The Sanctuary Murders

Chapter 12

The next day was Sunday, when bells all over the town rang to advertise their morning services. Scholars in academic or priestly robes hurried to and from their Colleges and hostels, while townsfolk donned their best clothes – if they had any – and stood in naves to listen to the sacred words that were sang, mumbled or bellowed, depending on the preference of the presiding priest.

Bartholomew had been summoned before dawn to tend one of the wounded at the Franciscan Priory. When he had finished, he went to St Edward’s, where Orwel’s body had been taken. This church celebrated Mass later than everyone else, so was empty, other than its ancient vicar, who was fast asleep on a tomb.

Bartholomew examined Orwel carefully, this time without the distraction of Michael and Tulyet clamouring questions at him. But there was no more to be learned in the cold light of day than there had been the previous night: Orwel had been struck, very hard, with a stone. Assailed by the uncomfortable sense that he was being watched – something he often experienced when he examined corpses on his own – Bartholomew put all back as he had found it, and hurried out into the warm spring sunshine with relief.

As he walked along the High Street, he saw the Marian Singers assembling outside St Mary the Great, ready to bawl the Jubilate they had been practising. As Michael was late, Isnard assumed command, assisted by Sauvage. At first, the still-hoarse bargeman tried to impose order by whispering, and when that did not work, told Sauvage to relay his orders in a bellow. When he was satisfied with the way they looked, Isnard began to lead the choir inside – only to find his way barred by Aynton and some of Heltisle’s Horde.

‘Not today, Isnard,’ said Aynton apologetically. ‘Vice-Chancellor Heltisle is conducting the service, and he has opted for a spoken Mass – one without musical interludes.’

‘There is no music involved with the Michaelhouse Choir,’ quipped one of the Horde, a rough, gap-toothed individual whose name was Perkyn. ‘Just a lot of tuneless hollering. Master Heltisle plans to disband them soon, on the grounds that they bring the University into disrepute.’

‘The Michaelhouse Choir no longer exists,’ croaked Isnard loftily. ‘We are the Marian Singers. Moreover, we have nothing to do with the University, for which we thank God, because we would not want to belong to an organisation that is full of Frenchmen.’

‘And none of us is foreign,’ declared Pierre Sauvage. ‘Unlike you lot – we know you turned a blind eye when all them French spies escaped from the Spital.’

‘What are you saying, Sauvage?’ sneered Perkyn, giving the name a distinctly foreign inflection. ‘That we should have made war on women and children?’

‘The French do,’ stated Isnard. ‘They slaughtered them by the hundred in Winchelsea. Besides, unless you hate the whole race, it means you love them all, and you are therefore a traitor. Chancellor Suttone said so in a sermon.’

Bartholomew was sure Suttone had said nothing of the kind – the ex-Chancellor had had his flaws, but making that sort of remark was certainly not among them.

‘Suttone!’ spat Perkyn. ‘A rogue from Michaelhouse, who left Cambridge not because he was afraid of the plague, but because he wanted to get married.’

There was a startled silence.

‘You are mistaken, Perkyn,’ said Aynton, the first to find his voice. ‘Suttone is a Carmelite, a priest who has sworn vows of celibacy.’

‘He ran off with a woman,’ repeated Perkyn firmly. ‘I was there when de Wetherset and Heltisle discussed it.’

‘They would never have held such a conversation in front of you,’ said Aynton sternly. ‘Not that Suttone is guilty of such a charge, of course.’

Perkyn glared at him. ‘I was listening from behind a pillar, if you must know. They tried to keep their voices low, but I have good ears. And I am happy to spread the tale around, because I hate Michaelhouse – it is full of lunatics, lechers and fanatics.’

‘Not lechers,’ objected Isnard, which Bartholomew supposed was loyalty of sorts.

‘You cannot keep us out, Perkyn,’ said Sauvage, aware that he might not get his free victuals if the choir failed to fulfil its obligations. ‘St Mary the Great belongs to everyone.’

‘It is the University Church,’ argued Perkyn. ‘Not yours. Now piss off.’

‘It will not be the University’s for much longer,’ rasped Isnard. ‘It was ours before you lot came along and stole it, and the only reason we have not kicked you out before is because Brother Michael works here. However, now de Wetherset has ousted him, we are free to eject your scrawny arses any time we please.’

‘De Wetherset did not oust Michael,’ squawked Aynton, cowering as the choir surged forward threateningly. ‘They agreed to exchange rooms.’

Bartholomew could bear it no longer, so went to intervene. He was too late. Isnard shoved past the Commissary, and entered the church with the rest of the Marian Singers streaming at his heels. Aynton followed like a demented sheepdog, frantically struggling to herd them in the opposite direction.

Inside, Heltisle had already started the office, confidently assuming that Aynton was equal to excluding those he had decided to bar. He faltered when he heard the patter of many feet on the stone floor.

