The Sanctuary Murders

Chapter 8

Although Bartholomew and Michael spent the rest of the day quizzing and re-questioning witnesses, they learned nothing new. As evening approached, Michael went to watch Heltisle’s new beadles embark on their first patrol, while Bartholomew dismayed his students by informing them that they were going to study – it was rare that classes continued after the six o’clock meal, and they had been looking forward to relaxing.

They grumbled even more when it became clear that they were going to work in the orchard, as it was chilly there once the sun had set. But Bartholomew’s room was too small to hold everyone, and Theophilis had bagged the hall for Clippesby, who had agreed to present a preview of his next treatise. This would feature the philosophising hens again, and was a more in-depth look at some of the issues raised in his first exposition.

The Dominican’s lecture sparked a vigorous debate, and Theophilis in particular asked a great many questions. It ended late, although not as late as Bartholomew, who lost track of time entirely and only stopped when his lamp ran out of oil, plunging the orchard into darkness. As a result, there were yawns and heavy eyes aplenty when the bell rang for church the following morning.

After their devotions, Michael led everyone back to the College for breakfast. With the resilience of youth, the students quickly rallied, and the hall soon rang with lively conversation, most of it about Clippesby’s latest hypotheses. Michael summarised them for Bartholomew and his medics, then made some astute observations of his own. Theophilis jotted everything down on a scrap of parchment.

‘For Clippesby to incorporate in his final draft,’ he explained as he scribbled. ‘What was that last point again, Brother?’

‘There is no need to make notes for me, Theophilis,’ said Clippesby politely. ‘I can remember all these suggestions without them.’

‘What, all of them?’ asked William, astonished and disbelieving in equal measure.

‘I have help.’ Clippesby indicated the two hens that he had brought with him, which hunted among the rushes for scraps of dropped food. ‘Ma and Gertrude act as amanuenses.’

‘Can they write, then?’ asked Theophilis with a smirk to let everyone know he was having fun at the Dominican’s expense.

‘Of course not!’ said Clippesby, regarding him askance. ‘They are chickens.’

The students laughed harder and longer than the rejoinder really warranted, which told Bartholomew that he was not the only one who disliked the Junior Proctor. Or perhaps it was just that they were protective of Clippesby, who had always been a great favourite of theirs. Thus snubbed, Theophilis fell silent, although he continued to record all that was said about Ma’s new and intriguing definition of hermeneutic nominalism.

Bored with theology, Aungel began to whisper to Bartholomew. ‘I hope Brother Michael will not win a bishopric or an abbacy very soon, because if he leaves the University, Theophilis will become Senior Proctor, and he will not be very good at it. He is too deceitful. For a start, we do not even know his real name.’

Bartholomew frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

Aungel shrugged. ‘No one calls their child Theophilis, so he must have chosen it for himself. “Loved by God” indeed! He should let us be the judge of that. Incidentally, Chancellor de Wetherset has been going around saying that Michael is no longer allowed to investigate murders. I hope he is wrong, or Paris will never have justice.’

‘Have you heard any rumours about who might have killed Paris?’

‘Oh, plenty,’ replied Aungel, ‘including one that claims de Wetherset, Heltisle and Aynton did it, because his plagiarism brought disgrace to the University. Which it did, of course. They do not do that sort of thing at Oxford.’

‘We do not do that sort of thing here,’ averred Bartholomew. ‘Paris was an aberration.’

‘A dead aberration,’ said Aungel, ‘although even he deserves vengeance.’

A short while later, Bartholomew and Michael discussed their plans for the day, which did not include training Heltisle’s new beadles, as Michael’s time with them the previous evening led him to declare them a lost cause.

‘They are useless,’ he spat. ‘Not worthy to be called beadles, so I shall refer to them as “Heltisle’s Horde” from now on. Worse, monitoring them took my attention away from my real duties, and there was nearly a skirmish because of it.’

‘What happened?’

‘It was the town’s turn to practise at the butts, but some of our scholars tried to join in. Dick managed to keep the peace, but only just. But to business. We shall go to the castle first, as he sent word that Leger and Norbert are home and available for questioning. Perhaps they will recognise the daggers.’

‘I wish someone would,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I thought Joan might, and I was disappointed when her memory failed her.’

