The Sanctuary Murders

Chapter 7

By the following morning, everyone knew that Satan had moved into the Spital, and would not welcome uninvited guests. However, while the news encouraged superstitious townsfolk to stay away, it had the opposite effect on those in holy orders.

‘The Devil will not tell me what I can and cannot do in my own town,’ declared Father William indignantly, as he and the other Fellows sat in the conclave after breakfast. ‘Who does he think he is?’

‘That tale is a lot of nonsense started by Cynric,’ said Theophilis in the sinister whisper that Bartholomew was coming to detest. ‘I shall be glad when you leave the University and take that heretic with you, Bartholomew. I dislike the fact that he – and you, for that matter – has befriended a witch.’

‘Cynric is not a heretic,’ objected Bartholomew, although he was aware that the book-bearer was not exactly a true son of the Church either. ‘And I am no friend of Margery Starre.’

‘Really?’ asked Aungel guilelessly. ‘Because she always speaks very highly of you. When I collect the cure she makes for my spots, she always says–’

He stopped abruptly, aware that he had not only dropped his former teacher in the mire, but had done himself no favours either. Theophilis was quick to pounce.

‘You will not buy her wares again, Aungel,’ he ordered sharply. ‘And I shall put Bartholomew’s association with that woman in my weekly report to the Chancellor.’

‘Come to the Spital with me, Theophilis,’ said William, eyes blazing fanatically. ‘You and I will send Lucifer packing together.’

‘Good idea,’ said Theophilis, and turned to Michael. ‘And while we are there, I shall investigate the murdered lunatics. I am your Junior Proctor, so if anyone helps you solve the mystery, it should be me.’ He glared pointedly at Bartholomew.

‘It is kind of you to offer,’ said Michael. ‘But I need you to monitor the triumvirate. I say this not for my benefit, but for your own – you will never rise in the University hierarchy if the Chancellor regains too much power, as he will prevent me from promoting you.’

‘Of course,’ said Theophilis, paling at the awful prospect of political stagnation. ‘I shall go to St Mary the Great at once. Meadowman told me that a letter arrived for de Wetherset at dawn, so I should find out who sent it.’

‘You should,’ agreed Michael. ‘It is the time of year when nominations for lucrative sinecures arrive, and it would be a shame if you lose out to someone less deserving.’

Theophilis made for the door at such a lick that he startled the hens that Clippesby was feeding under the table. They scattered in alarm.

‘Keep those things away from me,’ he snarled, flapping his hands at them. ‘They should not be in here anyway – unless they are roasted in butter.’

‘You would eat Gertrude?’ breathed Clippesby, shocked. ‘The nominalist?’

Theophilis forced a smile. ‘Of course I would not eat her, Clippesby. I am too fervent an admirer of her philosophy. Forgive me, Gertrude. I spoke out of turn.’

He bowed to the bird and left, leaving Clippesby to smooth ruffled feathers. William watched him go, then went to recruit Aungel for a holy assault on the Spital.

‘I do not understand why you trust Theophilis,’ said Bartholomew, once he and Michael were alone. ‘He is only interested in furthering his own career, and cares nothing for yours.’

‘Almost certainly. However, he also knows that the only way he will succeed is with my support, so he will do anything to keep my approval.’ Michael stood and stretched. ‘We should go to meet Dick. We have a lot to do today.’

‘Have we?’ asked Bartholomew without enthusiasm.

Michael nodded. ‘Once we have discussed our findings with him, we must speak to Leger and Norbert about their conversation with the Girards. I want to know why they kept an encounter with two murder victims to themselves.’

‘It might be wiser to let Dick do that,’ said Bartholomew, thinking that while the ruffianly pair might not assault a monk, the same could not be said about a physician. He was no coward, but there was no point in deliberately courting danger.

‘You may be right. Next, we shall go to St Mary the Great, where I will show you the blade that killed Paris the Plagiarist. You never saw it, because it got kicked under a stone and Theophilis did not find it until the following day.’

‘Theophilis found it? And it was missed during the initial search?’

‘Yes, but when he showed me where it had fallen, I was not surprised that no one had spotted it sooner. I want you to compare it to the weapon that killed the Girards.’

‘The wounds on them and Paris were not the same size,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I told you that yesterday. Theirs were more akin to Bonet’s, but he is buried, so we will never know if he was killed with the weapon we found at the Spital. Incidentally, have you asked where Theophilis was when the fire started?’

Michael’s eyes were round with disbelief. ‘Lord, Matt! What is it about my poor Junior Proctor that you so dislike? He never says anything nasty about you.’

‘Spying is distasteful, but he happily rushed to do it, which says nothing good about him. He spends a lot of time with de Wetherset and Heltisle, and he is ambitious. If they offer him a better deal, he will take it – then it will be you who is the subject of his snooping.’

‘I shall bear it in mind, although I am sure you are wrong.’

‘So did you ask where he was when the fire started?’

Michael was growing exasperated. ‘Why would Theophilis, a Fellow of Michaelhouse, renowned canon lawyer and possible future Chancellor, stab a few frightened Frenchmen? I have discussed the war with him in the past, and he is of the same opinion as you and me – that the leaders of both sides should bring about a truce before any more blood is spilled.’

‘So you have not asked him,’ surmised Bartholomew in disgust.

‘You know where he was – here, in the hall, keeping the peace while William revealed his ignorance of the nominalism–realism dispute.’

Bartholomew raised a triumphant finger. ‘No, he was not! Aungel said he left shortly after it started, and did not return for some time – which is why my students were able to savage William so ruthlessly. Theophilis was not here to keep them in line.’