Moments later, a terrific noise filled the building – the Marian Singers had decided to perform anyway, regardless of the fact that they had no conductor. They plunged into the Jubilate, gaining confidence and volume with every note. Bartholomew put his hands over his ears, and imagined Heltisle was doing the same. Certainly, the Mass could not continue, because the president would be unable to make himself heard.

The music reached a crescendo, after which there was a sudden, blessed silence. Delighted by their achievement, Isnard indicated that the singers were to go for an encore. After three more turns, he declared that they had done their duty, and led the way outside. When they had gone, Michael stepped out of the shadows by the door.

‘Do not tell me you were there all along,’ said Bartholomew.

Michael grinned. ‘Just long enough to know that my choristers did themselves proud today, and annoyed Heltisle into the bargain.’

As it was Sunday, teaching was forbidden, but few masters were so reckless as to leave a lot of lively young men with nothing to do, so it was a Michaelhouse tradition that the Fellows took it in turns to organise some entertainment. Bartholomew usually opted for a light-hearted disputation, followed by games in the orchard or riddle-solving in the hall. Clippesby invariably contrived an activity that would benefit his animal friends – painting the henhouse or playing with dogs – while William always chose something of a religious nature.

That week, it was Theophilis’s turn, and his idea of fun was a debate on the nominalism–realism controversy, followed by him intoning excerpts from his Calendarium – the list of texts that were to be read out at specific times over the Church year.

‘Goodness!’ breathed Michael, unimpressed. ‘He will set them at each other’s throats in the first half, and send them to sleep in the second.’

‘Perhaps he wants them to quarrel, so he can tell everyone that we have a Master who cannot keep order in his own house,’ suggested Bartholomew.

Michael made a moue of irritation. ‘Hardly! He is in charge today, so if there are any unseemly incidents, the blame will be laid at his door, not mine.’

But Bartholomew looked at the Junior Proctor’s artful, self-satisfied face, and knew he had chosen to air a contentious subject for devious reasons of his own. He realised he would have to stay vigilant if he wanted to nip any trouble in the bud. Unfortunately, Michael had other ideas.

‘I need you with me today, Matt. I feel responsible for Orwel’s death, given that he was trying to talk to me when he was murdered. It seems likely that a scholar killed Wyse, and as Wyse and Orwel were both brained with a stone … well, we must catch the culprit as quickly as possible to appease the town. Then there is the killer of Paris and the others …’

‘Who is almost certainly not Alice, although she is arrested for it.’

‘If we can identify the real killer, it may ease the brewing trouble,’ Michael went on. ‘Although I fear it is already too late, and we shall only have peace once we have torn each other asunder. And to top it all, I am obliged to waste my time fending off petty assaults on my authority from the triumvirate.’

Bartholomew was unhappy about leaving his College in hands he did not trust. He warned Aungel and William to be on their guard, but Aungel was too inexperienced to read the warning signs, while the Franciscan would be too easily distracted by the theology.

‘Our lads may misbehave because they are angry,’ said Aungel worriedly. ‘Offended by the town braying that we harbour French soldiers, who will slaughter them all.’

‘Whereas they are the ones whose patriotism should be questioned,’ added William venomously. ‘They looked the other way while Frenchmen lurked in the Spital. I wish I had known they were there – I would have driven them out.’

‘You would have ejected frightened women, old men and small children, whose only “crime” was to flee persecution?’ asked Bartholomew in distaste.

‘Why not?’ shrugged William. ‘We did it when I was with the Inquisition. And evil takes many different forms, Matthew, so do not be too readily fooled by “harmless” oldsters or “innocent” brats.’

‘I am offended by this nasty gossip about Master Suttone,’ said Aungel, before Bartholomew could inform William that he was not with the Inquisition now, and such vile opinions were hardly commensurate with a man in holy orders. ‘I know he enjoyed ladies on occasion, but he would never have run off to marry one.’

At that moment, the gate opened and Cynric cantered in on Dusty, having just given the horse a morning gallop along the Trumpington road.

‘Come quick,’ he gasped. ‘There is trouble at the Spital. When Orwel was killed, Sauvage was given the job of keeping it safe, but he abandoned it to sing in St Mary the Great. Now the Spital is surrounded by hostile scholars and townsfolk.’

‘They have united against a common enemy?’ asked William.

‘Not united, no,’ replied Cynric. ‘They each have their own ideas about what should be done, and spats are set to break out. The Sheriff has the town element under control, but he begs you to come and deal with the scholars. He said to hurry.’

The monk was not about to run to the Spital – it was too far, and he did not want to arrive winded and sweaty. He rode Dusty, shouting for Bartholomew to follow. It was not difficult for the physician to keep up with him at first, as no one could ride very fast along Cambridge’s narrow, crowded streets, but it was a different matter once they were through the town gate. Then all Bartholomew could see was dust as Michael thundered ahead.

