The Sanctuary Murders

Chapter 11

Bartholomew and Michael hurried towards St Mary the Great, both aware that the atmosphere on the streets had deteriorated badly since they had last been out. Townsmen blamed the University for the riot, while scholars accused the town. The situation was exacerbated by wild and unfounded rumours – that King’s Hall had installed French spies in the Spital, that the Dauphin was poised to march on Cambridge at any day, and that the Mayor intended to poison the University’s water supply.

‘I know hindsight is a wonderful thing,’ said Bartholomew, ‘but you should never have let the triumvirate take so much power. The next time someone tells me that the Senior Proctor has too much authority, I shall say that I wish you had more of it.’

‘Quite right, too,’ said Michael. ‘I admit I hoped that Heltisle and Aynton would make a mess of things so de Wetherset would have to dismiss them, but I did not anticipate that they would create this much havoc in so short a space of time.’

They arrived at the church, where scholars had gathered to mutter and plot against the town. Most were armed, even the priests. Bartholomew paused to gaze around in alarm, but Michael pulled him on, whispering that time was too short for gawping.

They reached de Wetherset’s poky office, although it was Heltisle, not the Chancellor, who sat behind its desk. The floor was covered with Michael’s personal possessions, which had been unceremoniously dumped there. The monk’s eyes narrowed.

‘What is going on?’ he demanded dangerously. ‘And why are you reading my private correspondence with the Bishop? Those letters were locked in a chest.’

Heltisle was unable to prevent a triumphant grin. ‘I know – we had to smash it to get inside. De Wetherset did not want your rubbish cluttering up his new quarters, and as we had no key, we had to resort to other means of clearing the decks. Where have you been?’

‘Tending to urgent University business,’ replied Michael tightly. ‘Such as the scholars who died in last night’s brawl, along with Paris the–’

‘Paris!’ spat Heltisle. ‘The town did us a favour when they dispatched him. He should have been hanged the moment his crime was discovered.’

Michael eyed him coolly. ‘Should he, indeed? Perhaps I have been looking in the wrong place for his killer. I doubt townsmen feel strongly about plagiarism, whereas scholars …’

Heltisle sneered. ‘Do not accuse me of fouling my hands with his filthy blood. And before you ask, I did not kill the spicer or that drunken nobody on the Chesterton road either.’

‘Wyse was not a nobody,’ said Bartholomew, amazed to discover that he was capable of disliking the arrogant Master of Bene’t even more than he did already. ‘The Franciscans were fond of him, he was one of my patients, and he was a member of the Michaelhouse Choir.’

‘The Marian Singers,’ corrected Michael.

‘Clippesby’s treatise is selling very well, by the way,’ said Heltisle, moving to another matter in which he felt victorious. ‘What a pity your College will not reap the profits.’

Michael thought it best to stay off that subject, lest he or Bartholomew inadvertently said something to make Heltisle smell a rat. ‘You have not answered my first question. Why are you so busily nosing through my private correspondence?’

‘And what is it doing in here anyway?’ put in Bartholomew.

Heltisle leaned back in the chair, his expression so gloating that Bartholomew did not know how Michael refrained from punching him.

‘Forgive me, Brother,’ he drawled. ‘I was just passing the time until you deigned to appear. This is now your office. It was inappropriate for the Senior Proctor to have a grander realm than the Chancellor, so I told de Wetherset to put matters right.’

‘So that is why lights burned in the church all night,’ mused Michael. ‘While I was busy preventing our University from going up in flames, you two were playing power games.’

Heltisle’s smirk slipped. ‘We were setting all to rights after your farce of a reign.’

‘If the room was so important, why did you not just ask for it?’ Michael was all bemused innocence. ‘I would have moved. There was no need for you to demean yourselves with this sort of pettiness.’

‘You would have refused,’ said Heltisle, wrong-footed by the monk’s response.

‘I assure you, Heltisle, I have far more important matters to occupy my mind than offices. But you still have not explained why you see fit to paw through my correspondence.’

Heltisle glared at him. ‘It is not your correspondence – it is the University’s. And of course the Chancellor’s deputy should know what it contains.’

Michael stepped forward and swept all the documents into a box. ‘Then take it. I am glad to be rid of it, to be frank. It represents a lot of very tedious work, which I now willingly hand to you, Vice-Chancellor.’

‘Now wait a moment,’ objected Heltisle. ‘I cannot waste my time with–’

‘No, no,’ said Michael, pulling him to his feet, shoving the box into his hands and propelling him towards the door. ‘You wanted it, so it is yours. I shall tell the Bishop to correspond with you about these matters in future. However, a word of warning – he does not tolerate incompetence, so learn fast. It would be a pity to see a promising career in ruins.’

‘But none of these missives make sense to me,’ snapped Heltisle, peering angrily over the top of the teetering pile. ‘You will need to explain the background behind–’

‘I am sure you can work it out.’ Michael smiled serenely. ‘A clever man like you.’

‘No! I am too busy for this sort of nonsense. I am–’

‘I suggest you make a start immediately. Some of it is urgent, and you do not want the Bishop vexed with you for tardiness. Perhaps you can do it instead of spreading silly lies about the Mayor. Oh, yes, I know where those tales originated, and I am shocked that you should stoop so low.’

