The Sanctuary Murders

Chapter 13

The next day saw a change in the weather. Blue skies were replaced by flat grey ones, and a biting north wind scythed in from the Fens. Bartholomew rose while it was still dark, woke Aungel with instructions for the day’s teaching, then joined Michael for a hurried breakfast in the kitchen with Agatha the laundress, who had a great many things to say about the fact that the town and the University were teetering on the brink of yet another major confrontation.

‘And it is not just each other they hate,’ she declared, pursing her lips. ‘There are divisions in both that mean the strife will be all but impossible to quell. I would not be in your shoes for a kingdom, Brother. Or the Sheriff’s, for that matter.’

‘She is right,’ muttered Michael, as he and Bartholomew hurried to Margery’s home in Shoemaker Row. ‘Dick managed to stamp out some trouble last night, but all it did was give the would-be rioters more cause to resent him – and us.’

‘Have you arranged an escape for the peregrini yet?’ asked Bartholomew.

Michael grimaced. ‘I need to be careful, because if I confide in the wrong nun … well, I do not need to explain to you that the matter is delicate.’

Although it was only just growing light, the streets were busy as folk took advantage of the curfew’s end to see what was happening outside. They included both townsmen and scholars, the latter making no effort to pretend they were going to church. On the High Street, some of Heltisle’s Horde were engaged in a fracas with students from King’s Hall, while there was a quarrel in the market square between those who wanted to fight the French spies at the Spital and those who thought it was better to lynch them.

‘Vengeance is for God to dispense, not you,’ declared Prior Pechem of the Franciscans as he passed – a remark that meant there were then three factions yelling at each other.

An angry bellow from Michael was enough to make them disperse, although Bartholomew sensed it was only a matter of time before they were at it again. He suspected most cared nothing about the issues they supported, and their real objective was just a brawl.

He and Michael reached Shoemaker Row, where Margery’s cottage looked pretty in the daylight – painted a cheerful yellow, with an array of potted plants on the doorstep. It was not how most folk would picture the lair of a witch.

‘You will have to go in alone,’ said Michael, who had been walking ever more slowly towards it. ‘I cannot be seen dropping in on her – our students might interpret it as licence to do the same, and enough of them beat a track to her door as it is. Besides, I have my reputation to think of.’

‘What about my reputation?’ demanded Bartholomew indignantly.

‘Already compromised – it is common knowledge that she likes you. Now hurry up! We cannot afford to waste time. If Margery confirms that Abbess Isabel was indeed out and about when Orwel was murdered, we will have to go to St Radegund’s and demand an explanation.’

Bartholomew entered Margery’s home with the same fear that always assailed him when he stepped across her threshold – that he would find her having a cosy chat with her good friend Lucifer. Or worse, brewing some concoction that contained human body parts. Instead, it was to discover Cynric there, the two of them sitting companionably at the hearth, drinking cups of her dangerously strong ale.

‘I am here for Dusty,’ explained the book-bearer, not at all sheepish at being caught in such a place. ‘He has a sore hoof, and Margery makes an excellent onion poultice for those.’

‘She probably got the recipe from Satan,’ muttered Bartholomew to himself, ‘who uses it on his cloven feet.’

‘No, it is my own formula,’ said Margery pleasantly, startling him with her unusually acute hearing. ‘So what brings you here, Doctor? And openly, too! The last time you came, you skulked outside with your ear to my window shutter.’

Bartholomew felt himself blush. ‘I was following Sister Alice. She was walking along so furtively that I thought I should see what she was up to.’

‘She wanted a cursing spell,’ recalled Margery. ‘But I did not give her one. I decided she was unworthy, so I fobbed her off with a pot of coloured water.’

‘Oh,’ said Bartholomew, wondering how ‘unworthy’ one had to be not to pass muster with one of the Devil’s disciples. ‘Did she say what she intended to do with it?’

‘Wreak revenge on her enemies, who seem to include everyone she meets. I did not take to her at all, which is why I do not mind disclosing her secrets. I am more discreet with folk I like, such as yourself.’

‘How about Abbess Isabel?’ asked Bartholomew, speaking quickly to mask his discomfiture. ‘Do you like her?’

Margery nodded. ‘She is a little over-passionate about Christianity, but that happens when you spend all your life in a convent, and she cannot help it, poor soul. However, my fondness for her means I will not break her confidence.’

‘No?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering how to convince her that it was important she did. Fortunately, he did not have to ponder for long.

