The Devil's Disciples (12 page)

‘What are we going to eat, then?’ demanded Michael, alarmed.

‘You can either have onion soup, which is safe, or you can risk a stew.’

‘Not stew,’ said Bartholomew quickly, knowing the monk would go a long way to avoid eating anything that contained vegetables.
‘You know I think bad meat might be causing the flux.’

‘Then give the students the soup, but find a couple of chickens for the Fellows,’ ordered Michael, slipping her a few coins.
He watched her walk away, jangling the silver in her large, competent hands. ‘What did you learn from Carton’s books, Matt?
Were they full of heresy?’

‘The witches’ manual and the recipes for charms are a bit dubious, but the rest are perfectly sound. He was over-reacting,
just as he over-reacted with the medical texts.’

Michael gazed down the hall, where Mildenale was advising his students on the safest route home. ‘We will need to replace
Carton, but I do not want
him
to take the post.’

‘I doubt he would accept, anyway, not when he is on
the verge of founding his own hostel.’ Bartholomew glanced at the monk. ‘Is it a good idea to grant him a licence? I suspect
he intends to indoctrinate any students who enrol, so they all end up thinking like him.’

Michael looked unhappy. ‘Unfortunately, he has the necessary charters. The College will benefit, though. We are planning to
buy three shops from Mistress Refham, and arrangements are in place for him to rent them from us at a very respectable price.’

Bartholomew frowned. ‘But Mistress Refham died months ago. How can she sell us property?’

‘Do you listen to
nothing
in Fellows’ meetings?’ demanded Michael in exasperated disgust. ‘On her deathbed, she left instructions that her son and
his wife were to sell us the shops cheaply. Unfortunately, they are refusing to honour her last wishes, and the matter is
with the lawyers.’

Bartholomew mumbled something noncommittal – the monk’s explanation rang a vague bell – and watched Mildenale finish with
his students. He started to move towards the man, but William got there first, and the two friars immediately began a low-voiced
discussion. Mildenale seemed to be doing most of the talking, and Bartholomew picked up the word ‘Dominican’ in the tirade.

‘Carton was much less vocal about the Black Friars than the others,’ mused Michael, who had also heard. ‘I wonder what Mildenale
and William thought about that.’

Bartholomew regarded him uneasily. ‘You think one of them might have killed him over it?’

Michael raised his hands in a shrug. ‘They are fanatics, and thus a law unto themselves. Who knows what they might do in the
name of religion? I thought William
knew the boundaries, but he is not intelligent and may have been persuaded that anything goes in the war against the Devil.’

Bartholomew was appalled. ‘I sincerely hope you are wrong.’

‘So do I,’ said Michael grimly. ‘But let us see what
Mildenalus Sanctus
has to say about his fallen comrade. We will tackle William afterwards; I do not feel like interviewing them together.’

As usual, Mildenale’s hands were clasped before him and he was gazing heavenward. A student mimicked his pious posture, although
he desisted abruptly when Michael frowned at him.

‘I am not sure what I can tell you,’ said Mildenale, when the monk asked whether he knew anything that might solve Carton’s
murder. ‘His devotion to stamping out wickedness earned him enemies, but that is to be expected in a soldier of God. I wonder
who will be next, William or me?’

‘You think someone might be targeting zealots?’ asked Michael, rather baldly.

Mildenale regarded him in surprise. ‘Carton was not a zealot, Brother. What a dreadful thing to say! He was just determined
to speak out against sin, as am I. And with God’s help, I shall succeed.’

‘If you think you might be in danger, you should stay in,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘Until—’

‘I will take my chances.’ Mildenale’s smile was beatific. ‘God will stop any daggers that come
my
way, because He is keen for me to open my hostel.’

‘I hear you argued with Carton over the burning of some books,’ said Michael.

Mildenale nodded, rather defiantly. ‘He was collecting
evil texts for a bonfire, but I thought it was dangerous to keep them indefinitely, and wanted to incinerate them at once.
We quarrelled about it on several occasions, but he stubbornly refused to see that I was right.’

‘Some people think Carton was the Sorcerer,’ said Michael, again somewhat bluntly. He did not bother to address the fact that
Carton had doubtless thought
he
was right, too.