‘I forgot – he did mention going out,’ said Michael. ‘Heltisle had a meeting, and refused to reveal who with, so Theophilis followed him. Unfortunately, he lost him by King’s Hall, so he returned to his duties here.’

‘It is not a very convincing alibi, is it?’ said Bartholomew, unimpressed. ‘No one can really verify what he was doing.’

‘I suspect that is true for half the town, which is why this case will not be easy to solve. But solve it we must, because we cannot rest until this killer is caught. So if you are ready …’

Bartholomew nodded to where William was still badgering Aungel to join him in a righteous assault on Satan. ‘What about him? We cannot let him go anywhere near the Spital, because if he learns who is inside …’

‘I shall ask him to visit his fellow Franciscans and find out what they know about Wyse. He will enjoy that, as he is always clamouring to be a proctor. By the time he has finished, he will have forgotten all about his holy mission against the Devil.’

Bartholomew hoped Michael was right.

Taverns were off limits to scholars, on the grounds that they tended to be full of ale-sodden townsfolk. In times of peace, Michael turned a blind eye to the occasional infraction, but Paris’s murder meant the stricture had to be enforced much more rigidly. Unfortunately, several hostels had flouted the rule the previous night, and there had been drunken fights.

‘We have seen trouble in the past,’ muttered Michael as he and Bartholomew hurried to their meeting with Tulyet, ‘but it is worse this time because everyone is armed.’

He and Bartholomew entered the Brazen George via the back door, where they were less likely to be spotted. The room the landlord always kept ready for him was a pleasant chamber overlooking a yard where hens scratched happily. They reminded Bartholomew of Clippesby’s treatise.

‘How many copies has Heltisle sold?’ he asked. ‘Do you know?’

‘Enough to build the dogs a veritable palace and pay for the conclave windows to be glazed.’ Michael shook his head admiringly. ‘Clippesby has been stunningly clever – he also added a clause that obliges Heltisle to bear the cost of all these new copies himself. Unless he builds a kennel in the next few days, our Vice-Chancellor will be seriously out of pocket.’

‘Then let us hope no one warns him,’ said Bartholomew pointedly.

‘Theophilis would never betray us. Stop worrying about him, Matt.’

There was no point in arguing. Landlord Lister arrived, so Bartholomew sat at the table and listened as Michael began to order himself some food.

‘Bring lots of meat with bread. But no chicken. I am disinclined to eat those these days, lest one transpires to be a nominalist and thus a friend to my Order.’

‘You cannot be hungry, Brother,’ said Bartholomew disapprovingly. ‘You have just devoured a huge meal at College–’

‘Unfortunately, I did not,’ interrupted Michael stiffly. ‘You stuck that dish of peas next to me, which meant I could not reach anything decent. Besides, I was up half the night, and I need sustenance. After choir practice, there were the brawls to quell and I had to make sure the nuns from the Spital and the Gilbertine Priory were safely rehoused in St Radegund’s.’

‘Was there room for them all?’

‘Not really, and the conloquium is a nuisance, getting in the way of preventing civil unrest, solving Paris’s murder and controlling de Wetherset. Or rather, controlling Heltisle and Aynton, as they are where the real problem lies. They have never liked me, and de Wetherset is far too willing to listen to their advice.’

‘Heltisle is a menace, but Aynton–’

‘Did I tell you that most spats last night were about Wyse?’ interrupted Michael, unwilling to hear yet again that the Commissary was harmless. ‘You said he was murdered.’

‘He was murdered. I hope Dick catches the culprit soon, because he was an inoffensive old sot who would have put up no kind of defence. It was a cowardly attack.’

‘The town cries that a scholar killed him, and the University responds with angry denials. Wyse’s death may not come under my jurisdiction, but we shall have no peace until the suspect is caught, so I will have to look into the matter. And you will help. Do not look irked, Matt – your town and your University needs you.’

Tulyet arrived a few moments later, looking tired – keeping the King’s peace in the rebellious little Fen-edge town was grinding him down, too. He immediately began to complain about de Wetherset, who was in the habit of obsessing over minute details in any agreements the town tried to make with him. Thus negotiations took far longer than when the Senior Proctor had been in charge.

‘He never used to be this unreasonable,’ he grumbled. ‘What is wrong with the man?’

‘He just needs a few weeks to assert himself, after which he will be much more amenable,’ said Michael soothingly. ‘The situation will ease even further once I persuade him to dismiss Heltisle and Aynton.’

Tulyet brightened. ‘Will you? Good! I am sure Heltisle encourages de Wetherset to be awkward, although Aynton is a bumbling nonentity whom you should ignore. But you are sensible and accommodating, and I have grown complacent. This new regime is an unpleasant reminder that your University contains some very difficult men.’

‘Here is Lister,’ said Michael, more interested in what was on the landlord’s tray. ‘You two may discuss the murders while I eat.’

‘I believe we have one killer and seven French victims,’ began Bartholomew. ‘We may know for certain once we have compared the dagger that killed Paris to the one used on the Girard family. It is a pity Bonet’s was stolen, and that he is already buried.’

Tulyet helped himself to a piece of Michael’s bread. ‘So we have a French-hating killer and a rogue who drowns helpless old drunks. Two culprits, not one.’

‘Did Sauvage learn anything useful in the Griffin last night?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Yes, but only after Sergeant Orwel arrived to help him,’ said Tulyet. ‘Orwel knows how to get the truth from recalcitrant witnesses. Sauvage does not.’

‘And?’ asked Michael, his mouth full of cold beef.

‘The other patrons did see someone watching Wyse with suspicious interest – someone who then followed him outside. Unfortunately, the bastard kept his face hidden. However, his cloak was of good quality, and his boots were better still.’