Heltisle’s face was a combination of dismay, anger and chagrin. ‘You cannot berate me like an errant schoolboy. I am–’

‘Go, go,’ said Michael, pushing him through the door. ‘I am needed to save the University from the crisis your puerile capers has triggered. I cannot stand here bandying words with you all day.’

‘You might dismiss me, but you had better make time for de Wetherset,’ said Heltisle in a final attempt to save face. ‘He wants to see you at once.’

‘Of course,’ said Michael. ‘I would have been there already, but I trod in something nasty on my way. I shall attend him as soon as I have scraped the ordure from my boot.’

When Heltisle had gone, Michael looked thoughtfully around the tiny space that was now his, while Bartholomew waited in silence, waiting for the explosion. It did not come.

Michael saw what he was thinking and laughed. ‘Do not look dismayed on my account, Matt. I shall be back in my own quarters within a week.’

‘Then what about the documents? Do you really not mind him nosing through them?’

Michael laughed again. ‘I would have been vexed if he had not, given all the time I spent picking out the ones that would cause him the greatest problems.’

Bartholomew blinked. ‘So you predicted this would happen and prepared for it?’

Michael raised his eyebrows in mock astonishment. ‘Whatever gave you that idea?’

De Wetherset looked supremely uncomfortable in Michael’s chair, behind Michael’s desk and with Michael’s rugs under his plump feet. Aynton was behind him, beaming as usual. The Commissary was immaculately dressed, right down to a fresh white bandage on his wrist – not one of Bartholomew’s, which meant he had gone to a different physician for his follow-up appointment. His boots gleamed, although not even the herculean efforts of his servant could disguise their ugliness or the marks caused by his fall at the Spital.

‘I knew you would understand,’ said de Wetherset in relief, when the monk wished him well in his new domain, although Heltisle, who had followed, glowered furiously. ‘A Chancellor cannot expect to be taken seriously if he operates from a cupboard at the back of the church while his Senior Proctor sits in splendour at the front.’

Michael grinned wolfishly. ‘It does not matter to me who works where. Now, why did you want to see me, Chancellor? Or would you rather have your consultation with Matt first?’

‘My stomach, Bartholomew,’ said de Wetherset piteously. ‘It roils again, and I need more of the remedy you gave me last time.’

‘Nerves,’ Bartholomew said, pulling some from his bag and handing it over. ‘Arising from fear of how the Senior Proctor might react at being displaced.’

‘Almost certainly,’ agreed de Wetherset with a wry smile. ‘But to business. How are the wounded in the friary? Should we expect more deaths?’

Bartholomew kept his reply brief when he saw that neither the Chancellor nor his deputy were very interested. Only Aynton was concerned, and announced his intention to visit the injured in their sickbeds, where he would caution them against future bad behaviour.

‘Of course, none of it would have happened if the town had stayed away from the butts,’ said de Wetherset, when the Commissary had finished babbling. ‘It was our turn to use them, and they should have respected that.’

‘They did it because you invaded their practice the night before,’ said Bartholomew tartly.

‘I hope you do not suggest that the skirmish was our fault,’ said Heltisle indignantly. ‘We are innocent victims in this unseemly affair.’

‘We are,’ agreed de Wetherset. ‘However, I am sure Michael and I can work together to ensure it does not happen again. We want no more trouble with the town.’

‘The best way to achieve that is to present culprits for some of the crimes that have been committed against us,’ said Heltisle curtly. ‘Unfortunately, the Senior Proctor is incapable of catching them.’

‘Because I was ordered to leave it to Aynton,’ Michael reminded him. ‘Ergo, the failure cannot be laid at my feet. However, I have continued to mull the matter over in my mind, and I was on my way to confront one culprit when you dragged me here.’

‘Really?’ asked Aynton keenly. ‘Who is it?’

‘You will be the first to know when an arrest is made,’ lied Michael. ‘However, as I am here, perhaps you will tell me what you saw and heard at the butts last night.’

De Wetherset raised his hands apologetically. ‘It was dark, and I was more concerned with staying away from jostling townies. I knew the contestants had gone to assess the targets, but I assumed they were all back when the order came to send off the next volley. I did not see who called it.’

‘Nor did I,’ said Heltisle. ‘But I heard it, and I can tell you with confidence that it was a townsman. For a start, it was in English, and what scholar demeans himself by using the common tongue?’

‘You were there?’ asked Bartholomew suspiciously. ‘You are our best archer, but neither you nor your students could be found when the town issued the challenge. Ergo, you were not at the butts at that point.’

Heltisle regarded him with dislike. ‘We were on our way home, but raced back when we heard about the contest. So I am able to say with total conviction that the order to shoot came from the town.’

‘I am not so sure,’ demurred Aynton. ‘The yell was in the vernacular, but I thought it had a French inflection.’

‘I hope you are mistaken, Commissary,’ gulped de Wetherset. ‘Because if not, your testimony might lead some folk to think that the culprit is a scholar.’

‘We are not the only ones who speak French,’ said Aynton. ‘Have you not heard about the spies in the Spital? It seems you two did not hire lunatics to act as your proxies in the call to arms, but members of the Dauphin’s army!’