‘Unless you make it worth my while,’ Margery went on. ‘Do I detect the scent of cedarwood oil about you? Amphelisa’s perhaps? That is excellent stuff – always useful.’

Bartholomew fished it from his bag and handed it over, marvelling that her sense of smell should be as sensitive as her hearing. ‘She said it kills fleas.’

‘I imagine it does, but it is also good for dissolving unwanted flesh.’

Bartholomew regarded her uneasily. ‘Unwanted by whom?’ But then he decided he did not want to know the answer, so changed the subject. ‘Tell me about the Abbess.’

‘She came to me on Saturday evening, shortly after you and Brother Michael went to the Brazen George – I saw you slip through its back door while I was walking home.’

‘How did she seem to you?’

‘You mean did she race out afterwards and brain Orwel?’ asked Margery shrewdly. ‘If she did, it had nothing to do with her discussion with me – which was all about a nun she aims to defrock. She is too tactful to mention names, but I knew she meant Alice.’

‘How?’

‘By her description of a discontented lady with a penchant for stinking candles. She wanted a list of all those Alice intends to hurt, so she could warn them to be on their guard. I obliged her, and in return she gave me a lock of her hair, which she says will be worth a lot of money after she is canonised.’

Bartholomew decided not to tell Margery that it took years for such matters to be decided, and that those arrogant enough to believe they were in the running would probably be rejected on principle.

‘Is Isabel herself on Alice’s list?’ he asked.

‘Oh, yes, along with the Bishop and a hundred others. I told her to watch herself, because while I am the best wise-woman in Cambridge, I am not the only one, and others are not as scrupulous as me. When Alice realises my coloured water is not having the desired effect, she will take her custom elsewhere.’

‘Did Isabel heed the warning?’

‘She promised she would. However, she said one thing that bemused me. She said that finding Paris the Plagiarist’s body still haunts her dreams. But why would it? He cannot have been her first corpse, and I am told that his stabbing was not particularly bloody.’

‘No more than any other,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And less than some.’

‘There is more to her distress about him than she lets on,’ finished Margery. ‘It puzzles me, and if you aim to solve his murder, it should puzzle you, too.’

To reach St Radegund’s, Bartholomew and Michael had to cross the market square, where there was no sign of the people who had been quarrelling there earlier. There were others, though, using the stalls as an excuse to loiter. The traders were becoming irked by all the looking but no buying, and it would not be long before it caused a spat.

Scholars prowled in packs, armed to the teeth. Some clustered around the baker’s stall, a business owned by generations of Mortimers. Bartholomew was not sure which Mortimer ran it now, as they all looked alike, but the present incumbent’s face was red with fury.

‘They have no right,’ he bellowed. ‘It is illegal and immoral!’

His angry voice attracted an audience. It included Isnard the bargeman and Verious the ditcher, the latter excused sentry duty at the town gates on the grounds that he was not very good at it.

‘What is illegal and immoral?’ asked Michael.

‘Cutting the price of bread,’ snarled Mortimer, so enraged that Bartholomew was afraid he would give himself a seizure. ‘We had a deal, and the University cannot suddenly decide only to pay half of it. That will barely cover the cost of the ingredients!’

Michael was bemused. ‘Our contract fixes the price of bread until next year. Neither of us can change anything until then.’

‘So you say, but Heltisle has declared all the agreements you negotiated null and void. He has a new list of prices – ones that favour scholars at our expense.’

‘Refuse to sell him anything, then,’ shrugged Isnard. ‘He and his cronies will starve without bread, and he will soon come back with his tail between his legs.’

‘No – he will buy it in Ely and I will be ruined,’ said Mortimer bitterly. ‘The bastard! He has me over a barrel.’

‘You should not trade with scholars anyway,’ put in Verious. ‘Not when they hid French spies in the Spital – spies who then crept out and murdered Sauvage.’

‘Murdered Sauvage?’ echoed Bartholomew uneasily. ‘He is dead?’

‘Did you not hear?’ asked Isnard. ‘We found him this morning, not ten paces from here. He was stabbed, and his killer left the dagger sticking out of his back – a challenge for us to identify it and catch him.’

‘What?’ cried Michael, shocked. ‘Why did no one tell me?’

‘Because it is none of your business,’ spat Mortimer. ‘Sauvage was a townsman and he was murdered by the French. His death has nothing to do with the University, so you can keep your long noses out of it.’

‘Poor Sauvage,’ sighed Isnard. ‘He should have told them his name – then they might have thought he was one of them and left him alone.’