‘Really?’ asked Michael. ‘The Griffin does not usually attract well-dressed patrons.’

‘These witnesses also saw this man take a book out of his scrip, and they noticed his inky fingers,’ Tulyet went on. ‘Two things that “prove” the culprit is a scholar. It is what ignited the trouble between us and your students last night.’

‘Did he read and have inky fingers?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Or did these so-called witnesses make it up?’

‘I suspect he did, as too many of them gave identical testimony for it to be fiction. Of course, some townsmen can read …’

‘And are clever enough to know who will be blamed if books and inky hands are flashed around,’ finished Michael. ‘It could be a ruse to lead us astray. Now, what about the Spital deaths? Summarise what we know about those while I nibble at this pork.’

‘The Girard family considered the shed to be theirs,’ began Tulyet, ‘which I suspect created friction, as petty things matter to folk under strain.’

‘We saw for ourselves that there are two distinct factions among the peregrini,’ added Bartholomew. ‘The majority side with Father Julien, but the Jacques follow Delacroix.’

‘The Jacques,’ muttered Tulyet. ‘Members of a violent uprising that destabilised an entire country. I am not happy with such men near my town.’

‘No,’ agreed Michael, dabbing his greasy lips with a piece of linen. ‘But take comfort from the fact that there are only four of them – hopefully too few to be a problem.’

Tulyet looked as if he disagreed, but did not argue, and only returned to analysing the murders. ‘Hélène collected milk from the kitchen, then joined her family in the shed. There, she found the milk had a peculiar taste and refused to drink most of it, which saved her life. Shortly afterwards, the adults had been stabbed and the fire started.’

‘Has Hélène recalled anything new?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Unfortunately not,’ replied Tulyet. ‘She just remembers feeling sleepy.’

Bartholomew thought about the milk. ‘The soporific must have been added in the kitchen. Does that mean the culprit is a member of staff? No one else can get in there.’

Tulyet grimaced. ‘If only that were true! Last night, I broke in with ease. Then I entered the kitchen, refectory and dormitory without being challenged once. I was obliged to teach the Tangmers how to implement some basic security measures.’

‘But the Girards were killed in broad daylight,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘It is one thing to sneak in under cover of darkness, but another altogether to do it during the day.’

‘Unfortunately, the layout of the Spital offers plenty of cover for a competent invader,’ countered Tulyet. ‘Ergo, the culprit might well hail from outside.’

‘Suspects,’ said Michael briskly. ‘First, the peregrini.’

‘They are high on my list, too,’ said Tulyet. ‘Especially as I have learned that they arrived in the area two days before Paris was stabbed. Now, the Girards were no angels – they were territorial over the shed, they took money with no intention of honouring agreements, and two were Jacques. Meanwhile, Delacroix is angry, bitter and violent – perhaps the Girards quarrelled with him.’

‘Or Father Julien did,’ said Michael. ‘I like the man, but perhaps he decided that dispatching one awkward, divisive family was the best way to save the rest.’

‘What about the Spital staff?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Little Goda is in the clear, because Prioress Joan saw her in the kitchen when the fire was set. The two of them can have no more than a passing acquaintance, so there is no reason to think they are lying for each other.’

‘My clerks cross-checked my notes about who was with whom when,’ said Tulyet. ‘And it transpires that every member of staff has at least two others to vouch for him except Tangmer, his wife and Eudo. Eudo and Tangmer say they were together, but their accounts are contradictory.’

‘So they lied,’ mused Michael. ‘Interesting.’

‘Very. Amphelisa was alone in her workshop, and I am inclined to believe her because of the way she cares for Hélène – you do not try to kill a child, then adopt her as your own. Moreover, she is the one who agreed to house the peregrini in the first place, very much against her husband’s better judgement.’

‘Then there is Magistra Katherine,’ Bartholomew went on. ‘She was reading behind the chapel, so she has no alibi either.’

‘I cannot see the Bishop’s sister dispatching a family of strangers,’ said Michael.

‘Why not?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Her brother sanctions murder.’

‘I hardly think it is something that runs in a family,’ retorted Michael stiffly. ‘A more likely suspect is that spiteful Sister Alice, who went a-visiting at the salient time.’

‘Then we have an entire town that hates the French,’ added Tulyet. ‘I know no one is supposed to know that the Spital is full of them, but these secrets have a way of leaking out. What did the ditcher and the miller tell you, Brother? Could either of them be the killer?’

‘No,’ said Michael with conviction. ‘Neither is clever enough to have devised such an audacious plan, and nor would they kill children with poisoned milk. Furthermore, they are not observant, and would never have identified the “lunatics” as French.’

‘Sir Leger and Sir Norbert might have done, though,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘And Isnard and Sergeant Orwel did see them talking to the Girards.’

Tulyet grimaced. ‘My new knights hate the French, and if the Girards gave themselves away … But let us not forget that de Wetherset and Heltisle hired the Girards as proxies.’

‘I wonder if Theophilis was there when that happened,’ said Bartholomew reflectively, ‘perhaps spying on them for you, Brother.’

‘If Theophilis had the slightest inkling that Frenchmen were posing as lunatics, he would have told me,’ said Michael firmly. ‘However, Aynton would not – he cannot be trusted at all.’ He scowled when Bartholomew began to object. ‘If you insist on including Theophilis, then I insist on including Aynton.’

Bartholomew raised his hands in surrender. ‘Although neither of us really thinks de Wetherset and Heltisle are the kind of men to poison children.’