By the time Bartholomew arrived, the crisis had been averted, largely due to the fact that the troublemakers remembered Dusty from the riot – some were still nursing crushed toes and bruised ribs from when the horse had bulled through their ranks, and they were unwilling to risk it again. Many scholars began to slink home, and townsmen followed suit when Leger galloped up in full battle gear. Eventually, only two clots of people remained: a motley collection of students who always preferred brawling to studying; and some patrons from the King’s Head, who were never happy unless they had something to protest about.

‘I can manage now, Sheriff,’ said Sauvage. He was pale – the near loss of control had given him a serious fright. ‘These few will be no problem, especially if Brother Michael leaves me some beadles to keep the scholars in line.’

Unfortunately, the only beadles available were Heltisle’s Horde, who had no more idea about controlling crowds than Sauvage. Michael gave them instructions, but was far from certain they could be trusted to carry them out. Tulyet finished briefing Sauvage and came to stand with Michael and Bartholomew. So did Sir Leger, whose sour expression showed he was disappointed that a skirmish had been averted.

‘The situation will not stay calm for long,’ he predicted with more hope than was appropriate for a man who was supposed to be dedicated to keeping the King’s peace. ‘Tangmer was stupid to take the enemy under his roof. He brought this on himself.’

‘The peregrini were not “the enemy”,’ said Bartholomew sharply. ‘They were civilians, who left France to avoid being slaughtered.’

‘They were Jacques,’ growled Leger. ‘And spies, who told the Dauphin when to attack Winchelsea. It was a pity they escaped that town before its Mayor could hang them.’

‘The Mayor lied,’ argued Bartholomew, more inclined to believe Julien’s version of events than the one given by a politician who was alleged to be a coward.

‘He did not,’ countered Leger. ‘But we will have our revenge, because the truth is that they have not vanished, but are still in the area. Sauvage spotted Delacroix behind Peterhouse last night, while I saw that priest near St Bene’t’s Church.’

‘Are you sure it was Julien?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering what reason the group could possibly have for lingering somewhere so dangerous.

‘No,’ admitted Leger. ‘I gave chase, but lost him in the undergrowth – my armour is too bulky for slithering through bushes like a snake. However, I am sure that he and his friends mean us harm.’ He gestured to the Spital. ‘It would not surprise me if they were still in there.’

‘Then let us go and see,’ said Tulyet. ‘If they are, we shall take them to the castle – for their own protection as much as ours. If they are not, we will make sure that everyone knows the Spital is empty. Agreed?’

The moment Bartholomew, Michael, Tulyet and Leger stepped into the Spital, it was clear that something was wrong. As before, the staff guarded the gates and patrolled the walls, but there was no sign of Tangmer, Eudo or their wives. Moreover, there was a sense of distress among them that seemed to have nothing to do with the situation outside.

The cousin who had opened the gate led the visitors to the chapel without a word, where all four recoiled at the stench emanating from Amphelisa’s workshop. It was far more pungent than the last time they had been, and they saw that one workbench had been knocked over, spilling oils all across the floor. Amphelisa was mopping up the mess with a cloth, and her old burgundy cloak was soaked in it.

‘The fumes may be toxic in so confined an area,’ warned Bartholomew, covering his nose with his sleeve. ‘Open the windows and both doors.’

‘Come upstairs first,’ rasped Amphelisa; her eyes were bloodshot. ‘The balcony.’

She led the way to the room above, with its curious wooden screen. Tangmer was there with Eudo, who was sobbing uncontrollably. Goda lay on the floor like a discarded doll.

Bartholomew glanced at Amphelisa. ‘Is she …’

‘Dead,’ whispered Amphelisa. ‘She was supposed to be baking today, and when she failed to appear, Eudo went to look for her. He found her here.’

Bartholomew crouched next to the little woman. She had been stabbed, and the weapon was still in her chest. He could not bring himself to yank it out while her distraught husband was watching, but Leger had no such qualms. He grabbed it and hauled until it came free.

‘Not French,’ he said. ‘Just a kitchen knife. What happened?’

As Eudo was incapable of speech – he retreated to a corner, where he rocked back and forth, weeping all the while – Tangmer replied. The Warden’s face was ashen.

‘She must have come to the chapel to pray, but encountered the killer instead. There was a struggle – I assume you saw the mess downstairs? At some point, she managed to escape up here, but he got her anyway.’

The floor was covered in oily footprints, which suggested that Goda and her assailant had done a lot of running about before the fatal blow was struck. There were two distinctive sets: the tiny ones made by the victim, and the much larger ones of her attacker.

‘I thought you kept this room locked,’ said Bartholomew, bending to inspect them. ‘Amphelisa told us that she carries the only key around her neck. So how did they get in?’

Amphelisa glanced uncomfortably at her husband.

‘Tell them the truth,’ said Tangmer wearily. ‘Lies will help no one now.’

‘I sometimes gave Goda my key when I needed something fetching from here,’ replied Amphelisa unhappily. ‘Unbeknownst to me, she made herself a copy. It is in her hand.’

