk against the Church, deliberately encouraging them to preach unpopular messages. And he certainly has an interest in the occult. You only need to glance inside his lair to see that.’
Michael’s expression was grim. ‘Well, we shall have answers tonight one way or the other, because something is about to happen. I do not want Podiolo with me, though. He can stay here with Meadowman.’
‘I would rather lend my sword to defeating Mildenale,’ objected the Florentine, when Michael began to issue orders.
‘I need someone to guard this church,’ said Michael, in a tone that indicated it would be futile to argue. He turned to Bartholomew. ‘We must stop at Dick Tulyet’s house on our way to All Saints. I heard he has abandoned his robber-hunt for the night, and I need to know what he plans to do – it would be a pity if we got in each other’s way.’
‘I would be careful of the Sheriff if I were you,’ said Podiolo sulkily. ‘Do not forget his father was a diabolist. Tulyet may not be the Sorcerer, but there is nothing to say he is not a servant. After all, he has done very little to stop Mildenale, has he? He has spent most of this week away from the town, on the pretext of chasing highwaymen.’
With the Florentine’s warning ringing in his ears, Bartholomew forced himself to follow the monk out on to the High Street.
Michael set an unusually brisk pace to Tulyet’s house and Bartholomew struggled to keep up with him. The lightning was coming more regularly now, and the accompanying growl of thunder seemed almost continuous. The gathering storm lent more urgency to a situation that already felt desperate, and Michael was virtually running by the time they reached Bridge Street. When he knocked on Tulyet’s door, both he and Bartholomew were hot, red-faced and panting.