‘Who is it? Which of the builders?’ ‘It is none of us,’ replied Yffi shakily. The mason was a crop-haired man with the kind of belly that indicated he was fond of ale; he was fond of camp-ball, too, which said a good deal about his belligerent character. He and his apprentices stood to one side of the pile, while Blaston was on the other. ‘We are all present and correct.’ ‘Will someone help me?’ asked Bartholomew, glancing first at the labourers, then his colleagues. The students and Agatha had been sent back inside, but the Master and his Fellows had remained. ‘I am not going anywhere near a corpse,’ declared Yffi vehemently. ‘The miasma of death will hang about me afterwards and bring me bad luck.’ His apprentices crossed themselves, and so did Blaston. Rolling his eyes, Langelee stepped up, and began flinging away stones with a reckless abandon that made it dangerous for bystanders. ‘Then who is under here?’ he demanded, as he worked.