‘I would not put it past them,’ countered Tulyet. ‘It would not be the first time seemingly respectable scholars resorted to abhorrent tactics to get their own way.’

‘So where does that leave our list?’ asked Michael. ‘Summarise it for me.’

‘The peregrini, specifically Julien and the Jacques,’ began Tulyet. ‘Amphelisa, Tangmer and Eudo from the Spital; Magistra Katherine and Sister Alice from the Benedictine Order; Leger and Norbert from the castle; and de Wetherset, Heltisle, Aynton and Theophilis from the University.’

‘And a lot of dim-witted townsfolk and students who think we are about to be invaded by the Dauphin,’ added Michael. ‘Although we all have reservations about Amphelisa being the culprit, while I sincerely doubt de Wetherset and Theophilis are involved, and Matt thinks Aynton is as pure as driven snow.’

‘So how do we set about finding the culprit?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘You tackle the scholars and the nuns,’ replied Tulyet, ‘while I concentrate on the townsfolk. We shall share the suspects at the Spital.’

‘And your knights?’ asked Michael. ‘Will you take them, too?’

‘No – we shall do that together.’ Tulyet winced. ‘Their military service has turned them into French-hating fanatics. They also know how to break into buildings and set fires. It is entirely possible that one of them – Leger, most likely – guessed what the Spital is hiding.’

Michael stood abruptly. ‘Come with us to look at the knife that killed Paris, Dick. You know weapons better than we do.’

On their way out of the Brazen George, a message arrived for Michael. It was from Heltisle, and ordered him to report to St Mary the Great immediately. The monk read it once, then again to be sure. When he had finished, he screwed it into a ball and flung it on the ground.

‘How dare he summon me!’ he fumed. ‘I have enough to do, without being sent hither and thither at the whim of a man whose appointment I did not sanction.’

‘You are on your way there anyway,’ said Tulyet pragmatically. ‘And he might have something important to tell you. If not, it can be your pretext for ignoring him next time.’

‘There will not be a next time! And I am glad you two will be with me – it means that if I feel compelled to punch him, one can drag me off while the other sets his broken nose.’

Tulyet backed away. ‘I rather think this is a confrontation that an outsider should not witness. Go and do your punching and meet me by the Great Bridge in an hour. Bring the knife that killed Paris. In the interim, I will start questioning townsfolk about the fire.’

He hurried away, and Bartholomew and Michael stepped on to the High Street just as Aynton was passing. The Commissary beamed amiably and fell into step beside them, so Michael used the opportunity for an impromptu interrogation.

‘Where were you when the Spital fire started?’ he asked, cutting into the Commissary’s rambling account of a brawl he had witnessed the previous night.

Aynton blinked his surprise. ‘Me? Why?’

‘Because I should like to know,’ replied Michael coolly.

Aynton gave a little laugh. ‘I am afraid I cannot tell you precisely, because I do not know precisely when the fire began. However, I was probably in St Mary the Great with de Wetherset and Heltisle. Oh, and Theophilis, who was spying on us, as is his wont. Can you not find him anything more respectable to do, Brother?’

‘You were there all morning?’ asked Michael, irked to learn that his Junior Proctor was compromised, although Bartholomew wondered if Theophilis had done it on purpose, to let the triumvirate know whose side he was really on.

Aynton continued to grin amiably. ‘Yes, other than the time I went out. I shall pontificate on the Chicken Debate later this month, so I take every opportunity to practise. I go to the Barnwell Fields, where I can speak as loudly as I like without disturbing anyone.’

Michael stifled a sigh of exasperation. ‘So you were alone for part of the time?’

Aynton raised his eyebrows. ‘I was, although I hope you do not suspect me of the crime.’ He chortled at the notion. ‘Perhaps Clippesby will ask the sheep to give me an alibi. Would that suffice?’

‘Not really,’ said Michael coldly. ‘Because it transpires that you knew two of the victims – they were the proxies hired by de Wetherset and Heltisle.’

‘I did not know them,’ argued Aynton pedantically. ‘I met them twice. All I can tell you is that they had shifty eyes and looked around constantly, as if they feared an attack. So, now I have proved that my acquaintance with them was superficial, you can cross my name off your list of suspects. Eh?’

He gave a cheery wave and sailed away. Michael watched him go with narrowed eyes.

‘If that was not the response of a guilty man, I do not know what is. How dare he claim he was in a field talking to sheep and expect me to believe it!’

‘Perhaps it was the truth,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He has always been eccentric.’

They entered St Mary the Great, and headed for Michael’s sumptuous office. Theophilis was in it, riffling through the documents on the desk.

‘What are you doing?’ demanded Bartholomew, indignant on Michael’s behalf.

Theophilis regarded him with an expression that was difficult to read. ‘Looking for next week’s theology lecture schedule,’ he replied smoothly. ‘Father William assures me that he is on it. I hope he is not, because I refuse to listen to him again.’

Michael sighed. ‘He has used this tactic to win a slot before, and it occasionally works. Tell him the programme is full. Or better yet, suggest he delivers his tirade to his fellow Franciscans. They are less likely to lynch him, and it will still satisfy his desire to be heard.’

Theophilis inclined his head and slithered away to do the monk’s bidding.

Bartholomew picked up the document on the top of the pile. ‘Here is the schedule. I wonder why he felt the need to rummage when what he wanted was in plain sight.’

‘He could not see the wood for the trees, I suppose,’ shrugged Michael. ‘But do not worry about him prying. I keep nothing sensitive here – not as long as the likes of Aynton and Heltisle are at large. Now where did I put that dagger? Hah! Here it is.’