‘He would not have wanted that,’ averred Verious. ‘He would rather be dead than be thought of as French.’

‘Where is his body?’ demanded Michael. ‘Holy Trinity?’

‘Yes,’ replied Isnard. ‘Although we kept the dagger. Show him, Verious. Brother Michael is good at catching criminals – maybe he will win justice for poor Sauvage.’

‘Do not bother, Verious,’ sneered Mortimer contemptuously. ‘Michael will do nothing about Sauvage, because all townsmen are dirt to the University.’

‘We are not dirt to Brother Michael,’ declared Isnard stoutly. ‘He would not let us join his choir if we were.’

Verious produced the dagger from about his grimy person. There was no need to study it closely: it was of an ilk with the ones used on the other victims. Michael took it and slipped it in his scrip, much to Verious’s obvious dismay.

‘What makes you think French spies killed Sauvage?’ asked Bartholomew of Verious, although it was Isnard who answered.

‘First, because that dagger is the same as the ones used on their other victims, and we know those blades were French, because the Sheriff said so when he showed them to us. And second, because it is an expensive thing, but the killer left it behind. Only spies can afford that sort of extravagance.’

‘Because they are paid directly by the dolphin,’ elaborated Verious confidently, ‘who is fabulously rich after plundering Winchelsea.’

Bartholomew opened his mouth to argue, then closed it again. There was no point when Verious and Isnard had already made up their minds. Michael continued to question them, but when it became clear they had no more to tell, he turned back to the enraged baker.

‘I will see you receive a fair price for your bread, Mortimer. You have my word.’

Mortimer scowled at him. ‘Unfortunately, your word is worthless. Heltisle told us that the new Chancellor wants to rule for himself, so you are now irrelevant. You have dealt justly with us in the past, but a new order has arrived, and you are not part of it.’

Michael’s face went so dark with anger that Bartholomew was alarmed for him.

‘Take a deep breath, Brother,’ he advised hastily. ‘It is not worth–’

‘What is de Wetherset thinking?’ exploded Michael. ‘Not just to antagonise tradesmen when we are on the verge of serious civil unrest, but to undermine my authority when I most need it? Does he want the University burned to the ground?’

‘It was not him – it was Heltisle,’ said Isnard, frightened by the sight of the Senior Proctor trembling with fury. ‘Perhaps de Wetherset knows nothing about it.’

Michael closed his eyes and took the recommended deep breath, so that when he next spoke, his voice was calmer.

‘It will not matter to Heltisle if we are attacked, because his College is surrounded by high walls, but what about the hostels? They have no such means to defend themselves.’

‘He does not care about those,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He has always been an elitist.’

Michael stormed towards St Mary the Great, aiming to have strong words with Heltisle, but before he and Bartholomew could reach it, they saw him walking along the High Street with de Wetherset and Aynton. The triumvirate had been to visit the Mayor, and carried documents bearing his seal. Two dozen beadles – the real ones, not the Horde – formed a protective phalanx around them, which was a necessary precaution as they were attracting a lot of hostile attention.

‘Why are these men guarding you?’ demanded Michael between gritted teeth. ‘They are supposed to be patrolling the streets to prevent brawls.’

Heltisle’s eyes narrowed at the disrespectful tone, although de Wetherset had the grace to look sheepish. Meanwhile, Aynton beamed at everyone who glanced in his direction, clearly under the illusion that a friendly smile was all that was needed to heal the rifts that he and his two cronies were opening.

‘Would you have us lynched by a mob?’ asked Heltisle archly. ‘An assault on us is an assault on the University, so it is imperative that we do not allow it to happen.’

‘You would not need protection if you had an ounce of sense,’ snarled Michael. ‘I negotiated fair trade agreements with the town, and you are fools to meddle with them.’

‘They were skewed in the town’s favour,’ argued de Wetherset, although his voice lacked conviction, as if he already doubted the wisdom of what he had done. ‘And I do have the authority to broker new ones. It says so in the statutes.’

‘It does,’ put in Aynton timidly. ‘But I am not sure that we went about it in the most diplomatic manner, Chancellor. Peace is–’

‘To hell with peace,’ growled Heltisle. ‘The town attacked us at the butts and killed four of our most promising scholars. Such behaviour cannot be tolerated, and harsher trade deals are its reward.’

‘The contracts you signed were to our detriment, Brother,’ said de Wetherset, simultaneously uncomfortable and defensive. ‘So we felt obliged to offer the town a choice: sell at more attractive prices, or have us buy supplies in Ely.’