Heltisle gaped his horror. ‘If that is true, I want my money back! I do not mind giving charity to a lunatic’s orphan, but I will not have it used to coddle some French brat.’

De Wetherset was equally appalled, but not about the money. ‘Are you saying that one of these French spies came to the butts with the express purpose of making us and the town turn on each other?’ he asked in a hoarse, shocked voice. ‘And we obliged him with a riot?’

Aynton nodded. ‘Perhaps in revenge for his five countrymen being stabbed and burned.’

Bartholomew and Michael took their leave as the triumvirate began to debate the matter among themselves.

‘Personally, I think Aynton yelled the order to shoot,’ said Michael, once he and Bartholomew were out of earshot, ‘and he accuses the peregrini to throw us off his scent. But his claim is outrageous, because not even Delacroix would take such a risk.’

‘Are you sure?’ asked Bartholomew soberly. ‘It was dark and crowded, so none of us would have recognised him. Moreover, Aynton was right about one thing – setting us at each other’s throats would be an excellent way to avenge his murdered friends.’

‘I suppose it would,’ conceded Michael unhappily.

Outside in the street, they met Warden Shropham from King’s Hall, who had come to discuss funeral arrangements for his two dead scholars. He was a shy, diffident man, who was not really capable of controlling the arrogant young men under his command, which explained why his College was nearly always involved when trouble erupted. Feeling he should be there when the Warden spoke to de Wetherset, Michael accompanied him back inside the church. Bartholomew went, too.

‘De Wetherset is in there?’ whispered Shropham when Michael indicated which door he should open. ‘But that is your office, Brother!’

‘Heltisle decided to make some changes,’ said Michael, speaking without inflection.

Shropham made an exasperated sound. ‘It was a bad day for the University when he was appointed. Do not let him best you, Brother – we shall all be the losers if you do.’

He opened the office door and walked inside, leaving Michael smugly gratified at the expression of support from the head of a powerful College.

‘We have been discussing your deceased students, Shropham,’ de Wetherset told the Warden kindly. ‘And we have agreed that the University will pay for their tombs – two very grand ones.’

Shropham looked pained. ‘I would rather not draw attention to the fact that they died fighting, if you do not mind – their families would be mortified.’ His grimace deepened. ‘I still cannot believe that you kept everyone at the butts once the townsfolk began to show up. If you had sent us home, Bruges and Smith would still be alive.’

‘You blame us for last night?’ demanded Heltisle indignantly. ‘How dare you!’

De Wetherset sighed. ‘But he is right, Heltisle – it was a poor decision. I assumed the beadles would keep the peace, but I was wrong to place my trust in a body of men who are townsmen at heart.’

Michael’s jaw dropped. ‘My beadles did their best – and they are loyal to a man.’

‘Although the same cannot be said of the ones Heltisle hired,’ put in Bartholomew, who had tended enough injured beadles to know who had done his duty and who had not. ‘Most fled at the first sign of violence, and the ones who stayed were more interested in exacerbating the problem than ending it.’

‘I am glad you are leaving at the end of term,’ said Heltisle coldly. ‘It will spare me the inconvenience of asking you to resign. I will not tolerate insolence from inferiors.’

‘Even though he speaks the truth?’ asked Shropham. ‘Because I saw these men myself – they were useless.’

Heltisle indicated Michael. ‘Then he should have trained them properly.’

Michael shot him a contemptuous look before turning back to Shropham. ‘Do you know who called for the archers to shoot? Could you see him from where you stood?’

Shropham shook his head. ‘I wish I had, because I should like to see him face justice. It is ultimately his fault that Bruges and Smith died.’

‘Bruges was stabbed with this,’ said Michael, producing the dagger. ‘Is it familiar?’

‘We scholars do not demean ourselves with weapons,’ declared Heltisle before Shropham could reply. ‘Of course, if it were a pen–’ He picked up a metal one from the table, and turned it over lovingly in his fingers. ‘Well, we can identify those at once.’

Bartholomew was not about to let him get away with so brazen a lie. ‘You had the only perfect score at the butts last night and you once told us that you are handy with a sword. Ergo, you do demean yourself with weapons.’

Heltisle regarded him with dislike. ‘Skills I acquired before I devoted my life to scholarship, not that it is any of your business.’

Meanwhile, Shropham had taken the dagger from Michael and was studying it carefully. He had been a soldier before turning to academia, although Bartholomew found it difficult to believe that such a meek, sensitive man had once been a warrior of some repute.

‘It is French,’ he said, handing it back. ‘From around Rouen, to be precise. I had one myself once, but most are sold to local men. You should find out who hails from that region and ask them about it.’

‘So there you are, Brother,’ said Heltisle. ‘Run along and do as you are told, while the rest of us decide how best to honour King’s Hall’s martyred scholars.’

Michael bowed and took his leave, while Bartholomew marvelled at his self-control – he would not have allowed himself to be dismissed so insultingly by the likes of Heltisle.