‘Perhaps she will remember today. I hope so, as there will be serious trouble unless we can present some answers soon. Last night, the town again accused the University of killing Wyse. I managed to avert trouble, but it was not easy.’

‘How are the peregrini?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Still safe?’

‘For now, although they must leave tomorrow, because there will be a bloodbath if they are caught here. Of course, if it transpires that the Jacques murdered Paris, Bonet and the Girards, we shall have to hunt them down and bring them back.’

‘But only the Jacques,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Not the old men, women and children.’

‘So perhaps we had better speak to them again before they go,’ Michael went on. ‘And tonight, we shall both have to make an appearance at the butts.’

‘Not you – as a monk, you are exempt from wasting your time there.’

‘Exempt from training, but not from supporting the efforts of my colleagues,’ sighed Michael. ‘If I stay away, the triumvirate will accuse me of being unpatriotic.’

‘Not the triumvirate,’ growled Bartholomew. ‘Heltisle. He is the poisonous one, aided and abetted by the insidious Theophilis.’

‘Aided and abetted by Aynton,’ countered Michael. ‘De Wetherset must be sorry he appointed them, because they are losing him support hand over fist.’

‘They are losing you support, too,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘Their antics reflect badly on all the University’s officers, not just the Chancellor.’

‘Yes,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘But to win a war, you must make some sacrifices, so I shall let them continue for now. Do not look so worried! I know what I am doing.’

Bartholomew hoped he was right, and that overconfidence would not see the downfall of a man who really did have the University’s best interests at heart.

The castle lay to the north of the town. It had started life as a simple motte and bailey, but had since grown into a formidable fortress. It stood atop Cambridge’s only hill, and was enclosed by towering curtain walls. Its function was usually more administrative than military, but the King’s call to arms had resulted in a flurry of repairs and improvements. The chains on the portcullis had been replaced, unstable battlements had been mended, and the dry moat was filled with sharpened spikes.

‘Do you really think the French will raid this far inland, Dick?’ asked Bartholomew.

Tulyet shrugged. ‘We are not difficult to reach from the sea, and it is better to be safe than sorry. However, an invasion worries me a lot less than the presence of Jacques in the Spital. True, our local hotheads are more likely to kill them than listen to their seditious ideas, but they make me uneasy, even so.’

Michael was more concerned with his own troubles. ‘I have been ordered to leave the Spital murders to Aynton.’

Tulyet eyed him keenly. ‘Because he will never find answers, thus leaving the killer to go free? If de Wetherset and Heltisle are the guilty parties, that would suit them very nicely.’

Michael’s expression was wry. ‘I did wonder if one of them had his own reasons for wanting an unskilled investigator on the case.’

‘I sincerely hope this is an order you intend to flout,’ said Tulyet.

Michael smiled. ‘Naturally, although I shall need some help from you. I do not want Aynton knowing about our findings, lest he impedes the course of justice, either by design or accident. When he comes to you for information, would you mind misdirecting him?’

‘With pleasure. Now, did anyone recognise the dagger you showed around yesterday?’

‘Prioress Joan thought it was familiar,’ replied Michael. ‘She could not recall why, but I suspect she has seen it – or one similar – on someone’s belt.’

‘And where has she been staying?’ pounced Tulyet. ‘In the Spital, with the Jacques!’

‘She has promised to reflect on the matter,’ said Michael, ‘so perhaps she will surprise us and produce a name.’

‘Leave Paris’s blade with me when you go,’ instructed Tulyet. ‘I will show it and the one from the Girards to the garrison. However, my money is on the culprit being at the Spital. I went there again at dawn, just to keep the Tangmers and their guests on their toes.’

‘Did you learn anything new?’ asked Michael.

Tulyet nodded. ‘The Jacques intended to slip away this morning, leaving the rest of the peregrini to fend for themselves, but Delacroix fell ill during the night. He accuses Father Julien of poisoning him, which is possible, as the priest will not want his flock to be without men who can protect them.’

‘And is Delacroix poisoned?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Or just unwell?’

‘He cannot stray more than two steps from the latrines, so who knows? Are you ready for Leger and Norbert? We should tackle them before they decide to go hunting again.’

The two knights were in the hall, the vast room that served as a refectory for Tulyet’s officers, staff and troops. They had taken seats near the hearth, where a fire blazed, even though the day was warm. They lounged comfortably, boots off, armour loosened, and weapons arranged on the bench next to them. Neither acknowledged Tulyet as he approached, which was a deliberate affront to his authority.

