The Devil's Disciples Read Online Free PDF

began to back away. ‘I cannot, Brother. I need the half-term break to prepare next term’s
     teaching, or my students will not learn the—’
    ‘You are my Corpse Examiner,’ said Michael firmly.‘You cannot refuse. Besides, Langelee said you can be excused College duties if you assist me.’
    Bartholomew thought about the cycle of disputations and lectures Langelee had organised. The timetable was so full that there
     would be very little time for preparing lessons; helping Michael meant the situation might be a good deal more flexible. ‘Very
     well,’ he said. ‘But it does not set a precedent for the future.’
    Michael smiled serenely, thinking a precedent had been set the first time they had ever investigated a murder together, some
     nine years before. Bartholomew just did not appreciate it.
    Unfortunately for the monk, Bartholomew did not make it as far as the College before he received a summons from a patient.
     It was Isnard the bargeman, who lived in a cottage near the river. As usual, Isnard had spent his Friday night at the King’s
     Head tavern, and had awoken that morning to find himself with a deep cut on his foot. He could not remember how it had happened,
     but it was an inconvenient injury, because it was the only foot he had; Bartholomew had been forced to amputate the other
     after an accident two years before.
    ‘Someone must have done it during the night,’ declared Isnard, when Bartholomew arrived and he saw that Michael had accompanied
     him. The bargeman was desperate to make a good impression on the monk, and did not want to be seen as a drunkard. ‘It could
     not have happened at the King’s Head, not with me drinking watered ale all night.’
    He adopted a pious expression, and Bartholomew laughed. ‘I heard the taverner broached a new cask of claret last night.’
    Isnard’s face was all innocence. ‘Really? I did not notice. And I would not have swallowed claret anyway, because it might
     damage my voice. I have been keeping it honed, you see, for when I am allowed back in the Michaelhouse Choir.’
    ‘My choir is full at the moment,’ said Michael coldly. ‘I have all the basses I need.’
    ‘But none are as loud as me,’ objected Isnard. His expression was piteous. ‘Please let me rejoin, Brother. Singing in the
     King’s Head is not nearly as much fun as singing with you, and we do not get free bread and ale after practices, either.’
    Michael was unmoved, and turned his attention to the physician. ‘Have you finished, Matt? My tenors are coming to see me this
     morning. We are going to discuss arrangements for the Feast of Corpus Christi, at which they will perform.’
    ‘Will they?’ asked Bartholomew unhappily. The choir was not the College’s greatest asset, and Isnard had summed up its abilities
     rather neatly when he had boasted about the loudness of his voice. What the ensemble lacked in talent it made up for in volume,
     and took pride in the fact that once it got going, it could be heard up to two miles away, if the wind was blowing in the
     right direction.
    ‘We are doing Tunstead’s
Jubilate
,’ added Michael as he sailed out, head in the air. It was a cruel thrust, because the
Jubilate
was one of Isnard’s favourite pieces. The bargeman made a strangled sound that might have been a sob, and Bartholomew hastened
     to finish his bandaging, reluctant to witness the man’s misery. Isnard caught his hand before he could leave.
    ‘You must help me, Doctor! I have apologised forsaying rude things about you earlier this year, and you have forgiven me, so why does
he
continue to be offended? I cannot bear hearing the choir sing and not be allowed to join in. Please talk to him. If you do,
     I will give you a spade.’
    ‘A spade?’ echoed Bartholomew, startled. It was not an item guaranteed to appeal to the acquisitive instincts of most physicians.
    ‘For digging up dead bodies,’ whispered Isnard, tapping his nose confidentially. ‘We all know it