‘The peregrini hail from near Rouen,’ the physician said, once they were outside. ‘And the Jacquerie was strong in that region …’

‘So the daggers may belong to them,’ surmised Michael. ‘Aynton was right to suggest they might have ignited last night’s trouble with an order to shoot. And we were right to consider the possibility of a falling-out among them that saw the Girards murdered.’

‘If so, we can never interrogate them about it, because they have gone. Will you still speak to Alice? I doubt she has connections to Rouen.’

‘Even if she is not the killer, we cannot have nuns from my Order waylaying knights and urging them to kill people. We shall speak to her first, then see what Amphelisa can tell us about daggers made near Rouen.’

‘We have already shown her the one that killed the Girards. She did not recognise it.’

Michael’s expression was sober. ‘That was before Shropham told us where it was made. Perhaps she will recognise it when confronted with the truth. After all, it would not be the first time she has lied to us.’

In the event, Bartholomew and Michael were spared a trek to St Radegund’s, because Sister Alice was walking along the High Street. She was with Prioress Joan and Magistra Katherine, talking animatedly, although neither was listening to what she was saying. Katherine’s distant expression suggested her thoughts were on some lofty theological matter, while Joan was more interested in the fine horse that Shropham had left tethered outside the church.

‘Good,’ said Michael, homing in on them. ‘I want a word with you.’

‘Me?’ asked Joan, alarm suffusing her homely features. ‘Why? Not because of Dusty? What has happened to him? Tell me, Brother!’

‘He is quite well,’ Michael assured her, raising his hands to quell her rising agitation, while Katherine smirked, amused that her Prioress’s first concern should be for an animal. ‘And perfectly content with Cynric.’

Joan sagged in relief. ‘Is it about that dagger then? I have been mulling the matter over, and it occurs to me that I did not see it here, but at home. Obviously, we do not have that sort of thing in the convent, so now I wonder whether I spotted it in Winchelsea …’

‘We went there after it was attacked, if you recall,’ said Katherine. ‘To offer comfort to the survivors and to help them bury their dead.’

‘But I cannot be certain,’ finished Joan unhappily. ‘I am sorry to be such a worthless lump, but my brain refuses to yield its secrets.’

‘Keep trying, if you please,’ said Michael, disappointed. ‘It is important. However, it was not you we wanted to corner – it is Alice.’

‘Me?’ asked Alice, scratching her elbow. ‘Why? I have nothing to say to you. Besides, we are busy. The Carmelite Prior was so impressed by Magistra Katherine’s grasp of nominalism that he offered to show us his collection of books on the subject.’

‘To show me his books,’ corrected Katherine crisply, ‘while Joan is to be given a tour of his stables. You are invited to neither.’

Alice sniffed huffily. ‘I do not want to see smelly old books and horses anyway.’

‘No?’ asked Katherine archly. ‘Then why have you foisted yourself on us?’

‘Because the streets are uneasy after last night’s chaos,’ retorted Alice, ‘and there is safety in numbers. If anyone else had been available, I would have chosen them instead.’

‘Of course you would,’ said Katherine, before glancing around with a shudder. ‘My brother always said this town is like a pustule, waiting to burst. He is right! I heard there are more than a dozen dead and countless injured.’

‘But no horses harmed, thank God,’ said Joan, crossing herself before glaring at Michael. ‘Although I understand Dusty was ridden into the thick of it.’

‘He behaved impeccably,’ Michael informed her, unabashed. ‘You would have been proud. Indeed, it is largely due to him that the death toll was not higher.’

Joan was unappeased. ‘If there is so much as a scratch on him …’

‘There is not, and he enjoyed every moment – he is far more destrier than palfrey. Did I tell you that Bruges the Fleming declared him the finest warhorse that ever lived? Coming from King’s Hall, that was a compliment indeed.’

‘Bruges is from Flanders?’ asked Joan, surprised. ‘I assumed he was French. He spoke to me in that tongue – loudly and arrogantly – the other day, when he told me that he wanted to buy Dusty. It made passers-by glare at us, which was an uncomfortable experience.’

‘He will not do it again,’ said Bartholomew soberly. ‘He was among last night’s dead.’

Joan gaped at him, but then recovered herself and murmured a prayer for his soul. ‘Yet I am astonished to learn he was rioting. I assumed he was more genteel, given that he had such good taste in horses.’

‘I do not know what you see in that ugly nag, Prioress,’ put in Alice unpleasantly. ‘Sometimes, I think you love him more than us, your Benedictine sisters.’

‘I do,’ said Joan baldly. ‘Especially after this conloquium, where I have learned that most are either blithering idiots, greedy opportunists or unrepentant whores.’ She regarded Alice in distaste. ‘And some are all three.’

‘I am none of those things,’ declared Alice angrily. ‘I am the victim of a witch-hunt by Abbess Isabel and the Bishop. I did nothing wrong.’

‘You made bad choices and you were caught,’ said Joan sternly. ‘Now you must either accept your fate with good grace or renounce your vows and follow some other vocation.’

‘As a warlock, perhaps,’ suggested Katherine. ‘Given that you know rather too much about maggoty marchpanes, stinking candles and cursing spells.’