‘I have questions for you,’ said Tulyet, sweeping the arsenal on to the floor with one swipe of his hand before sitting down and indicating that Bartholomew and Michael were to perch next to him.

The faces of both knights darkened in anger as their precious swords and daggers clattered on the flagstones. Bartholomew hoped Tulyet knew what he was doing, feeling it was rash to antagonise such brutes. It was the first time he had studied them closely, and he could not help but notice the array of scars, thickened ears and callused hands, especially on Norbert. All were signs of lives spent fighting.

‘What questions?’ snarled Leger, retrieving his sword and inspecting it for damage.

‘We can begin with what you discussed with the Girard men the morning they were murdered,’ said Michael. ‘Then you can tell us why you did not bother to mention it to us.’

The pair exchanged glances. Leger’s expression was calculating, but there was a flash of panic in Norbert’s eyes.

‘Who told you–’ the bigger knight began belligerently.

‘That does not matter,’ interrupted Tulyet. ‘The point is that you were seen, and I demand an explanation.’

‘You demand?’ echoed Leger incredulously. ‘We are representatives of His Majesty, personally appointed by him to oversee Cambridge’s preparations for war.’

‘And I am his Sheriff,’ retorted Tulyet. ‘So I outrank you. Now, answer our questions or I shall send you back to the King in disgrace.’

Norbert bristled, but Leger was intelligent enough to know that Tulyet meant it, and began to answer the question, albeit sullenly. ‘We did not know they were Spital lunatics at the time. We just saw them walking along, and we could tell, just by looking, that they were warriors, so we asked why they had not been to the butts.’

‘How did they respond?’

‘We could barely understand them,’ shrugged Leger. ‘One was mute, while the other had a toothache that mangled his words. Our English was not equal to the conversation, so we forced them to use French, which was better, but only marginally.’

It was impossible to tell if the two knights had fallen for the Jacques’ ruse, although Bartholomew wondered why the Girards had gone out in the first place, as it was a reckless thing to have done.

‘Did they tell you they were from the Spital?’ he asked.

‘No, they said they were fletchers, and thus exempt from the call to arms,’ growled Norbert. ‘It is only now that we learn they were lunatics – and lying lunatics into the bargain.’

‘We are going to the Spital this afternoon, to assess the rest of them,’ added Leger. ‘If they seem as rational as the pair we met, I want them all at the butts.’

‘I would not recommend putting weapons in the hands of madmen,’ said Bartholomew hastily. ‘They might run amok and turn on you. And that is my professional medical opinion.’

It was pure bluster, but the knights agreed to leave the Spital men in peace anyway.

‘Now, let us discuss the fire,’ said Tulyet. ‘Where were you when it began?’

Norbert regarded him coolly. ‘I hope you are not accusing us of setting it.’

‘Just answer the question,’ barked Tulyet.

Norbert came to his feet fast. Tulyet did not flinch, even though the other man towered over him. Prudently, Leger gestured that his friend was to sit back down.

‘We cannot recall, Sheriff,’ he said with a false smile. ‘Our remit is to train troops, so we spend a lot of time trawling taverns for likely recruits. We were in the King’s Head at one point on Wednesday morning, but I cannot tell you precisely when.’

‘The King’s Head is near the Spital,’ remarked Bartholomew.

Leger ignored him and continued to address Tulyet. ‘So you will just have to take our word that we were elsewhere at the salient time. That should not present too great a difficulty, given that we are fellow knights.’

‘Why should he believe you?’ asked Michael acidly. ‘You failed to report meeting two of the victims not long before their murders, which hardly presents you in an honest light.’

‘It slipped our minds,’ shrugged Leger. ‘It was a discussion about nothing, so why should we remember? Or do you think we should tell the Sheriff every time we exchange words with men of fighting age? If we did, none of us would get any work done.’

He regarded the monk with sly defiance, and it was clear that pressing the matter further would be a waste of time, so Tulyet showed them the weapons that had killed Paris and the Girards. Leger gave them no more than a passing glance, but Norbert took them and studied them carefully.

‘Such fine craftsmanship,’ he breathed appreciatively. ‘Where did you find them?’

‘One was planted in the back of an elderly priest,’ replied Michael pointedly. ‘The other was used to murder defenceless lunatics.’