The dead woman’s fingers were indeed curled around a piece of metal. Bartholomew removed it and knew at once that it had been cut illicitly, as it was suspiciously plain and had no proper head. Then he looked at Goda’s fine new kirtle, and answers came thick and fast.

‘Was she stealing your oils and selling them on her own account?’

Amphelisa nodded slowly. ‘We think so, although she must have negotiated a very canny deal with an apothecary to explain all the handsome clothes she has acquired recently. She has not worn the same outfit twice in days …’

‘So who killed her?’ demanded Tulyet. ‘A member of staff? You have already said that these oils represent a vital source of income, so her thievery will impact on everyone here.’

‘None of us hurt her,’ said Tangmer firmly. ‘She was family. Besides, we knew she was light-fingered when she married Eudo, but she made him happy, so we overlooked it.’

‘Then have you had any visitors today?’ asked Tulyet.

‘No – we thought it best to dissuade them,’ replied the Warden. ‘For obvious reasons.’

‘Then how do you explain her murder, if you are innocent and no one else came in?’

‘A townsman or a scholar must have climbed over the wall,’ said Tangmer helplessly. ‘Like they did when the Girard family died. We try to be vigilant, but our Spital is huge, and it is not difficult to sneak in undetected. You know this, Sheriff – you did it yourself, to prove that our defences are less stalwart than we believed.’

‘So you had a mysterious invader,’ said Tulyet flatly. ‘How convenient!’

Before he could ask more, Leger made an urgent sound. He was standing near the screen, and had been peering through it into the nave below.

‘Someone is down there,’ he whispered tightly. ‘Eavesdropping.’

Tulyet was down the stairs in a flash, and Bartholomew ran to the screen just in time to see him lay hold of someone by the scruff of his neck.

‘Hah!’ exclaimed Leger triumphantly. ‘It is that French priest. I said those bastards were still in the area, but I was wrong. The truth is that they never left!’

It did not take long to determine that Leger was right. The old men, women and children – but not the Jacques, who were conspicuous by their absence – were huddled in the guesthouse recently vacated by the nuns. They looked frightened and exhausted, and Bartholomew’s heart went out to them. Before any questions could be asked, there was a commotion outside the gate. Tulyet told Leger to make sure the Spital was not about to be invaded.

‘What if it is?’ shrugged Leger insolently. ‘Or would you have me defend French scum from loyal Englishmen?’

‘I would have you defend a charitable foundation from a mindless mob,’ retorted Tulyet sharply. ‘This is a hospital, built to shelter people in need, and the King will not want it in flames. Now go and restore the peace – and not a word about what you have seen here, or you will answer to me. Is that clear?’

With ill grace, Leger stamped away. Once he had gone, the peregrini relaxed a little, and one or two of the smaller children even began to play. The Sheriff had been wise to dispense with Leger’s menacing presence before starting to question them.

‘Where are the Jacques?’ he began.

‘We do not know,’ replied Julien tiredly. ‘They left during the night. I did my best to find them and persuade them to come back, but to no avail. Sir Leger saw me in a churchyard, and I was lucky to escape from him.’

‘Their flight is a bitter blow,’ said the weaver – Madame Vipond – worriedly. ‘Who will protect us now? Even Delacroix has gone, despite the rhubarb decoction I slipped into his ale to make sure he stayed put.’

Julien gaped at her. ‘So he was right to claim he was poisoned?’

‘It was not poison,’ she sniffed. ‘It was a tonic. He just happened to swallow rather a lot of it. Goda got it for me, although it cost me the last of my savings. Do not look at me like that, Father – I did what I thought was best for the rest of us.’

Julien turned back to Tulyet. ‘Well, all I hope is that they have the sense to get as far away from here as possible. I am beginning to realise that we should have done the same.’

‘So why did you stay?’ asked Tulyet, making it clear that he wished they had not.

‘Because Michael moved the nuns, and suddenly there was an empty guesthouse available,’ explained Julien. ‘It seemed as if God was telling us to hide here for a while longer – to make proper plans, rather than just traipsing off and hoping for the best.’

Bartholomew looked at the children’s bewildered faces, and the dull resignation in the eyes of the adults, and was filled with compassion. Could he take them to Michaelhouse? Unfortunately, word was sure to leak out if he did, and then there would be a massacre for certain – of his colleagues as well as the refugees. He wracked his brain for another solution, but nothing came to mind.

‘We could not bring ourselves to oust them,’ said Amphelisa. ‘So we agreed to tell people that they had gone to London instead. After all, who would ever know the truth?’

‘Everyone you invited here to search the place,’ replied Bartholomew, shocked by the reckless audacity of the plan. ‘You said you hoped they would see it is a good place, and would bring their lunatics here.’

‘The offer was for folk to look around our hall, not the guesthouse,’ argued Amphelisa pedantically. ‘No one would have seen the peregrini.’

‘If you had declared one building off-limits, even the most dull-witted visitor would have smelled a rat,’ said Tulyet, disgusted. ‘Your decision was irresponsible, especially as Delacroix and Julien were seen after they were supposed to have left. I appreciate your motives, Amphelisa, but this was a foolish thing to have done. Now none of you are safe.’