Michael regarded him furiously. ‘Yes, I agreed to higher premiums, but it bought us much goodwill, which will save us a fortune in the long run, as you should know from the last time you were Chancellor. But did you have to start all this nonsense now, when relations are so strained?’

‘Relations are always strained,’ said de Wetherset, not unreasonably. ‘Ergo, there will never be a good time to initiate reform.’

‘And if you cannot quell the resulting rumpus, you should resign,’ finished Heltisle, his face a mask of triumph. ‘Theophilis has already offered to take your place.’

‘It is tempting,’ said Michael icily, ‘just for the pleasure of watching you destroyed. But I love the University too much to see it harmed, so I shall stay at my post. However, you have created an ugly mood, so I suggest you go home and stay there. Then my beadles can return to their real duties.’

‘No, they will continue to guard us,’ countered Heltisle challengingly. ‘Oh, and Meadowman is under arrest, by the way. He refused to obey my orders, so I had to make an example of him. The others fell into line when they saw which way the wind was blowing.’

Bartholomew glanced at the beadles who guarded the triumvirate. None were happy with the situation in which they found themselves, and he was sure that if Michael asked, they would abandon the triumvirate and follow him in a heartbeat. But the monk had too much affection for his men to put them in such an invidious position.

‘I understand you have continued to investigate the murders,’ said de Wetherset, turning to another matter, ‘even though we told you to leave them to Aynton.’ He raised a hand when Michael opened his mouth to reply. ‘I do not aim to scold you, Brother, but to ask if you have made any progress.’

‘Because I have not,’ said Aynton ruefully. ‘I tried, but then I gave up, lest I inadvertently made matters worse.’

‘You are wise, Commissary,’ said Michael tightly. ‘If only others had the intelligence to follow your example.’ He did not look at Heltisle. ‘And to answer your question, Chancellor, we shall have answers after we have been to St Radegund’s.’

‘St Radegund’s?’ echoed de Wetherset, puzzled. ‘Why there?’

‘Abbess Isabel was in the vicinity when Orwel was brained, and can identify the culprit,’ replied Michael with rather more confidence than was warranted, especially given that Isabel might be the killer herself.

‘Orwel?’ asked Heltisle. ‘Who is he?’

‘A man who had information about Wyse’s murder,’ said Michael, continuing to address de Wetherset. ‘Unfortunately, he was killed before he could share it.’

‘I have never liked the Benedictines,’ said Heltisle with a moue of distaste. ‘Perhaps this abbess dispatched Paris and the others. I would not put such wickedness past a member of that unsavoury Order.’

‘Then you have to admire her courage,’ mused Aynton. ‘The plagiarist was weak and old, but her other victims cannot have been easy meat.’

‘Go, then, Brother,’ said de Wetherset with an amiable smile. ‘But visit the Jewry first, because a spat was brewing there when we walked past, and you should stamp it out before it erupts. Meanwhile, I shall heed your advice and return to St Mary the Great, where I will remain until all the fuss dies down. What about you, Aynton?’

‘Oh, I shall be here and there,’ replied the Commissary airily, ‘healing rifts and urging everyone to be nice to each other. Or would you rather I stayed with you, Chancellor?’

‘No, keeping the peace is more important,’ replied de Wetherset. ‘Heltisle?’

‘I shall go home,’ said Heltisle grimly. ‘If there is to be a battle, I want Bene’t ready to defend its rights and privileges.’

‘Preparing for a skirmish is hardly the example our Vice-Chancellor should be setting,’ began Michael sharply. ‘It is not–’

‘Oh, yes, it is!’ interrupted Heltisle. ‘And if Michaelhouse does not do the same, it will reveal you to be cowards and traitors.’

‘Michaelhouse will do what is right,’ countered Michael. ‘And that does not include indulging in unseemly acts of violence against the town.’

Although Bartholomew itched to race to St Radegund’s at once, events conspired against him. First, there was the quarrel in the Jewry to defuse, then Michael insisted on freeing Meadowman. Bartholomew fretted at the lost time, feeling the crisis loom closer with every lost moment.

When they arrived at the gaol, Michael was appalled to discover that all the rioters he had arrested had been released without charge. Their places had been taken not just by Meadowman, but by half a dozen other beadles who had also refused to obey Heltisle.

‘He wanted us to guard his College rather than patrol the streets,’ said Meadowman indignantly as Michael let him out. ‘He thinks it will be targeted in the event of trouble, because it houses one of the University’s top officials. I pointed out that Bene’t has high walls, stout gates and warrior-students, so can look after itself.’