The weapon was a handsome thing, one its owner would surely be sorry to lose. It was also distinctive, with a jewelled handle of an unusual shape and a blade of tempered steel.

‘It is not the same as the one that killed the Girards,’ said Bartholomew, turning it over in his hands. ‘The blade is longer and thinner. However, the design is almost identical, and it would not surprise me to learn that they came from the same place.’

‘You mean the same forge?’

‘No, I mean the same geographical region. Have you seen Cynric’s knives? They look alike, because they were all made in Wales. But I am no expert – Dick will tell you more.’

Michael put the weapon in his scrip. ‘We shall do it as soon as I find out why Heltisle feels the need to flex muscles he does not have. And while we are there, we shall ask him where he was when his proxy was stabbed and incinerated.’

De Wetherset was in his poky office, assessing applications from prospective students. Bartholomew was impressed to note that each was given meticulous attention before a decision was made – Suttone had delegated the entire process to his clerks, while the Chancellor before that had only read the first line. His iron-grey hair was perfectly groomed, and he exuded authority and efficiency.

Heltisle was behind him, leaning over his shoulder to whisper. His clothes would not have looked out of place at Court – he had abandoned his College livery in favour of a purple mantle that any baron would have envied, while his hat was trimmed with fur. He oozed a sense of wealth and entitlement – just the attitude that townsfolk found so aggravating.

His shifty blush when Michael and Bartholomew walked in made it clear that he had been talking about them. As he straightened, a strand of his hair snagged on the pilgrim badge in de Wetherset’s hat. De Wetherset sighed and fidgeted impatiently while Heltisle struggled to free himself, and the process was complicated further still when the Chancellor jerked away suddenly and caught his hand on one of his deputy’s metal pens. The resulting cut was insignificant, but de Wetherset made a terrible fuss, obliging Bartholomew to provide a salve.

‘Why did you want me, Vice-Chancellor?’ asked Michael, when the kerfuffle was finally over. ‘Please state your case quickly. I am a busy man.’

Heltisle eyed him coldly. ‘Why are you still involved in the Spital affair?’

‘The Spital murders. And of course I am still involved. Why would I not be?’

‘Because it is not University property and the victims were not scholars,’ replied Heltisle. ‘Ergo, it is not our concern. Moreover, the place is said to be under Lucifer’s personal control, and we cannot be associated with that sort of thing.’

‘Superstitious nonsense,’ declared Michael. ‘And the murders are my concern, because they were almost certainly committed by the same rogue who killed Paris, who was a scholar. Moreover, you hired two of the victims to train at the butts on your behalf. Surely you want to know who deprived you of your proxies?’

‘Not really,’ sighed de Wetherset. ‘It will not bring them back, poor souls. Did you arrange for our money to be given to the orphaned child, by the way? You must let us know if we can do anything else to help her.’

‘There is, as a matter of fact,’ said Michael. ‘You can answer a question: where were you both on Wednesday morning?’

De Wetherset’s eyes widened with shock. ‘Surely you cannot think we had anything to do with these deaths?’

‘He does,’ growled Heltisle, tight-lipped with anger. ‘And it is a gross slur on our character. You should dismiss him at once for his–’

‘No, Heltisle,’ interrupted de Wetherset, raising a hand to stop him. ‘Michael is right – we had a connection to the victims, so of course we must account for our whereabouts.’ He turned back to Michael. ‘We were in here, working.’

‘Just the two of you?’ asked Bartholomew, enjoying the way that Heltisle bristled at the indignity of being interrogated like a criminal.

‘Aynton was here for a while,’ said de Wetherset. ‘But then he went out, probably to practise a lecture he intends to give.’

‘Can anyone confirm it?’

‘No,’ replied Heltisle, barely able to speak through his clenched teeth. ‘The door was closed, because we were engaged in confidential University business, and it was necessary to thwart eavesdroppers.’

The look he gave Michael suggested that Theophilis’s usefulness as a spy was well and truly over.

‘But it does not matter, because Heltisle and I have alibis in each other,’ said de Wetherset. ‘That is what alibis are, is it not – one person proving that another is entirely innocent?’

Michael nodded. ‘Although we prefer independent witnesses, rather than friends who owe each other their loyalty. But if that is all you have, we shall have to make the best of it.’

‘You were ensconced in here together all morning?’ pressed Bartholomew, suspicious of Heltisle’s aggressively defensive answers.

‘Yes,’ said Heltisle shortly.

‘No,’ said de Wetherset at the same time. He gave his Vice-Chancellor an exasperated glance. ‘You know we were not – you went out to buy parchment and you were gone for quite a while.’

‘Because there was a long queue in the shop,’ said Heltisle, struggling to mask his annoyance at the revelation. ‘Then I had an errand to run for my College.’

‘But I stayed here, and I am sure some clerk or other will confirm it,’ said de Wetherset rather carelessly. ‘Just ask around.’

‘Your theory is wrong anyway, Brother,’ said Heltisle, launching an attack to mask his discomfiture. ‘Paris and the others were not dispatched by the same hand. How could they be when there is no connection between them? No wonder you have failed to catch the killer – you cannot see the obvious.’

‘I am afraid I agree, Brother,’ said de Wetherset apologetically. ‘Your premise is indeed flawed.’ Then he grimaced. ‘We were too lenient with Paris. Plagiarism is a terrible crime, and we should have made an example of him, to prevent others from following suit.’

‘Quite right,’ nodded Heltisle. ‘The next culprit should be hanged.’

‘Unfortunately, plagiarism is not a capital offence,’ said de Wetherset ruefully. ‘Much as we might wish it were otherwise. There is nothing more vile than stealing an idea and passing it off as one’s own.’