‘Dick is right,’ said Michael. ‘You must leave today. All of you – staff and peregrini.’

‘And go where?’ asked Madame Vipond helplessly. ‘The open road, where we will be easy prey for anyone? Another town or village, where we will be persecuted as we were in Winchelsea? At least here we have food and a roof over our heads.’

‘Not food,’ put in Tangmer. ‘I have no money to buy more, and nor do you.’

‘You mentioned the castle,’ said Bartholomew to Tulyet. ‘They would be safe there, under your protection.’

‘That was before Goda was murdered,’ said Tulyet. ‘Once it becomes known that a local lass was stabbed in a place where Frenchmen were staying … well, you do not need me to tell you what conclusions will be drawn. None of us can guarantee their safety now, and the only thing these peregrini can do is get as far away as possible.’

‘Goda,’ said Michael, looking around at the fugitives. ‘Do you know who killed her?’

‘She brought us bread at dawn,’ replied Julien. ‘But since then, we have been huddled in here, trying to keep the children quiet. The windows are either nailed shut or they open on to the road rather than the Spital, which means we have no idea what is happening in the Tangmers’ domain.’

‘We had better pack,’ said Madame Vipond exhaustedly to the others. ‘And trust that God will protect us, given that people will not.’

‘We cannot send them off to fend for themselves,’ protested Bartholomew to Michael and Tulyet. ‘It would be inhuman. We must find another way.’

Michael pondered for a moment. ‘The conloquium will finish the day after tomorrow, and nuns will disperse in all directions to go home. Most are good women, and many hail from very remote convents. Let me see if one will accept some travelling companions.’

‘Two days is too long,’ argued Tulyet. ‘We cannot trust Leger to keep his mouth shut for ever, and these folk will die for certain if they are discovered here.’

‘Then we will just have to protect them,’ said Bartholomew doggedly. ‘Detail more soldiers to stand guard.’

‘I cannot spare men to mind the Spital when I am struggling to prevent my town from going up in flames,’ said Tulyet irritably.

‘Please, Dick,’ said Michael quietly. ‘I seriously doubt these people can move quickly enough to escape the bigots mustering outside, so they will be caught and murdered. I do not want that on my conscience and nor do you.’

Tulyet sighed in resignation. ‘Very well – you have until dawn the day after tomorrow to organise an escape. But the agreement is conditional on the peregrini staying out of sight. If one is so much as glimpsed through a window or a gate, the deal is off. Do you understand?’

‘Thank you, Sheriff,’ said Julien with quiet dignity. ‘We accept your terms. But what about Delacroix and his friends?’

‘You had better hope they are well away,’ said Tulyet sourly, ‘because if they are lurking here, they are dead already.’

‘Do you think Goda tried to stop them from leaving?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘And they stabbed her for it?’

Julien and Madame Vipond exchanged a glance that suggested it would not surprise them. Amphelisa was the only one who protested their innocence, although not for long.

Outside, Leger listened in mounting anger to what had been agreed. His face darkened and his fists clenched at his side.

‘You place the comfort of foreigners above the safety of your town,’ he snarled. ‘How long do you think it will take before the truth seeps out? After that, anyone trying to defend this place will die, and for what? To protect Frenchmen?’ He spat the last word.

‘We four are the only ones outside the Spital who know the secret,’ said Tulyet curtly. ‘Michael, Matt and I will say nothing, so unless you cannot keep quiet …’

‘I can,’ said Leger sullenly. ‘Although this is a stupid decision, and I will tell the King so when he demands to know why good men died for nothing.’

‘No one will die, because you will prevent it,’ said Tulyet briskly. ‘I am assigning you the task of ensuring the Spital comes to no harm.’

‘I refuse,’ said Leger immediately. ‘You cannot make me act against my principles.’

‘Your principles preclude you from defending a charitable foundation?’ asked Tulyet archly. ‘Because that is all I require you to do – to keep the building safe.’

‘A building with Frenchmen inside it,’ retorted Leger. ‘The enemy.’

‘Oh, come, man,’ snapped Tulyet. ‘We are talking about a gaggle of women, old men and terrified children. Do you really think such folk represent a danger to you? However, if the challenge of defending this place from a ragtag mob is beyond your abilities, I can easily pick someone else to do it.’

‘Then do,’ flashed Leger. ‘Because I am not–’

‘Although if the Spital is damaged because you refuse to do your duty, you will answer to the King,’ Tulyet went on. ‘He has taken a personal interest in this place, and wants it to thrive. I seriously doubt you will keep his favour once he learns that you let it burn down because a few displaced villagers from Rouen were within.’

‘Very well,’ snarled Leger, throwing up his hands in defeat. ‘But I want my objections noted, and I shall be making my own report to His Majesty.’