Mildenale gaped at him. ‘Of course he was not the Sorcerer! What has got into you today, making all these odd remarks? If
Carton had been the Sorcerer, do you think he would have railed against him so vehemently? He was by far the most outspoken
of us on that particular issue. William and I tend to denounce evil in general, rather than damning individual heathens.’

‘Do you think the Sorcerer killed him, then?’ asked Michael.

Mildenale thought for a moment, then shook his head. ‘No, because the Sorcerer has never stooped to violence before, and we
have been battling each other for weeks now. Of course, fighting would be a lot easier if we knew who he was, but the fellow
eludes us at every turn.’

‘He eludes me, too,’ said Michael with a weary sigh. ‘Where were you yesterday afternoon? No, do not look offended. It is
a question I must ask everyone who knew Carton.’

‘In church, praying. I am afraid no one can verify it, but I am not a man given to lies. There is no reason why you should
not believe me.’

‘Right,’ said Michael. ‘Do you know of anyone who was especially irritated by Carton’s views?’

‘The Dominicans,’ replied Mildenale immediately and predictably. ‘And the canons at Barnwell were not keen
on him, either, because he did something of which they did not approve.’

‘What was that?’

‘He told a lie about Sewale Cottage – the house they want to buy from us. He said a merchant called Spynk offered ten marks
for it, whereas Spynk had actually only stipulated nine. They raised their bid to eleven marks, and were peeved when they
later learned they had been misled.’

‘They said nothing about this to me,’ said Michael, startled and a little angry.

‘I am sure they did not,’ said Mildenale. ‘But it is true – Carton told me himself. He liked the canons, but was prepared
to do all he could to secure Michaelhouse the best possible price.’

Michael turned to Bartholomew. ‘It looks as though we shall have to visit Barnwell again.’

‘Mildenale did not seem overly distressed about Carton,’ said Bartholomew, sitting on one of the hall benches. They still
needed to talk to William. ‘Carton was one of his closest companions, and they held similar views, yet he received news of
the murder with remarkable aplomb.’

‘That did not escape my notice, either. He is almost as difficult to read as Carton, hiding as he does behind a veil of piety.
Do you think they had a fatal falling out over these “heretical” texts?’

‘I cannot see Mildenale wielding a dagger, especially in a chapel.’ Bartholomew rubbed his eyes, which felt sore and scratchy.
‘I wish I was not so tired. We shall need our wits about us if we are to catch a man who has no compunction about killing
priests.’

‘I would suggest you apply for sabbatical leave, because
you do need a rest. But you were away all last year, so you have had your turn. And I would refuse to let you go, anyway.
It was tiresome being without my Corpse Examiner.’

‘You had a Corpse Examiner: Rougham.’

Michael grimaced. ‘Who did not diagnose a single suspicious death in fifteen months. I still wonder how many murderers walk
our streets, laughing at me because their crimes have gone undetected. In fact, there was one case when I was certain something
untoward had happened, but Rougham was unshakeable in his conviction that both deaths were natural.’

‘
Both
deaths?’

‘John Hardy and his wife. Do you remember them? He was a member of Bene’t College, but resigned his Fellowship when he married.
Because he was an ex-scholar, I was asked to look into what had happened to him. The couple lived near Barnwell Priory.’

Bartholomew frowned. ‘They owned a big yellow house. Cynric told me it had burned down.’

‘There was a rumour that it was set alight by the canons. Naturally, I questioned Prior Norton, but he said the inferno had
nothing to do with them. I was inclined to believe him, because there was no reason for the Augustinians to incinerate the
place.’

‘Were Hardy and his wife in the building when it went up?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily.

‘No, the fire was weeks after they died, and the house was empty. The gossip that the canons set the blaze originated with
Father Thomas.’

Bartholomew regarded him askance. ‘And what was Thomas’s reason for starting such a tale?’

‘First, he pointed out that the Hardy house was very
close to Barnwell Priory. And second, he claimed that Podiolo becomes a wolf once the sun goes down, and is assisted in his
various acts of evil by Fencotes, the walking corpse.’

‘Lord!’ muttered Bartholomew, struggling not to laugh. ‘Was he serious?’