‘You malign me with these vile accusations,’ scowled Alice, although the truth was in her eyes. ‘I am innocent of–’

‘Speaking of vile accusations,’ interrupted Michael, ‘perhaps you will explain why you have been gossiping about spies in the Spital. And do not deny it, because Sir Norbert identified you by your constant scratching.’

Alice had been about to claw her arm again; Michael’s words made her drop her hand hastily. ‘But everyone is talking about the spies in the Spital. Why single me out for censure?’

‘Because you are the originator of the tale,’ said Michael harshly. ‘You discovered the “lunatics” were French – oldsters, women and children fleeing persecution from those they considered to be friends – and you urged Norbert to kill them.’

‘Did you?’ asked Katherine, regarding her in distaste. ‘And what would have happened to us during this slaughter? Or would our deaths have been an added bonus?’

‘I had no idea you were living with French spies until I heard it from Margery Starre last night,’ declared Alice. ‘Those rumours did not start with me.’

‘Look at this dagger,’ ordered Michael, holding it out to her. ‘It was used to kill Bruges. Others like it were employed on Paris, Bonet and the Girard family.’

‘But not by me,’ said Alice, barely glancing at it. ‘Do you really think that I, a weak woman, could plunge blades into the backs of strong and healthy men?’

‘How do you know they were stabbed in the back?’ pounced Bartholomew.

Alice’s eyes glittered. ‘Because someone told me. I forget who.’

‘Margery, probably,’ muttered Katherine. ‘A witch, who is hardly suitable company for nuns. And it takes no great strength to drive a blade into someone from behind anyway, which I know, because the survivors at Winchelsea told me.’

Alice sighed to show she was bored of the conversation. ‘Shall we talk about something more interesting, such as getting me reinstalled as Prioress at Ickleton?’

Suddenly, Michael had had enough of her. ‘You are under arrest for the murders of Paris, Bonet, the Girards and Bruges,’ he said briskly. ‘And for spreading malicious rumours.’

‘Oh, yes,’ sneered Alice. ‘Pick on the innocent nun again. Well, I have killed no one, although that might change if you persist with these ridiculous charges.’

‘Stop your whining – it is tedious beyond belief,’ snapped Joan, then turned to Michael, tapping the dagger with a thick forefinger. ‘This is similar to the other one you showed me, and the more I think about it, the more I suspect I did see its like in Winchelsea–’

‘Which proves I am innocent, as I have never been there,’ put in Alice triumphantly.

‘Oh, yes, you have,’ countered Katherine. ‘You visited us in Lyminster a few months ago, delivering letters from your own convent.’

‘Lyminster is not Winchelsea,’ argued Alice. ‘They are more than sixty miles apart. I went to one, but not the other, and you cannot prove otherwise.’

‘Actually, I can.’ Katherine gestured to Alice’s clothes. ‘There is Winchelsea-made lace at your wrists and Winchelsea-made buttons on your habit. Moreover, your Prioress told me that you took far longer to complete the return journey than you should have done, which is indicative that you treated yourself to a major diversion.’

Alice glared malevolently at her. ‘There were floods and other perils, so I had to make my way along the coast instead of plunging straight back inland. It means nothing.’

Katherine regarded her with contempt. ‘I knew you were a liar, a cheat and a whore, but I am shocked to learn you are a killer as well.’

‘I am not!’ cried Alice furiously. ‘So what if I stopped briefly at the port where Joan saw those particular weapons? It does not mean–’

‘Where will you keep her, Brother?’ interrupted Joan. ‘Not near Dusty, I hope.’

Michael hesitated. The proctors’ cells were full of angry young men from the riot, and he could hardly put a nun among those, not even one as unlikeable as Alice.

‘Leave her to us,’ said Katherine, guessing his dilemma. ‘St Radegund’s has cellars.’

Bartholomew was relieved when Alice was marched away, although Michael fretted over what a public announcement of her crimes might do to his Order.

‘Is she the killer?’ the monk asked worriedly. ‘She is vicious and deranged, but only against those she thinks have wronged her. What could she possibly have had against Bruges? Or any of the victims, for that matter?’

‘Question her again later,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘Once she is confined, she may be more willing to cooperate. And even if she is innocent of the murders, she still has the rumours to answer for – rumours that may yet spark more trouble.’

‘True,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘But before we do anything else, we should see what Amphelisa has to say about these weapons being made near Rouen.’

They set off towards the Spital, both acutely aware of the atmosphere of rage and resentment that continued to simmer after the previous night’s skirmish. Townsmen knew they had suffered more casualties than the University, and were keen to redress the balance, while scholars itched to avenge the deaths of four students with promising futures.

The Trumpington road was busy, and Bartholomew noted with alarm that most people were going to or from the Spital – Tulyet was right to predict that it might suffer from the decision to shelter the peregrini. They arrived to find the gates closed and Tangmer’s family standing an uneasy guard atop the walls. Outside was a knot of protestors, who were vocal but not yet physically violent. They were being monitored by Orwel and a gaggle of soldiers from the castle, all of whom bitterly resented being there.

Michael knocked on the gate, which was opened with obvious reluctance by the huge Eudo. He and Bartholomew were pulled inside quickly before it was slammed shut again. This provoked a chorus of accusations from those outside, who jeered that the Senior Proctor and his Corpse Examiner had gone to confer with fellow French-lovers. Inside, any staff not guarding the walls had clustered at the gate, ready to repel anyone who tried to enter by force.