Norbert handed them back to Tulyet. ‘Then the killer is a fool for leaving them behind. And if he is a fool, even you should be able to catch him.’

There was no more to be said, so Bartholomew, Michael and Tulyet took their leave.

‘Do you believe they “forgot” their encounter with the Girards?’ asked the physician when they were out in the bailey again. ‘Because I do not. Moreover, they cannot prove where they were, and I can certainly see them dispatching a family with ruthless efficiency.’

‘So can I,’ replied Michael. ‘Leger’s answers were too glib, and I sense there was more to the encounter than they were willing to confess.’

‘I agree,’ said Tulyet, ‘although I am not sure it involves murder. They are not poisoners – they would have stabbed everyone, including the children.’

‘So are they on your list of suspects or not?’

‘They are,’ said Tulyet. ‘Just not right at the top. But I shall show both weapons to the garrison, and if Leger and Norbert ever owned them, I will find out – soldiers notice such things. And if that yields no answers, I shall flash them around the town. Someone will recognise them, I am sure of it.’

But Bartholomew had a bad feeling the Sheriff’s confidence was misplaced.

Bartholomew and Michael headed for St Radegund’s. To reach the convent, they had to pass through the Barnwell Gate, which was manned that day by some new and vigilant sentries, who had been given the choice of a week’s military service or the equivalent time spent in gaol as punishment for brawling with scholars. Among them was Verious the ditcher. All were under the command of the sullen Sergeant Orwel and his helpmeet Pierre Sauvage. Orwel sported a new hat that was black and rather feminine, leading Bartholomew to suppose he had stolen it from the nuns the previous day.

‘Stop,’ Orwel ordered roughly, whisking the headpiece out of sight when he saw the physician staring at it. ‘The Barnwell Gate is closed today.’

‘Is it?’ asked Michael coolly. ‘Then why has that cart just driven through?’

‘You cannot pass, Brother,’ said Verious apologetically. ‘Sir Leger thinks there are French spies in the area, and we are under orders to keep them out.’

‘We are not French spies,’ said Michael. ‘Moreover, we want to leave, not come in.’

Verious became flustered, unwilling to annoy the man who provided his choir with free victuals or the physician who never charged him for medicine when he was ill. He turned to the others for help. ‘Brother Michael makes a good point. He is–’

‘I am in charge here,’ snapped Orwel. ‘And I say the gate is closed. Sir Leger told me that anyone might be a French spy, even folk we know.’

‘For heaven’s sake!’ snapped Michael irritably. ‘I am the University’s Senior Proctor!’

‘I do not care what you call yourself,’ growled Orwel. ‘Now bugger off.’

There was a murmur of consternation, as the others saw membership of the choir and complimentary medical care flash before their eyes. They backed away, aiming to put some distance between themselves and the gruff sergeant, but Orwel barked at them to stand fast.

‘But Brother Michael and Doctor Bartholomew cannot be spies,’ protested Verious, distraught. ‘If they were, they would be slinking about on tiptoe.’

Bartholomew struggled not to laugh at this piece of logic.

‘Sir Leger said to stop all scholars from leaving town,’ Orwel persisted, although only after he had given Verious’s remark serious consideration. ‘Or have you forgotten that one of them murdered poor Wyse?’

‘Of course not,’ snapped Verious. ‘But these two did not do it. The culprit will be some foreigner – a man from King’s Hall or Bene’t College, which are full of aliens.’

‘Sir Leger gave us our orders,’ stated Orwel stubbornly. ‘So we must follow them.’

‘Sir Leger this, Sir Leger that,’ mocked Michael. ‘Can no one here think for himself?’

‘Sir Leger recommended that we stay away from doing that, so he can do it for us,’ replied Verious, quite seriously. ‘We are all relieved, as thinking for ourselves has led to a lot of trouble in the past.’

This time, Bartholomew did laugh, although Michael failed to see the funny side.

‘Stand aside before you make me angry,’ he snapped. ‘Matt and I need to visit the nuns. And do not smirk like that, Verious. Our intentions are perfectly honourable.’

‘Of course they are,’ said Verious, and winked.

‘When the King calls us to arms, I shall be first over the Channel,’ confided Sauvage, somewhat out of the blue. ‘Then I shall avenge Winchelsea by slaughtering entire villages.’