‘He never joked about religion. Fortunately, no one knew one small fact that might have lent his accusations more clout: the
Hardys dabbled in witchcraft.’

Bartholomew thought about the pleasant couple and found that hard to believe. ‘Are you sure?’

‘I found all manner of satanic regalia in their home. Prudently, I removed it before anyone saw, and Beadle Meadowman burned
it for me. I do not think the Hardys were great magicians like the Sorcerer but there was certainly evidence to suggest they
had pretensions.’

‘Then perhaps they were killed because they were Devil-worshippers.’

‘It is possible. But Thomas did not know what they did in their spare time, so there is no reason to suppose anyone else did,
either.’

‘How did they die?’

‘Rougham said of natural causes. They were in bed, side by side, and slipped away in their sleep.’

Bartholomew was incredulous. ‘Both of them? That is not very likely.’

‘I spent hours in their house, searching for an explanation. There was no evidence of a struggle, or that a killer had cleaned
up after one. There was no sign of a forced entry, and the washed pots in the kitchen indicated they had dined alone – no
visitors or guests. Their bodies were unmarked, and there was nothing that looked as if it might have contained poison. Nothing.’

‘But two people do not die in their sleep at the same time.’

‘Why not? Rougham said it was possible.’

‘It is
possible
, but so improbable …’ ‘Rougham gave me a written statement saying his verdict was natural death, and although I spent a week
asking questions, nothing surfaced to make me think he was wrong. In the end, I was forced to concede that the improbable
had
happened, and one followed the other into death. They were fond of each other, so perhaps love caused them to breathe their
last at the same time.’

‘In tales of romance, perhaps, but not in real life.’

Michael looked accusing. ‘Then it is a pity you elected to race off to France and Spain last year instead of remaining here,
doing your duty.’

Bartholomew was used to recriminatory remarks about how he had ‘abandoned’ Michael, and had learned to ignore them. ‘I would
ask Rougham about it, but he has gone to Norfolk.’

‘Fled from the rumours that say he stole Danyell’s hand,’ said Michael, adding uncharitably, ‘Or perhaps he is afraid of catching
the flux. Several of his patients have died from it already, although Cynric tells me you have only lost two.’

‘You may be about to lose a few more, though,’ said Cynric, appearing suddenly behind them. ‘You are needed at Bene’t College,
where three students are said to be in great distress.’

Bartholomew ensured he had enough barley and angelica in his bag, and headed for the stairs. ‘You will have to talk to William
on your own, Brother. Three patients may take some time.’

‘I would rather wait. For all his faults, I do not want
William implicated in this nasty business, and I want you with me when I interview him. Two minds are better than one.’

Bartholomew had been right to predict that he might be at Bene’t College for some time. He had been summoned early enough
to help two of the ailing scholars, but the third was rapidly sliding towards death, and there was nothing he could do to
prevent it. It was not the first time Bene’t had waited too long before calling him, but when he remonstrated with Master
Heltisle he learned that the porters had been ordered to fetch him the previous day, but had apparently forgotten.

‘Their faulty memories have cost this student his life,’ snapped Bartholomew. He tried to control his temper, but it was difficult
when a youngster was dying in his arms.

Heltisle was a tall, haughty man with the easy confidence of someone born to power and wealth. He had been a clerk on the
King’s Bench before he had forsaken law for academia, and such a lofty personage did not appreciate being railed at by a physician.
His expression was a little dangerous.

‘I will speak to them about it,’ he said tightly, warning in his voice.

Bartholomew turned back to his patient, suspecting he would do no such thing. Bene’t’s servants were the surliest men in Cambridge,
and it was common knowledge that even the Master was nervous of them. The head porter was a lout called Younge, and when his
minions retired or died in office – the latter being more common, given their propensity for violence – he possessed a knack
for appointing replacements worse than the originals.

It was late afternoon when the student died, but Bartholomew lingered at Bene’t, wanting to be sure the other two would not
follow suit. He was used to fevers claiming lives, but losing young patients still distressed him, and he was in a dark mood
by the time he had satisfied himself that the others were out of danger. He headed for the gate, and it was unfortunate that
Younge happened to be lounging in the porters’ lodge as he passed.