‘Whereas the hostels have no protection at all,’ growled another man. ‘Other than us.’

‘He should not have released the prisoners either,’ Meadowman went on angrily, ‘although half were Bene’t lads, so what do you expect? Now they will hare off to foment more unrest, while Heltisle’s Horde looks on like the useless rabble they are.’

‘You cannot return to normal duties now,’ said Michael. ‘Heltisle will just rearrest you. So don everyday clothes, monitor what is happening, and report back to me.’

‘We can report to you now,’ said Meadowman grimly. ‘The town believes the University aims to crush it into penury; the University thinks the town intends to destroy it once and for all; and everyone is convinced the Dauphin is poised to do to us what he did to Winchelsea – with the connivance of either the town or the University, depending on which side you are on.’

‘Then identify the ringleaders and shut them up,’ ordered Michael. ‘You may lock them in their cellars, hand them to the Sheriff, or threaten them in any way you please. Perhaps the trouble will fizzle out if they are muzzled.’

The beadles did not look hopeful, but sped away to do his bidding. Their disquiet and Michael’s grim expression combined to make Bartholomew’s stomach churn more than ever.

‘Dusk,’ predicted the monk hoarsely. ‘That is when the crisis will come. Tempers will fester all day, and as soon as darkness cloaks everyone with anonymity, we will go to war.’

‘There must be a way to stop it. We have averted catastrophes before.’

‘But that was when I was in charge,’ Michael pointed out bitterly. ‘Now we have the triumvirate, who undermine all my efforts to restore calm. Heltisle accuses me of wielding too much power, but what about him? He seems to have gone mad with it.’

They resumed their journey to St Radegund’s, but met Tulyet by the Barnwell Gate. The Sheriff was astride his massive warhorse, and had donned full armour. The men who rode with him were similarly attired.

‘I have done my best to quash the rumours about French spies in the Spital,’ he said, reining in. ‘But it is only a matter of time before the whispers start again and folk march out there to besiege it. I have ordered Leger to spirit the Tangmers and their guests away the moment it is dark.’

‘Perhaps he should do it now,’ said Bartholomew worriedly.

Tulyet shot him a scornful glance. ‘Then there will be a massacre for certain, because they will be seen by the mob already outside. He needs the cover of night to succeed.’

‘Can you trust him to do it?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘He agreed to protect the buildings, not the people inside.’

‘He will do it or answer to the King,’ replied Tulyet savagely. ‘Besides, once the Spital folk are safe, I hope our warring factions will converge on the place, as I would sooner that bore the brunt of their destructive fury than the town.’

‘You seem to think a clash is inevitable, but we still hope to avert one. Michael and I are going to see Abbess Isabel, who may have killed Orwel and perhaps the others, too. An arrest may appease–’

‘It is far too late for that,’ interrupted Tulyet harshly. ‘Any hope of a peaceful resolution disappeared when the University chose to renege on its trade deals. So, yes, there will be a clash, and you brought it about.’

‘Not us,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘The triumvirate.’

Tulyet shook his head in disgust. ‘I thought we had cast aside our differences and were moving towards a lasting peace, but it was all based on the sense and goodwill of one man. Now others are in charge …’

One of his knights – a rough, hard-bitten warrior who had never approved of Tulyet’s efforts to befriend the University – spat. ‘We will never have peace with scholars, and unless we take a firm stand against them today, they will crush us for ever.’

‘He is right,’ said Tulyet sourly, watching him wheel away to bear down on a group of tanners who were preparing to lob stones at someone’s windows. ‘I have signed away rights in exchange for amity, and so have you, Brother. Perhaps we should not have done.’

‘Of course you should,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Neither of us is going anywhere, so we have no choice but to work together, and if that means making compromises, then so be it.’

‘What about the Jacques?’ asked Michael. ‘Have they been found yet?’

Tulyet shook his head. ‘But if they are here, whispering poisonous messages in susceptible ears, I will hang them. Now, go to St Radegund’s if you must, but do not be long. You will be more useful here than chasing killers who no longer matter.’

Bartholomew glanced up at the sky as they hurried on, wishing it would rain. No one liked getting wet, and inclement weather would drive most would-be rioters indoors. Unfortunately, the clouds were breaking up and it promised to be another fine day.

‘It is about noon,’ said Michael, wrongly thinking he was estimating the time. ‘Which means we have just a few hours before the trouble begins in earnest. We must hurry.’