‘“Entire villages” were not responsible for Winchelsea,’ argued Michael impatiently. ‘That was a small faction of the Dauphin’s–’

‘Every Frenchman applauds what was done,’ interrupted Orwel fiercely. ‘So they all deserve to die. Now are you two going to piss off, or must we arrest you?’

‘Arrest Brother Michael and Doctor Bartholomew?’ cried Sauvage, horrified. ‘You cannot do that! They will tell the Sheriff and he will be furious with us – they are his friends.’

‘Besides, you will die if you try to take Doctor Bartholomew somewhere he does not want to go,’ added Verious. ‘He fought at Poitiers, where Cynric said he dispatched more of the enemy than you can shake a stick at. And look at my nose. You see where it is broken? Well, he did that. I tell you, he is lethal!’

Verious and Bartholomew had once come to blows, although it had been more luck than skill that had seen the physician emerge the victor. He was about to say so, disliking the notion that he should own such a deadly reputation, when Orwel stepped aside.

‘I did not realise you were a veteran of Poitiers,’ he said obsequiously. ‘You may pass.’

‘Will I be allowed back in again?’ asked Bartholomew warily.

Orwel nodded. ‘And if this lot give you any trouble, send for me. I was at Poitiers, too, so we are comrades-in-arms. Those always stick together, as you know.’

‘He does know,’ said Michael, sailing past. ‘But he does not countenance insolence or stupidity, so you might want to watch yourself in future.’

St Radegund’s Priory was a sizeable foundation, far larger than was necessary for the dozen or so nuns who lived there. However, even the spacious refectory, massive dormitory and substantial guest quarters were not large enough to accommodate all the conloquium delegates, especially now that the twenty from the Spital and the ten from the Gilbertine Priory had joined them. Most bore the discomfort with stoic good humour, although a few complained. Needless to say, Sister Alice was among the latter.

‘I had to reprimand her,’ said Prioress Joan, who was basking in the adulation of her colleagues for a thought-provoking presentation entitled Latrine Waste and Management. ‘Her moaning was beginning to cause friction.’

She looked larger and more horse-like than ever that day, towering over her sisters like a giant, but there was a rosy glow about her, and she radiated vitality and robust good health.

‘Joan was the only one brave enough to do it,’ put in Magistra Katherine, the inevitable smirk playing around her lips. ‘Everyone else is afraid of annoying Alice, lest the woman turns her malevolent attentions on them.’

‘No one wants to suffer what I have endured at her hands since we arrived,’ elaborated Abbess Isabel, whose white habit positively glowed among all the black ones. ‘But Prioress Joan took the bull by the horns, and Alice has been quiet ever since.’

‘Well, something had to be done,’ shrugged Joan, clearly pleased by the praise. ‘I told her to bathe, too, because if I have to watch her claw at herself like a horse with fleas for one more day …’

Even the thought of it made some nuns begin scratching, and Bartholomew watched in amusement as Michael did likewise. Others joined in, until there were upwards of twenty Benedictines busily plying their nails. Then the monk asked if there was anything he could do to make their stay more pleasant, and the scratching stopped as minds turned to less itchy matters.

‘I will survive a few cramped nights, but poor Dusty may not,’ declared Joan, fixing Michael with a reproachful eye. ‘You said he could have the old bakery, but the moment I finished cleaning it out, the nuns from Cheshunt dashed in, claiming they would rather share with him than with Alice. But he prefers to sleep alone, so shall I oust them or will you?’

‘Neither,’ said the monk, thinking fast. ‘I will take him to Michaelhouse. Cynric knows horses, so he will be well looked after there.’

Joan beamed and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘I was right about you, Brother! You are a good man. May I visit him whenever I please?’

Michael hesitated, uneasy with women wandering unsupervised in his domain. Then he glanced at Joan, and decided that it would be a deranged scholar indeed who considered her to be the lady of his dreams. He nodded, then changed the subject by asking about the dagger that had killed Paris, which she had half-recognised earlier.

‘I know it is familiar,’ she said with a grimace. ‘But the answer continues to elude me, even though I have been wracking my brain ever since. But I shall not give up. It will come to me eventually.’

‘Then let us hope it is sooner rather than later,’ said Michael, disappointed, and moved to another matter. ‘How is the conloquium going?’

