Free The Devil's Disciples by Susanna Gregory Page B

Bartholomew.
    Norton’s face was almost as pale as Fencotes’s. ‘Just the time it took me to hurry across the yard, tell Podiolo which claret
     to bring, and hurry back again. When I arrived, I found Carton …’
    Bartholomew shot an agitated glance at the chancel. ‘Found Carton what?’
    ‘In the state he is in now,’ finished Norton unhelpfully. ‘I ran outside and yelled for Podiolo, who came to see what could
     be done.’
    ‘But nothing could,’ added Podiolo, flashing his wolfish smile, rather inappropriately.
    ‘You said Carton has been murdered,’ said Bartholomew. ‘That means someone else must have been in here with him. Who was it?’
    ‘The chapel was empty when Carton and I arrived,’ replied Norton. ‘And you can see it is too small for anyone to hide here
     without being spotted.’
    Now Bartholomew’s eyes had become accustomed tothe gloom, he could see Norton was right. The chapel comprised a nave, which was empty of anything except six round pillars,
     and a chancel. He could just make out a dark form lying behind the altar rail. There was no furniture of any description,
     and the only way in was through the door. The windows were narrow, no wider than the length of a man’s hand, and it would
     be impossible for anyone to squeeze through them.
    ‘So someone must have come in while you were away fetching the wine,’ he said to Norton.
    ‘Then whoever it was must have been very fast,’ said Norton. ‘I was not gone long. But it is possible, I suppose. However,
     I sincerely hope you do not suspect one of us of this dreadful crime.’
    ‘Who has access to your grounds, other than canons and lay-brethren?’ asked Bartholomew. He glanced at Fencotes, who seemed
     to be taking far too long with his mopping.
    ‘The inmates at the hospital and the boys in the school,’ replied the Prior. ‘Plus the folk who come to buy our honey. Then
     the lay-brothers often invite their kinsman to visit. In fact, we tend not to exclude anyone who wants to come in.’
    ‘You keep your gate locked,’ Bartholomew pointed out, recalling how he had knocked and waited for an answer.
    ‘That is to deter the casual highway robber,’ replied Podiolo. ‘But we keep a back door open for anyone who might be in need.
     We are not Michaelhouse, which requires tight security to avoid being burned to the ground.’
    The holy water wiped away, Norton led the way to the chancel, where Carton lay on his face in front of the altar. The Franciscan’s
     arms were stretched to either side,and his legs were straight and pressed together in a grotesque parody of a crucifix. And in the middle of his back was a knife.
    Podiolo had been right when he said there was nothing Bartholomew could do for his colleague. The dagger wound looked as though
     it would have been almost instantly fatal, and Carton was already beginning to cool in the chill of the church. Bartholomew
     inspected the body by the light of a candle, but there was nothing else to see. Carton had been in good health when he was
     stabbed, and there were no other injuries or inexplicable marks.
    Michael arrived eventually, gasping from what had been an unpleasantly fast hike along the baking Causeway. His eyes were
     huge and sad as he stared down at the dead Franciscan. After a moment, he dropped to his knees and began to intone last rites.
     The canons were silent, bowing their heads as he chanted his prayers. Bartholomew stepped away and began to prowl, looking
     for anything that might provide him with some explanation as to why someone should have felt the need to stab Carton and arrange
     his body in so unsettling a manner. He only confirmed what he already knew: that a killer must have taken advantage of Prior
     Norton’s brief absence to walk through the door, kill Carton and leave the same way. When Michael finished his devotions,
     Norton, Podiolo and Fencotes repeated what they had told Bartholomew.
    ‘So what you are telling me is that virtually