He stamped away without another word, his expression murderous. Tulyet watched him begin his preparations, then started to walk back to the town with Bartholomew and Michael.

‘Are you sure he can be trusted?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily. ‘Because if not, it will cost the lives of everyone inside – peregrini and staff.’

‘I am sure,’ replied Tulyet. ‘A massacre will reflect badly on his military abilities, and he will not want that on his record. Besides, now that Orwel and Norbert are dead, he is the only man with the skills and experience to mount a workable defence – other than my knights, and I cannot spare them. However, it is not Leger who concerns me, but the Jacques.’

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘They will be miles away by now. They would have gone after the Girards were killed, but Julien stopped them. They never wanted to linger here.’

‘There is a rage in them that I have seen before,’ explained Tulyet soberly. ‘Their time in the Jacquerie and then in Winchelsea has turned them angry, bitter, violent and unforgiving. They will not overlook the Girard murders, no matter how much they and the victims might have quarrelled. They will want vengeance.’

‘Unless they are the ones who killed them,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘They are on our list of suspects.’

‘Regardless, I fear they have not disappeared into the Fens to escape the tedious business of protecting Julien’s flock, but are here, in Cambridge, biding their time until they can avenge themselves on the country that took them in and then turned against them.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Michael. ‘Yet I cannot believe that one of them stabbed Bruges at the butts. It would have been a shocking risk, and none of them are fools.’

‘But it would be a good solution to the murders, would it not?’ asked Tulyet. ‘The culprit being neither a townsman nor a scholar?’

‘Yes,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘But only if it is true.’

As the mood of the town felt more dangerous than ever, Tulyet decided it would be safer for Bartholomew and Michael to remain with him while they hunted killers. Michael objected, on the grounds that no one would dare assault the Senior Proctor, but Bartholomew was glad of Tulyet’s protection. They went to the castle first, where Tulyet organised a hunt for the Jacques, promising a shilling to the soldiers who brought them back.

‘Alive,’ cautioned Bartholomew, visions of corpses galore delivered to the Sheriff’s doorstep, the triumphant bearers safe in the knowledge that the dead could not say there had been a terrible mistake.

When the patrols had gone, Tulyet, Bartholomew and Michael went to the Griffin, to question its patrons about Wyse’s killer, after which they interviewed rioters about the person who had yelled the order to shoot. They spent an age in King’s Hall asking about its murdered scholars, and then went to St Radegund’s, where Sister Alice informed them that all the evidence against her was fabricated. Finally, they spoke to the staff at the Brazen George, to see if they had noticed anything untoward around the time when Orwel had died.

But they learned nothing to take them forward. Afternoon faded to evening, and then night approached, dark and full of whispering shadows. Tulyet scrubbed vigorously at his face to wake himself up as the church bells rang to announce the evening services.

‘We have done all we can with the murders today,’ he said. ‘Now I must go and keep the peace on our streets.’

‘I have already briefed my beadles,’ said Michael, ‘although I told Meadowman not to trust Heltisle’s Horde. I shall offer them to Leger soon – a gift of two dozen “prime fighting men” for the King’s army.’

He and Bartholomew trudged back to Michaelhouse, where they sat on a bench in the yard and ate a quick meal of bread and cheese before Michael went to join his beadles. The yard used to be dark once the sun went down, but he had ordered it lit with lanterns after he had taken an embarrassing tumble. In the hope that logical analysis would present the answers that had eluded them all day, Bartholomew began to list his remaining suspects.

‘The Jacques or Theophilis,’ he said. ‘I would like to include Heltisle, too, as he keeps trying to drag your attention away from the investigations by playing petty power games, but the truth is that I cannot see him stabbing anyone.’

‘The Jacques are on my list, too,’ said Michael, ‘but with Aynton above them, rather than Theophilis. You are right about Heltisle – he is objectionable, but no killer. We can exclude de Wetherset for the same reason.’

‘The only other people left are nuns – Sister Alice and Magistra Katherine, who cannot prove their whereabouts when the Girards were murdered.’

‘But Katherine is the Bishop’s sister, and too busy being intelligent and superior at the conloquium to stab people. I do not see Alice braving the butts either, much as I dislike her.’ Michael stood and brushed crumbs from his habit. ‘That meagre dinner will not see me through the night. I need something else. Come and have a couple of Lombard slices.’

He marched to his quarters and flung open the door. Theophilis was inside, going through the documents on the desk. The Junior Proctor jerked his hand back guiltily, but managed an easy smile.

‘There you are, Brother. I am looking for the beadles’ work schedules for the coming week. They are not in St Mary the Great, so I assumed they were here.’

‘I gave them to Heltisle,’ said Michael. ‘Why did you want them?’

‘Because Perkyn is ill, and must be removed from the rosters until he is well again. He complains of ringing ears after listening to the Marian Singers.’

Michael’s expression hardened. ‘Then tell him his services are no longer required. I heard the choir, and my ears are not ringing.’