‘My wife is not here,’ said Tangmer, who was pale with worry. ‘She went to tend the wounded in the Franciscan Friary again. I hoped her compassion to the injured would make everyone think more kindly of us, but you all still howl for our blood.’

‘The claim is that we sheltered spies,’ put in Eudo, clenching his ham-sized fists in impotent anger. ‘But all we did was take pity on frightened women and children.’

‘And eleven men,’ his little wife Goda reminded them. She was wearing a new fret in her hair, which had been sewn with silver thread and looked expensive. ‘Six of whom were Jacques. We should not have done it, as it made us enemies in the University and the town.’

‘Look at this dagger,’ said Michael, presenting it. ‘It and the ones that killed Paris, Bonet and the Girard family were made in or near Rouen.’

‘Amphelisa hails from there,’ said Goda at once. ‘So do the peregrini.’

‘Yes,’ said Michael, watching Tangmer shoot her an agonised glance, while Eudo delivered a warning jab to the ribs that almost knocked her over. ‘I know.’

‘It is not Amphelisa’s,’ said Tangmer quickly. ‘She does not own weapons. She is a gentle soul, dedicated to helping those in need, regardless of their colour or creed.’

‘Then what about you?’ asked Michael. ‘Is this a gift from those grateful “lunatics”? We have reason to believe that daggers like these were seen in Winchelsea, which is where your peregrini settled after fleeing France.’

‘They gave us a little money,’ said Tangmer. ‘They had to – we could not have fed them otherwise. But they never offered us gifts.’

‘Delacroix and his friends carried plenty of knives,’ said Eudo, ‘but I paid them no heed. If you want to know if this blade is theirs, you will have to ask them. Unfortunately, they left us last night, as I am sure you have heard.’

‘Without leaving the money for the food they ate last week,’ put in Goda sourly. ‘So if you go after them, perhaps you will collect it for us.’

Bartholomew and Michael stayed a while longer, quizzing every member of staff about the dagger, but no one admitted to recognising it. Eventually, they took their leave.

‘Well?’ asked Bartholomew, once they had run the gauntlet of the taunting, jeering throng outside and were heading back towards the town. ‘What do you think? I have no idea whether any of them were telling the truth.’

‘Nor do I,’ admitted Michael. ‘I doubt we will have it from Amphelisa either, but you had better go to the friary and try. Take the dagger with you. I will find Dick, and tell him we have arrested Alice. I imagine he will want to be there when I question her again.’

Bartholomew was glad to reach the Franciscans’ domain, which was an oasis of peace after the uneasy streets. Yet not even it was immune to the festering atmosphere outside, and Prior Pechem had made arrangements similar to those at the Spital – guards on the gate and archers on the walls.

Bartholomew arrived at the guesthouse to find all his students there, ranging from the boys who had only recently started their studies, to Islaye and Mallett who would graduate at the end of term. There were so many that the wounded had been allocated two apiece. The reason soon became clear: tending the sick was a lot easier than the punishing schedule he expected them to follow at Michaelhouse, and they were eager for a respite. He was tempted to send them all home, but then decided that there was nothing wrong with some practical experience. Moreover, it would keep them too busy to join in any brawls.

Amphelisa was there, too, moving between the beds and talking softly to patients and students alike. She wore a very old burgundy cloak that day, because changing soiled dressings was messy work. It was one she used while distilling oils, so the scent of lavender and pine pervaded the room. Bartholomew waited until she was free, then cornered her by a sink, where he was pleased to see her washing her hands before tending the next customer.

‘I would not know if Rouen produced beautiful weapons or not,’ she informed him when he showed her the one that had killed Bruges. ‘I have no interest in things that harm – only in things that heal. I have told you this before.’

‘Then perhaps you noticed if Delacroix or one of his friends had one,’ he pressed.

‘I did not – I was more concerned about their well-being than their belongings.’

Bartholomew opened his mouth to ask more, but there was a minor crisis with a patient, and by the time it was over, Amphelisa was nowhere to be seen. He was instantly suspicious, but Mallett informed him that she had been helping out for hours, and had expressed a perfectly understandable wish to go home and change her clothes.

‘Although I like the smell of the cloak she was wearing,’ he confided. ‘So do our clients – it calms them. It must be the soporific oils that have soaked into it.’

Bartholomew remained in the friary for the rest of the day, taking the opportunity to do some impromptu teaching. He did not notice his students’ exasperated glances when they saw their plan to escape him had misfired – he was working them harder than ever. He might have gone on all evening, but at dusk he was summoned by Isnard, who was complaining of a sore throat. The relief when he left was palpable.

He arrived at the bargeman’s cosy riverside cottage to find him in despair. It was difficult to fight on crutches, so his contribution to the brawl had been to howl abuse at the enemy. He had done it with such gusto that he was now hoarse.

‘And tomorrow is Sunday,’ he croaked, ‘when the Marian Singers will perform at High Mass. It would break my heart to miss it.’