‘Not well,’ sighed Abbess Isabel, although Bartholomew was sure that every other nun had been about to say the opposite. ‘We have made no meaningful policy decisions, despite the fact that I have been praying for some ever since I arrived. This is unusual, as God usually does exactly what I want.’

‘Oh, come, Isabel,’ chided Joan. ‘We have decided a great deal. For example, none of us will ever store onions in a damp place again, having heard Abbess Sibyl of Romsey wax lyrical on the subject.’

‘So there you are,’ drawled Katherine. ‘A decision that will impact every nun in our Order, made by us, here at St Radegund’s.’

Joan was oblivious to sarcasm. ‘And it is an important one! I use an onion poultice on Dusty’s hoofs, so it is imperative to ensure a year-round supply.’ She beamed. ‘And the conloquium has certainly made me count my blessings. I have listened to other prioresses list the problems they suffer with their flock, and mine are angels by comparison.’

Isabel sniffed. ‘Anyone would be an angel compared to Alice. She was on the verge of turning Ickleton into a brothel before I came along. Your brother should have done more than depose her, Magistra Katherine – he should have ordered her defrocked.’

‘Perhaps he did not want to be denounced as a hypocrite,’ suggested Joan with a shrug of her mighty shoulders. ‘We all know he enjoys a romp with–’

‘He believes in second chances,’ interrupted Katherine swiftly, and changed the subject. ‘The conloquium has been worthwhile for me, because it brought Clippesby’s thesis to my attention. Unfortunately, I still have not had the pleasure of meeting him.’

‘No,’ said Michael ambiguously. ‘You have not.’

‘I suppose the conference has been worthwhile,’ conceded Isabel grudgingly. ‘Magistra Katherine explained the nominalism–realism debate in a way we all understood. Then Sister Florence of York showed us how to get an additional habit out of an ell of cloth, while Alice taught us something called “creative accounting”.’

‘I would not recommend you follow that advice,’ said Katherine drily. ‘Her intention was to land you all in deep water with your bishops.’

Isabel shrugged off her bemusement and turned to Michael. ‘What of the murders? I have been praying for the victims’ souls, even though the ones at the Spital were insane and thus outside God’s grace.’

‘The insane are not outside God’s grace,’ objected Bartholomew, startled. ‘If anything, they are further inside it, as they cannot be held responsible for their sins. Unlike the rest of us.’

‘I would not know,’ retorted Isabel loftily. ‘I do not have any sins.’

‘Right,’ said Michael, after a short, startled silence. ‘We need to speak to Alice. Will someone fetch her? While we wait, I shall ensure your victuals are up to scratch. I am obliged to monitor all aspects of this conloquium, including the quality of the food.’

It was some time before Michael declared himself satisfied that the delegates were being properly fed. Then he and Bartholomew went to the church, where Alice had been ordered to sit until he was ready to see her.

The church was the convent’s crowning glory, a large, peaceful place with a stout tower. Parts of it had suffered from the lack of funds that affected many monastic foundations, so there were patches of damp on the walls, while some of the stained glass had dropped out of its frames. It smelled of mould, old wood and the wildflowers that someone had placed on every available surface.

Most nuns waiting in a holy place would have used the time for quiet prayer, but such a rash thought had not crossed Alice’s mind. She paced angrily, muttering under her breath about the indignities she was forced to endure. Abbess Isabel and Magistra Katherine were the names most frequently spat out, although some venom was reserved for the nuns who had opted to share their sleeping quarters with a horse rather than her. She scratched so vigorously as she cursed that Bartholomew asked if she needed the services of a physician.

‘All I need is to know why I was dragged here,’ she snarled. ‘I was in a session on medicine, learning lots of useful things. You hauled me out, so I missed most of it.’

‘Medicine?’ asked Bartholomew with interest.

‘Strong ones, used to cure serious ailments. I was enjoying myself.’

‘Perhaps you were,’ said Michael. ‘But only qualified medici should administer such potions, and we do not want any more suspicious deaths to explore.’

‘I am not a killer,’ declared Alice indignantly. ‘And if you are here to accuse me of stealing Joan’s comb again, I shall complain to the Bishop about being hounded for an incident that I have already explained away.’

‘We came to ask if you have remembered anything new since we last spoke,’ said Michael. ‘You will appreciate that we are eager to catch the rogue who murdered five Spital people, particularly as I suspect that he also stabbed a spicer and an elderly priest.’