Theophilis inclined his head and left, while Bartholomew wondered what lie the Junior Proctor would tell Perkyn to explain why he no longer had a job.

‘He did not want the rotas,’ he said, looking through the window to watch Theophilis cross the yard. ‘The truth is that Heltisle uncovered nothing to hurt you in your office last night, so he sent him here to find something instead.’

‘Well, if he did, Theophilis would not be looking for it on my desk, lying out for all to see. He knows anything important will be locked away. You are wrong about him, Matt.’

Bartholomew failed to understand why the monk refused to accept what was so patently obvious. He looked out of the window again while Michael riffled about in his pantry for treats, and saw Clippesby with a drowsing chicken – he was going to the henhouse to put her to roost. Theophilis changed course to intercept him, and asked a question to which the Dominican shook his head. Theophilis persisted, and Clippesby became agitated. So did the bird, which flew at Theophilis with her claws extended.

The Junior Proctor jerked away with a yelp. He looked angry, so Bartholomew hurried down to the yard to intervene – the hen was Gertrude, and it would be unfortunate if Theophilis hurt her, as the nominalists in the University were likely to see it as an act of war. The last thing they needed was another excuse for strife.

‘This lunatic knows something about the murders,’ spat Theophilis, jabbing his finger accusingly at Clippesby. ‘He saw something last night, but declines to tell me what.’

‘What did you see, John?’ asked Bartholomew, while Clippesby retrieved the hen and stroked her feathers. She relaxed, although her sharp orange eyes remained fixed on Theophilis.

‘You will not get a sensible answer,’ hissed Theophilis. ‘Just some rubbish about a mouse. He ought to be locked away where he can do no harm. All this nonsense about philosophising fowls! He is an embarrassment, and as soon as I have a spare moment, I am taking him to the Spital. They know how to deal with madmen.’

Clippesby regarded him reproachfully. ‘But you have been fascinated by the birds’ theories for weeks, so why–’

‘You are a fool,’ interrupted Theophilis, so vehemently that Clippesby flinched and the hen’s hackles rose again. ‘I thought you were more clever than the rest of us combined, but I was wrong. I should never have befriended you.’

‘Not befriended,’ said Bartholomew, suddenly understanding exactly why Theophilis had spent so much time in the Dominican’s company. ‘Milked for ideas.’

Theophilis regarded him contemptuously. ‘You are as addle-witted as he is if you think I am interested in any theory he can devise.’

‘But you are interested,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘Because Clippesby is cleverer than the rest of us combined. The whole University is talking about the Chicken Debate, and his arguments are respected by people on both sides of the schism. He has single-handedly achieved what others have been striving to do for decades.’

He saw that Michael had followed him outside and was listening. William had sidled up, too, although Theophilis was too intent on arguing with Bartholomew to notice either.

‘Clippesby is a one-idea man,’ the Junior Proctor said contemptuously. ‘He has shot his bow and now his quiver is empty.’

‘On the contrary, he has been working on his next treatise all term, and it promises to be every bit as brilliant as the first. It is almost ready, so you aim to steal it and pass it off as your own. That is why you have quizzed him so relentlessly.’

‘Lies!’ cried Theophilis outraged. ‘I would never–’

‘But first, you must get rid of him,’ Bartholomew forged on. ‘You began calling him a lunatic a few days ago, rolling your eyes and smirking behind his back. Now you aim to have him locked him away, so that no one will hear when he says “your” treatise is really his.’

‘But he is insane! He should be shut in a place where he cannot embarrass us. And I resent your accusations extremely. Why would I claim credit for a discussion between hens?’

‘Oh, I am sure you can adapt it to a more conventional format. And that is why you were in Michael’s room just now – not spying for Heltisle, but looking for something that will allow you to discredit Clippesby.’

‘What if I was?’ flared Theophilis, capitulating so abruptly that Bartholomew blinked his surprise. ‘I will make sure that this new treatise honours Michaelhouse, whereas Clippesby will just draw attention to the fact that we enrol madmen. It is better for the College if I publish the work under my name. Surely, you can see that I am right?’

Bartholomew was so disgusted that he could think of no reply, although the same was not true of William, who stepped forward to give Theophilis an angry shove.

‘You are despicable,’ he declared, as Theophilis’s eyes widened in horror that his admission had been heard by others. ‘There is no room in Michaelhouse for plagiarists.’

‘There is not,’ agreed Michael, regarding his Junior Proctor with hurt disappointment. ‘Consider your Fellowship here terminated.’

‘Do not expel him on my account,’ begged Clippesby, distressed as always by strife. The hen clucked, so he put his ear to her beak. ‘Gertrude says that–’

‘You see?’ snarled Theophilis, all righteous indignation. ‘He is stark raving mad!’

‘He is,’ agreed William. ‘Because I would not speak in your defence if you had been trying to poach my ideas. It takes a very special lunatic to be that magnanimous.’

‘You cannot eject me, because I resign,’ said Theophilis defiantly. ‘From Michaelhouse and the Junior Proctorship. I want nothing more to do with any of you.’