Bartholomew prescribed a cordial of honey and blackcurrant, and told him to rest his voice. Unfortunately, Isnard had things to say, so there followed an exasperating interlude in which the bargeman mouthed the words and Bartholomew struggled to understand them.

‘You arrested a nun,’ Isnard began. ‘But she did not kill Wyse. That was a scholar. We all saw him sitting in the Griffin, watching us with crafty eyes.’

‘You saw him?’ demanded Bartholomew. ‘What did he look like?’

‘We never saw his face, as he was careful to keep in the shadow. But I can tell you that he was fat.’

As a great many scholars were portly, this description was not very helpful. Bartholomew ordered Isnard to stay indoors and keep warm – it would make no difference to his voice, but would stop him from fighting scholars – and trudged back to Michaelhouse. As he was passing St Mary the Great, a door opened and Orwel slipped out. The sergeant looked around furtively before slinking away. Bartholomew frowned. Why was he in the church when he was supposed to be guarding the Spital?

He started to follow, aiming to ask, but lost him in the shadows of the graveyard.

Back in Michaelhouse, Bartholomew had done no more than drop his bag and look to see if his students had left any food lying around when Michael appeared. The monk turned his nose up at the slice of stale cake that Bartholomew offered to share, and invited him to the Master’s suite for something better instead.

‘Did you interview Alice?’ asked Bartholomew, aware that his slice of beef pie was considerably smaller than the lump the monk had cut for himself.

‘Dick and I decided to leave it until tomorrow, to give her time to reflect on the situation and hopefully come to her senses. Did you speak to Amphelisa?’

‘Yes, but she had nothing to say. I did see Orwel sneaking out of St Mary the Great just now, though. I thought he was supposed to be guarding the Spital.’

‘Perhaps Dick relieved him,’ shrugged Michael. ‘However, he may have been looking for me. He claims to have information about Wyse’s murder, so I agreed to meet him behind the Brazen George at midnight. It is possible that he wanted to make sure I would be there – along with the money I agreed to pay.’

‘Midnight?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily. ‘That is an odd time. Will it be safe? His intention may be to coax you to a dark place where you can be dispatched.’

‘It might, which is why Dick will be there, too. However, I am fairly sure Orwel’s motives are purely pecuniary.’

‘What else did you do after we parted company?’

‘I went to King’s Hall and ordered them to stay indoors tonight. Unfortunately, Warden Shropham had already told them that the weapon used to dispatch Bruges was French, so now they think the town is sheltering a lot of enemy soldiers.’

‘I have been thinking about these daggers,’ said Bartholomew, handing back the one he had shown Amphelisa. ‘They are well-made and expensive, yet the killer is happy to leave them in or near his victims. One of the reasons Alice was deposed was greed – she lined her own pockets at her priory’s expense …’

‘So you believe she is unlikely to be the culprit, because she is too mean to abandon a costly item,’ surmised Michael. ‘She would have taken it with her.’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘The same is true of most townsfolk and scholars. Ergo, the culprit is wealthy – someone who can afford to lose them.’

‘A rich scholar or a rich townsman,’ mused Michael.

‘Or a Jacques – a man who looted the houses of aristocrats in France and who may think he can do the same here when he runs low on funds. Of course, we must not forget de Wetherset, Heltisle and Theophilis – none of them are poor.’

‘Nor is Aynton,’ added Michael, and grimaced. ‘The culprit is using these daggers to taunt us – daring us to link them to him.’

Bartholomew agreed, and wished he knew how to prompt Joan’s memory, as he was sure the mystery would be solved once she remembered where – and with whom – she had seen the weapon before. ‘Regardless, I do not think Alice stabbed anyone.’

‘I am inclined to agree, although we shall keep her under lock and key anyway. She still started vicious rumours, and she is a divisive force at the conloquium. It is best she stays where she can do no more harm.’

‘Is there any news about who gave the order to shoot last night?’ asked Bartholomew hopefully. ‘Or about Wyse’s murder?’

Michael shook his head. ‘Although every townsman blames us, and every scholar accuses the town. Dick and I have imposed another curfew until dawn, although a lot of hotheads have elected to ignore it. I fear for our foreign scholars, Matt – all of them, not just the French ones. I hope they have the sense to stay indoors.’

‘So we know nothing new,’ surmised Bartholomew despondently.

‘Dick heard a rumour that the peregrini have taken up residence near the Austin Priory,’ said Michael, referring to the foundation located a mile or so outside the town. ‘So we rode out there to investigate.’

‘I assume you did not find them.’

‘Of course not. I decided to take Dusty, and as Prioress Joan was visiting him when I went to saddle up, she came, too, for the sheer joy of a canter along an empty road. She let me have Dusty, while she rode Theophilis’s mean old brute. You should have seen how she handled him – he was a different horse.’

‘Was he?’ asked Bartholomew without much interest.

‘The excursion allowed me to quiz her in depth about Alice. Apparently, Alice visited the Spital seven or eight times before the murders, so she probably did guess the “lunatics” were nothing of the kind. Ergo, I am sure it was her who told Norbert, no matter how vigorously she denies it.’

‘Probably.’