‘You mean an elderly plagiarist,’ mused Alice. ‘Perhaps you should look to your University for a suspect, Brother, rather than accusing innocent nuns.’

‘I accuse no one,’ said Michael. ‘All I want from you is information. You were in the Spital when the killer struck, and I thought you might have noticed something to help us.’

Alice’s face was full of spite. ‘I can only repeat what I told you before – that I saw Katherine scurry off alone. She doubtless told you she was reading, but you cannot believe her. She is kin to the most evil, corrupt, dishonest man who ever lived – the Bishop of Ely!’

‘Of course,’ said Michael flatly. ‘Anything else?’

Alice gave the matter serious consideration, and for a while no one spoke. A bell rang to announce the end of one set of lectures, followed by a genteel rumble of voices as the nuns discussed which talk they wanted to attend next. Then the bell chimed to mark the beginning of the next session, after which there was silence. A dog barked in the distance, and an irritable whinny suggested Dusty was eager for attention.

‘I can tell you that it was easy to enter the Spital,’ said Alice eventually. ‘The Tangmers will claim they guard the gate assiduously, but I walked in unchallenged several times. Of course, I imagine they are more careful now.’

‘I hope so,’ muttered Bartholomew.

‘So the killer may have come from outside?’ asked Michael.

‘Well, the staff were more interested in monitoring the billeted nuns than guarding their madmen, so it is possible. The Tangmers are an odd horde, and their chapel is an accident waiting to happen, as it is stupid to store firewood in a place where oils are heated with naked flames. Perhaps that is what happened to the shed: Amphelisa was experimenting in it.’

‘Why would she do that when she has a well-equipped workshop?’

‘Because the workshop is in the chapel,’ explained Alice. ‘And thus out of bounds during services. Perhaps she could not wait until Mass was finished, so found somewhere else to work in the interim – in which case, she did the killer a favour by incinerating his victims.’

Bartholomew pondered the suggestion. Perhaps Amphelisa did find it frustrating to be ousted every time the chapel was needed, especially if Julien was the kind of priest who kept all his sacred offices. It was entirely possible that she had opted to use the shed, which everyone said was tinder-dry and filled with wood. No one had seen her near it, but the staff were her kin by marriage, so unlikely to betray her.

Michael continued to press Alice for more information, but when it became clear that she had said as much as she was going to, they took their leave.

‘I do not know what to think about this comb Alice is supposed to have stolen,’ said Michael, when he and Bartholomew were heading back to the town. He was astride Dusty and the physician walked at his side, careful to stay well away from an animal that he sensed was keen to bite, kick or butt him. ‘Is she guilty? Or is she falsely accused, as she claims?’

‘Does it matter?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘It hardly compares to murder, and I do not know why we are even talking about it.’

‘Because it is the key to the characters of some of our suspects and witnesses,’ replied Michael. ‘Whether they are thieves, liars or vindictive manipulators.’

‘Alice stole it,’ said Bartholomew impatiently. ‘Unless you believe she really was riffling through someone else’s bags in search of nose-cloths. There is something so distasteful about her that she is currently at the top of my list of suspects.’

‘Above Theophilis?’ asked Michael. ‘The Devil incarnate, according to you?’

‘Perhaps not above him,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘He is deceitful, as illustrated by the fact that he spied on the triumvirate for you – betraying men who trust him.’

‘But he did not betray them,’ Michael pointed out. ‘Not when they seem to know exactly what he was doing. And the last time we discussed this, you said he had failed me deliberately, because he was actually on their side. You cannot have it both ways.’

‘Then what about the way he behaves towards Clippesby? Pretending to befriend him, but then mocking him behind his back?’

‘That is distasteful, but hardly evidence of a criminal mind. But here is where you and I part company. I shall spend the rest of the day at the Spital and St Mary the Great, trying to tease more information from everyone we have already interviewed.’

‘You do not want me with you?’ asked Bartholomew, brightening.

‘I do, but a message arrived when we were with the nuns. You are needed by patients, one of whom is Commissary Aynton. Go to him, and while you ply your healing hands, see if you can find out exactly what he was doing on the morning of the fire.’

‘He has already told us – he was either with de Wetherset and Heltisle in St Mary the Great, or practising his lecture on the sheep.’

‘Then press him to elaborate, and see if you can catch him in an inconsistency.’