‘Good,’ said William. ‘I will help you pack. Is now convenient?’

When Theophilis had been marched away by a vengeful William, Michael invited Bartholomew and Clippesby to his rooms for a restorative cup of wine. Bartholomew supposed he should feel triumphant that his doubts about the Junior Proctor’s integrity should be correct, but instead he felt soiled. He glanced at Clippesby, who perched on a stool with the hen drowsing on his lap.

‘What will poor Theophilis do now?’ asked the Dominican unhappily. ‘No other College will take him once they learn what he did. His academic career is over.’

‘You are too good for this world,’ said Michael. ‘If he had tried to steal my ideas, I would have driven him from the country, not just the College.’

Clippesby kissed the chicken’s comb. ‘There was never any danger of him taking my ideas. Gertrude and Ma warned me weeks ago that his interest in them was not quite honourable, so they have been having a bit of fun with him.’

Michael regarded him warily. ‘What kind of fun?’

A rare spark of mischief gleamed in the friar’s blue eyes. ‘Theophilis will publish a thesis soon, but as Gertrude and Ma have been largely responsible for its contents, it will have some serious logical flaws. Then they will help William prepare a counterclaim.’

Bartholomew shook his head wonderingly. ‘Which will have the dual purpose of bringing more academic glory to Michaelhouse – William’s refutation is sure to be flawless if your hens are involved – and embarrassing Theophilis by having his errors exposed by the least able scholar in the University. My word, John! That is sly.’

Clippesby kissed the bird again. ‘Gertrude has a very wicked sense of humour.’

Michael eyed him with a new appreciation. ‘It is a scheme worthy of the most slippery of University politicians. Perhaps I should appoint you as my new Junior Proctor.’

‘No, thank you,’ said Clippesby vehemently, then turned to Bartholomew. ‘When you confronted Theophilis, did I hear you accuse him of spying for Heltisle?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘Why? Do you know something to prove it?’

‘I know something to disprove it. Hulda the church mouse often listens to Heltisle and de Wetherset talking. She says they did ask Theophilis to monitor you, but he refused.’

‘Did he say why?’ asked Michael. ‘And more to the point, why did this mouse feel compelled to eavesdrop on high-ranking University officials in the first place?’

‘Because she was afraid they would conspire against you – which they did, by trying to buy your Junior Proctor. But Theophilis was loyal. He refused to betray you, even for the promise of your job.’

‘Then what a pity he transpired to be an idea-thief,’ spat Michael in disgust. ‘Faithful deputies do not grow on trees. I do not suppose he was pumping you for ideas when any of these murders was committed, was he? Matt has him at the top of his list of suspects.’

‘He was with Gertrude, Ma and me when Paris was stabbed,’ replied Clippesby promptly. ‘Does that help?’

Bartholomew was not sure whether to be disappointed or relieved. He had wanted Theophilis to be the culprit, especially in the light of what the man had tried to do to Clippesby, but it would be better for Michaelhouse if the killer was someone else. Then he recalled another thing that Theophilis had said.

‘He mentioned you knowing something about the murders. Do you?’

‘Just another snippet from Hulda the mouse – that she saw a nun running away from the Brazen George last night. It was not long after Orwel was bludgeoned, although Hulda did not know this at the time, of course.’

Michael gaped at him. ‘A nun killed Orwel? Which one?’

‘Hulda did not say this nun killed Orwel,’ cautioned Clippesby. ‘She said the nun was running away from the Brazen George shortly after Orwel died. She does not know her name, but the lady was thin, pale, and wore a pure white habit.’

Michael blinked. ‘Abbess Isabel? She would never leave St Radegund’s at that time of night! She knows the town is dangerous, because she is the one who found Paris’s body.’

‘How was she running?’ asked Bartholomew of Clippesby. ‘In terror? In triumph?’

The Dominican shrugged. ‘She was just running.’

‘Abbess Isabel is not the killer,’ said Michael firmly. ‘She would never risk her place among the saints by committing mortal sins.’ He turned back to Clippesby. ‘Was this mysterious white figure alone?’

Clippesby nodded. ‘And not long before, Hulda saw her calling on Margery Starre.’

‘Then it cannot have been Isabel,’ said Michael at once. ‘She would never visit a witch. I imagine someone stole her distinctive habit and used it as a disguise.’

‘So ask Margery who it was,’ suggested Clippesby. He bent his head when the hen on his lap clucked. ‘But not tonight. Gertrude says she is busy casting spells to prevent another riot.’

‘Then we shall see her tomorrow,’ determined Bartholomew, although he could see that Michael itched to have answers immediately. ‘We cannot disrupt Margery’s efforts to keep the peace, Brother. If we do, and trouble breaks out again, everyone will say it is our fault for getting in her way.’

‘They will,’ agreed Clippesby. ‘And if more people die fighting, it will be even harder to restore relations between us and the town.’

Reluctantly, Michael conceded that they were right.