‘But as it happens, you no longer need concern yourself with Paris,’ Heltisle went on, smugness restored. ‘As you have failed to catch his killer, Aynton will investigate instead.’

‘Impossible!’ snapped Michael. ‘Only proctors have the authority to–’

‘We have amended the statues to say that he can,’ interrupted Heltisle, positively overflowing with spiteful glee. ‘Aynton will succeed where you have let us down.’

‘I am sorry, Brother,’ said de Wetherset; he sounded sincere. ‘But I feel the case requires fresh eyes. The unsolved murder of a scholar is causing friction with the town, and we need answers before it becomes even more problematic. I hope you understand.’

‘Aynton mentioned nothing of this when we met him just now,’ said Michael stiffly.

‘Perhaps it slipped his mind,’ said de Wetherset charitably, although Bartholomew suspected that the Commissary’s courage had failed him and he had opted to let someone else break the news. ‘But look on the bright side: it will leave you more time for your peacekeeping duties.’

‘I have ideas about how to improve your performance there, too,’ said Heltisle, before Michael could respond. ‘For a start, you can order Tulyet to impose a curfew on all townsfolk. If they are indoors, our scholars can wander about where they please without fear of assault, and the town will be a much nicer place.’

‘I hardly think–’ began Bartholomew, shocked.

Heltisle cut across him. ‘However, this curfew is the only matter on which you may converse with him. For all other business, you must refer him to us. The University has made far too many concessions over the last decade, and it is time to seize back the rights that you have allowed him to leech away.’

‘Then thank you very much,’ said Michael with a sudden, radiant smile. ‘It will be a great relief to lose that particular burden. You are most kind.’

‘Am I?’ said Heltisle, smugness slipping. ‘I thought you would object.’

‘Oh, no,’ replied Michael airily. ‘I am delighted. After all, why should I be blamed when the town takes umbrage at all these harsh new policies, and takes revenge by placing the instigators’ severed heads on a pike?’

Heltisle paled. ‘Severed heads?’

‘I have been walking a tightrope with the town for years,’ said Michael, continuing to beam. ‘So I am most grateful to pass the responsibility to someone else.’

Heltisle was so angry that Bartholomew edged towards the door, afraid the Vice-Chancellor might fly at them with one of his sharp metal pens. De Wetherset swallowed hard, and glared accusingly at his Vice-Chancellor.

‘Perhaps this is not the best time to–’

Michael went on happily. ‘But now the onus of dealing with the town lies with you, it should be you who informs the Sheriff about the curfew you want. Good luck with that! However, you might want to exempt bakers, or our scholars will have no bread to break their fast. And brewers who need to tend our ale. And dairymaids who–’

‘We do not need you to tell us what to do,’ snapped Heltisle, struggling to hide his dismay when he realised his solution would be impossible to implement.

‘Yet the town must learn that we are not to be trifled with,’ said de Wetherset thoughtfully. ‘So we shall put on a good show at the butts tonight. Then they will see we are a force to be reckoned with, militarily speaking.’

‘Not tonight, Chancellor,’ Michael reminded him. ‘It is the town’s turn to practise.’

‘I know that,’ said de Wetherset. ‘It is the point – they cannot witness our superior skills unless they see us in action, and the only way to do that is by joining them.’

‘That would be a serious mistake,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘We cannot have armed scholars and armed townsfolk in the same place. It would be begging for trouble!’

‘How dare you argue with the Chancellor!’ snapped Heltisle, then glowered at Michael. ‘Moreover, this would not be an issue if you had secured the University a good bargain at the butts. I shall summon Tulyet here later, with a view to renegotiating.’

‘You can try,’ said Michael, ‘although I doubt he will respond to messages ordering him to report to you. Besides, the butts are town property, and he lets us use them out of the goodness of his heart. Be wary of unreasonable demands.’

‘I know what I am doing,’ retorted Heltisle tightly, not about to lose another battle to Michael’s greater understanding of the situation. ‘And I will prevail.’

‘Incidentally, Heltisle has hired another half-dozen beadles for you, Brother,’ said de Wetherset with a conciliatory smile. ‘Do not worry about the cost, as we shall pay for them with the funds set aside for sick scholars.’

Bartholomew was shocked and angry in equal measure. ‘And what happens to students who fall ill or suffer some debilitating accident? How will they survive until they are back on their feet again?’

‘Their friends will have to bear the burden,’ replied de Wetherset, and turned back to Michael before Bartholomew could remonstrate further. ‘Increasing our little army will show the town that we are not to be bullied. You can teach them their trade, and Bartholomew can help you.’

‘Me?’ blurted Bartholomew. ‘But I have classes to take.’

‘If that were true, you would be lecturing now,’ sneered Heltisle. ‘But you are here, so they cannot be that important. Besides, you only teach medicine, which is a poor second to theology and law.’

‘I am training physicians,’ said Bartholomew indignantly. ‘Who will be a lot more useful than theologians or lawyers when the plague returns.’

‘They were not very useful last time,’ retorted Heltisle. ‘At least lawyers could make wills, while theologians knew how to pray. Besides, I do not believe the Death will return.’

‘I do,’ said de Wetherset, and crossed himself. ‘So did Suttone, which is why he left us.’

‘Is it?’ asked Heltisle slyly. ‘Or was there another reason?’

Bartholomew’s eyes narrowed. ‘What are you saying?’

Heltisle smirked. ‘My lips are sealed. You must find another source of gossip.’

‘Ignore him, Matt,’ said Michael, once they were outside. ‘It is not the first time Heltisle has hinted that Suttone resigned for unsavoury reasons of his own. But it is a lie – a shameful attempt to hurt someone who is not here to defend himself. He aims to besmirch Michaelhouse and unsettle us at the same time.’