‘She also sent Magistra Katherine some very dangerous gifts – candles that leaked poisonous fumes, a lamp that burst into flames, a book impregnated with a potion to burn the reader’s fingers, blankets infested with fleas …’

‘Fleas?’

Michael grinned. ‘And in a twist of irony, she is the one who crawls with them. We should not forget the comb she stole from Joan either. That is still missing, and I am sure she intends it to be a part of some mischief yet to unfold. Shall we go to meet Orwel now?’

‘Now?’ asked Bartholomew, startled by the abrupt change of subject. ‘It is too early.’

‘I know, but Lister makes a lovely roasted pork on a Saturday night and I am ravenous.’

‘You cannot be! You have just devoured most of a pie.’

‘To line my stomach, Matt – to prepare it for the proper meal to come.’

It was not only Michael who liked Lister’s roasted pork, and the tavern was full of muttering townsmen when they arrived. Bartholomew was glad of the private room at the back. Tulyet appeared much later, footsore and weary from asking questions of witnesses.

‘The town is now certain that scholars killed Wyse, hid French spies in the Spital and engineered last night’s riot,’ he reported. ‘A riot in which four of you died, but ten of us. I have done my best to quell the gossip, but folk believe what they want to believe.’

‘Then let us hope Orwel knows who killed Wyse,’ said Michael. ‘They may be appeased if that culprit is brought to justice. I imagine he will name Aynton – the gently smiling spider in the web.’

‘Or Theophilis,’ countered Bartholomew.

‘Theophilis would never betray me,’ said Michael. ‘Why would he, when I gave him his Fellowship, his post as Junior Proctor, a lucrative benefice–’

‘No man likes to be beholden to another,’ interrupted Tulyet. ‘However, Theophilis does not have the courage for murder, so my money is on de Wetherset or Heltisle. It was a bad day for the University and the town when they took power.’

Bartholomew told him that he and Michael now thought the dagger belonged to someone wealthy. Tulyet scrubbed his face with his hands.

‘Then I will interview burgesses tomorrow. You can do the same with rich scholars. However, the culprit cannot be a Jacques – they fled before Bruges was killed.’

‘If they left,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps one lingered long enough to avenge himself on the place that killed his friends and forced him out of his cosy refuge.’

‘Twenty-six dead,’ sighed Michael. ‘Paris, Bonet, five members of the Girard family, Wyse, the fourteen from the riot, plus the three who were hanged for murder and their victim. And more will follow unless we stop the contagion.’

Lister arrived at that point to collect the empty platters, and Bartholomew noticed that the landlord was careful to keep the door closed – he did not want his other customers to know that he welcomed scholars in his fine establishment.

‘Did I tell you that the Chancellor came here earlier, Brother?’ Lister asked. ‘He and his henchman Heltisle. They wanted to hire this room for their sole use, so that you would have to find somewhere else.’

Michael gaped at him in disbelief. ‘They did what?’

‘I had to lie – tell them that it is out of commission due to a smoking chimney. Yet it is rash for me to make enemies of such powerful men – they could break me by deciding to drink here, as my other regulars would leave.’

‘Do not worry, Lister,’ said Michael between gritted teeth. ‘They will never harm you or your business. I promise.’

Lister smiled wanly. ‘Thank you, Brother. Of course, it will be irrelevant if the town erupts into violence again. The streets felt more dangerous today than they have ever done.’

The moment Lister had gone, Michael embarked on a furious tirade. ‘How dare they! This is my refuge. I do not care about my office in St Mary the Great, but to invade a man’s tavern … I will not share it with de Wetherset and Heltisle!’

‘They do not want to share it,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘They want it all for themselves. It is another attempt to weaken you.’

‘Well, they will never interfere with the important business of victuals,’ vowed Michael. ‘I will not permit it. But there is the linkman calling the hour. It is time to meet Orwel.’

They trooped outside. Tulyet took up station near the back gate, which he said was the one Orwel would use, while Bartholomew was allocated the door at the side. Michael went to stand in the middle of the yard. It was very dark, and Bartholomew was just wondering how he would be able to help should there be trouble, when Michael gave a sharp cry.

‘What the– Help! There is a body!’

Bartholomew darted forward, but collided heavily with someone coming the other way. At first he thought it was Tulyet, but something caught him a glancing blow – aimed at his head but hitting his shoulder. He lunged blindly and grabbed a wrist, yelling for Tulyet. The arm was ripped free and he heard the side door open and slam shut again. Tulyet blundered past, fumbling for the latch in the dark. Then he was gone, too.

The commotion alerted Lister, who arrived with a lamp. It illuminated Michael crouching next to someone on the ground. Bartholomew hurried towards them.

‘It is Orwel,’ said Michael, rolling the body over to look at its face. ‘Is he dead?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘Struck on the head – just like Wyse. Only this time the blow was powerful enough to kill him outright.’

They looked up as Tulyet arrived empty-handed, his face a mask of anger and frustration.

‘Who was it?’ he demanded. ‘Did you see?’

‘It was too dark,’ replied Bartholomew, and grimaced. ‘But I think we have just let Wyse’s killer slip through our fingers.’

‘I would keep that quiet, if I were you,’ advised Lister. ‘Or the town will lynch you.’