‘I wish de Wetherset had not appointed him,’ said Bartholomew unhappily. ‘The power seems to have driven him mad, and all he cares about is besting you. And to be frank, I am not sure de Wetherset is much better. How dare he raid the funds reserved for the sick and poor! It is an outrage! Moreover, it is sheer lunacy to alienate Dick.’

‘It is, and de Wetherset knows it. However, he was elected on a promise to stand up to the town, so that is what he is doing. He will posture and strut to show the University gaining the upper hand, but once he has won a few battles, he will settle down.’

Bartholomew hoped he was right, and that irreparable harm was not done in the process. ‘What will you do now?’ he asked. ‘Leave the murders to Aynton and concentrate on training these new beadles?’

Michael regarded him askance. ‘Of course not! I shall continue to do my duty as I see fit, and Meadowman can lick Heltisle’s men into shape. We shall speak to Leger and Norbert with Dick, as planned, then make enquiries about the triumvirate, and find out what they were really doing on Wednesday.’

‘You do not believe what they told you?’

‘I do not believe anything without proof, and I am suspicious of their need to shut themselves up together. I suspect they were just plotting against me, but we should find out for certain.’

They reached the Great Bridge, where Tulyet was waiting, angry because Sergeant Orwel had reported that Leger and Norbert had taken themselves off hunting and were not expected back until the following day.

‘It is our turn at the butts tonight, and they are supposed to supervise,’ he said between gritted teeth. ‘I suppose this is their revenge for me refusing to let them do it yesterday.’

‘You think you have troubles,’ sighed Michael, and told him about his confrontation with the Chancellor and his deputy.

Tulyet grimaced. ‘Their antics are absurd, but I will not allow them to destroy all we have built. I shall find an excuse to avoid them until they no longer feel compelled to challenge me at every turn. Now, what about the knife that killed Paris? Do you have it?’

Michael handed it to him. ‘Matt says there are similarities to the one that claimed the Girards’ lives. What do you think?’

Tulyet examined it carefully. ‘He is right. I would bet my life on the hilts being made in the same area, while the blades are crafted from steel of matching quality. However, I have never seen their like manufactured in this country.’

Bartholomew stared at him. ‘Could they be French?’

Tulyet shrugged. ‘It would be my guess, but I cannot be certain. Perhaps Leger and Norbert will know. They were a-slaughtering there until recently.’

‘Leger is not stupid enough to admit to anything incriminating,’ predicted Bartholomew. ‘Norbert, on the other hand …’

‘Of course, my two knights are not the only ones with French connections,’ said Tulyet. ‘Do not forget that the peregrini hail from there.’

They agreed what each would do for the rest of the day: Tulyet to see what more could be learned about Wyse’s killer, and Michael and Bartholomew to re-question everyone on their list of suspects. Tulyet would show the blade that had killed the Girards around, and Michael would do the same with the one found at the scene of Paris’s murder.

‘Good hunting,’ said Tulyet, as he strode away.

The first thing Bartholomew and Michael did was return to St Mary the Great to ask if any clerks or secretaries could confirm the triumvirate’s alibis. None could, but someone suggested they ask a Dominican friar who had been near de Wetherset’s office at the time in question, repairing a wall painting. Bartholomew and Michael hurried to his priory at once, only to learn that the artist had been absorbed in his work and had not noticed the triumvirate’s comings and goings at all.

As they passed back through the Barnwell Gate, they met a group of thirty or so nuns who had played truant from the conloquium, brazenly flouting Michael’s order for them to stay at St Radegund’s. The working sessions that day were aimed at sisters who struggled to balance the books, which was dull for those for whom arithmetic was not a problem. Ergo, a few of the more numerate delegates had organised a jaunt to the town – a foray to the market to shop for bargains, followed by a guided tour of the Round Church.

Leading the little cavalcade was Joan, wheeling Dusty around in a series of intricate manoeuvres that drew admiring glances from those who appreciated fine horsemanship. She looked more like a warrior than a nun, with her powerful legs clad in thick leather riding boots, and her monastic wimple covered by a functional hooded cloak. Her delight in the exercise was obvious from the glee on her long, horsey face.

Behind her was Magistra Katherine, clinging to the pommel of her saddle for dear life, although her mount was a steady beast with a dainty gait. Like its rider, it seemed to regard those around it as very inferior specimens, and it carried itself with a haughty dignity.

Abbess Isabel was astride her donkey, and Bartholomew nearly laughed when he saw that someone had dusted it with chalk to make it match its owner’s snowy habit. She rode with her hands clasped in prayer, eyes lifted to the skies, and looked so saintly that people ran up to beg her blessing. Katherine smirked sardonically at the spectacle.

At the end of the procession was Sister Alice, although as her dubious accounting skills were what had led the Bishop to investigate her priory in the first place, she was someone who might have benefited from lessons in fiscal management. She was scowling at the other nuns, her expression so venomous that those who were asking for Abbess Isabel’s prayers crossed themselves uneasily.

The ladies had evidently found much to please them at the market, as they had hired a cart to tote their purchases back to St Radegund’s. It was driven by Isnard, while Orwel walked behind it to make sure nothing fell off. The boxes were perfectly stable, but the sergeant steadied them constantly, at the same time contriving to slip a hand inside them to assess whether they held anything worth stealing.

‘The offer still stands, Brother,’ called Joan. ‘You may borrow Dusty here whenever you please. The roads make for excellent riding at the moment, as they are hard and dry.’

‘It is tempting to gallop away, and let de Wetherset and Heltisle run the University for a week,’ sighed Michael, ‘by which time everyone will be frantic for me to return. But I know where my duty lies.’

‘Are you still exploring the Spital murders?’ asked Katherine, struggling to keep her seat as her proud horse decided it could do better than Dusty and began to prance.

‘The Chancellor has asked Commissary Aynton to do it instead,’ replied Michael, artfully avoiding the question.

‘Then perhaps you will do us the honour of joining the conloquium,’ said Katherine. ‘Not today – you will learn nothing from watching Eve Wastenys struggle to teach the arithmetically challenged – but tomorrow, when we discuss the Chicken Debate. You will discover that female theologians have some very intelligent points to make.’

‘Some of them do,’ muttered Joan, and glared at Alice, who had baulked at exchanging pleasantries with the Senior Proctor and had ridden on ahead. ‘But other nuns’ tongues are so thick with poison that it is best not to listen to anything they say.’

Katherine hastened to elaborate. ‘Last night, Sister Alice announced to the entire gathering that Lyminster reeks of horse manure and should be suppressed.’

‘Her venom towards us springs purely from the fact that Magistra Katherine is the Bishop’s sister,’ said Joan in disgust. ‘Even though Katherine had nothing to do with the decision to depose her. This malevolence is grossly and unjustly misplaced.’

‘I will speak to her,’ promised Michael. ‘You are right to be vexed: her behaviour is hardly commensurate with a Benedictine. Incidentally, Goda has confirmed your alibi for the fire – she says she saw you in the stables.’

Joan smiled toothily, natural good humour bubbling to the fore again. ‘I am relieved to hear it! I should not like to be on anyone’s list of suspects.’

Katherine grimaced. ‘What about me? Or is it just God and His angels who can verify my whereabouts? Are you on speaking terms with them, Brother? If so, they will assure you that I was engrossed in Clippesby’s treatise.’

‘I tried to read that,’ said Joan, ‘but I only managed the first page. He should have had horses discussing these philosophies, as I could not imagine chickens doing it. Perhaps you will recommend that he uses something more sensible next time, Brother.’

‘But he chose chickens for a reason,’ explained Katherine earnestly, while Bartholomew smothered a smile that Joan could not envisage talking hens, but had no issue with talking nags. ‘Namely to demonstrate that two small, simple creatures can grasp the essence of–’

‘I have never been much of a philosopher,’ interrupted Joan, making it sound more like a virtue than a failing. ‘My steeds do not care about such matters, and if my nuns do … well, I can refer them to you.’

And with that, she began to show off Dusty’s side-stepping skills, while Katherine fought to prevent her own mount from doing likewise. Between them, they hogged the whole road, although as they were nuns, no one swore or cursed at them. While they were occupied, Abbess Isabel abandoned her circle of admirers and came to talk.

‘Have you caught the plagiarist’s killer yet, Brother?’ she asked, crossing herself with a thin, unnaturally white hand. ‘I cannot get his dead face out of my mind, and I know his soul cries out for vengeance.’

‘You will have to rely on Commissary Aynton to supply that,’ said Michael, but then produced the dagger from his scrip. ‘Here is the blade used to stab him. Is it familiar?’

The Abbess stared at it for a long time, but eventually shook her head. ‘Will you be able to identify the killer from it?’

‘Perhaps. It is distinctive, so someone may recognise the thing.’

‘Then I shall pray for your success,’ said Isabel. ‘Right now, in fact. Goodbye.’

She jabbed her donkey into a trot, and was off without another word. A train of folk ran after her, still begging for her prayers, but she barely glanced at them, and seemed keen to put as much space between her and Michael as possible.

‘That was peculiar,’ remarked Bartholomew, watching her disappear. ‘I wanted her to repeat exactly what she saw when she stumbled across Paris’s body, but she was gone before I could ask.’

‘She did leave rather abruptly,’ acknowledged Michael, ‘almost as if she had something to hide. Yet I do not see her stabbing anyone. You can see just by looking that she is holier than the rest of us.’

‘And if you do not believe it, ask her,’ said Bartholomew drily. ‘However, I can see her killing Paris. She is a fanatic, and they tend to consider themselves bound by different rules than the rest of us.’

Michael scoffed at the notion of the pious nun being a murderer, but they were prevented from discussing it further by Joan, who had finished showing off with Dusty, and came to find out what they had said to disconcert Isabel. Michael showed her – and Katherine – the dagger. Joan leaned down to pluck it from the monk’s hand, although Katherine fastidiously refused to touch it.

‘It is an ugly thing,’ Katherine declared with a shudder. ‘No wonder Isabel fled! I do not like the look of it myself, and I am used to such things, as my brother collects them.’

‘The Bishop collects murder weapons?’ asked Bartholomew warily.

‘When he can get them,’ replied Katherine. ‘And they–’

‘Actually, this is familiar,’ interrupted Joan, frowning. ‘I am sure I have seen it before.’

‘Seen it where?’ demanded Michael urgently. ‘Or, more importantly, carried by whom?’

Joan closed her eyes to struggle with her memory, but eventually opened them and shook her head apologetically. ‘It will not come, Brother. And even if it did, you would have to treat it with caution, as one weapon looks much like another to me. However, I shall keep mulling it over. Perhaps something will pop into my head.’

‘I doubt it will,’ predicted Katherine. ‘And you would do better to reflect on spiritual matters. Or, better yet, praying that the conloquium will be a success, even when women like Sister Alice stain it with spite.’

‘Oh, I pray for that all the time,’ said Joan, ‘although it does not seem to be working.’