They passed through the Barnwell Gate unchallenged, as the sentries were patrolling the streets instead. This allowed folk to pour in from the outlying villages. Few carried goods to sell, and Bartholomew realised that word had spread about the brewing unrest, so they were coming to stand with the townsfolk. Tulyet was right: a clash was now inevitable.

They arrived at the convent to find the nuns just finishing a session on the burning issue of whether peas were better served with fish or meat.

‘We spent four times longer on that than on apostolic poverty – a debate that has tied the Church in knots for years,’ smirked Magistra Katherine. ‘We resolved that inconsequential problem in less than an hour!’

‘Fortunately, the conloquium is over tomorrow,’ said Prioress Joan. ‘And we shall waste no more time indoors when we should be riding out in God’s good clean air. How is Dusty?’

‘Quite content,’ replied Michael shortly. ‘Now where is–’

‘Is it true that your town is on the verge of a major battle?’ interrupted Katherine. ‘And if so, should we make arrangements to leave early?’

‘Please do,’ begged Michael. ‘I cannot see the disorder spreading out here, but there is no point in courting trouble. Tell your sisters to start their journeys as soon as possible.’

Katherine inclined her head. ‘Is it because of the peregrini? The town and the University are accusing each other of harbouring French spies?’

‘Yes,’ said Michael. ‘But we need to speak to–’

‘I hope no one remembers that we lodged in the Spital,’ said Joan anxiously. ‘They might accuse us of being French-lovers, and I do not want my nuns subjected to any unpleasantness.’

‘Where is Abbess Isabel?’ Michael managed to interject. ‘We need to see her urgently.’

‘So do I,’ said Katherine with a grimace. ‘She borrowed my copy of the Chicken Debate and I want it back. But she went out on Saturday, and no one has seen her since.’

‘She has been missing for two days?’ cried Michael. ‘Why did no one tell me?’

‘Her retinue assure us that she often disappears for extended periods when she wants to pray,’ shrugged Katherine. ‘They were not concerned, so neither were we.’

‘Did she say where she was going to do it?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘No, but she was last seen aiming for the town,’ replied Joan. ‘I was going to look for her myself as soon as the pea issue was resolved – her own nuns may not be worried, but she has been a little odd of late, and I would like to make sure she is safe and well.’

‘Odd in what way?’ demanded Michael.

‘Fearful and unsettled. Probably because she stumbled across that corpse – Paris’s.’

‘Have you searched the priory?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering if the Abbess’s timely disappearance meant a killer had escaped justice.

‘We have, but we will do it again.’ With calm efficiency, Joan issued instructions to the women who had come to listen. Obediently, they hastened to do as they were told.

‘May we see her quarters?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘If her belongings have gone, it means she … might have decided to make her own way home.’

He dared not say what he was really thinking, because he was unwilling to waste time on explanations that could come later.

‘You may not!’ objected Katherine, shocked. ‘We do not allow men into our sleeping quarters. It would be unseemly!’

Most of the remaining sisters agreed, but Joan sensed the urgency of the situation and overrode them. She led the way to the tiny cell-like room that Isabel had chosen for herself – an austere, chilly place that showed the Abbess placed scant store in physical comfort. Her only belongings were a spare white habit and a few religious books. In the interests of thoroughness, Bartholomew peered under the bed. Something was there, tucked at the very back, obliging him to lie on the floor to fish it out. It was an ivory comb.

‘That is mine!’ cried Joan, snatching it from him. ‘Or rather Dusty’s. What is it doing in here? I thought Alice had stolen it.’

‘Goda said she had,’ mused Michael, ‘although Alice denied it. Perhaps Alice placed it here in the spiteful hope that Isabel would be accused of its theft.’

‘If she did, she is a fool,’ said Joan in disgust. ‘No one will believe that an abbess – and Isabel in particular – would steal a comb.’

‘There is only one way to find out,’ said Michael. ‘Speak to Alice again. And this time, there will be no games. She will tell us the truth or suffer the consequences.’

He did not say what these might be, and Bartholomew gritted his teeth in agitation. How could they be wasting time on combs when the town was set to explode? Or was Isabel the killer, and the peculiar travels of the comb would throw light on why a saintly nun had turned murderer? Stomach churning, he followed Michael to the cellar, where the errant Alice had spent her last two nights.

Captivity had done nothing to blunt Alice’s haughty defiance. She reclined comfortably on a bed in a room that was considerably larger and better appointed than Isabel’s, and the only thing missing, as far as Bartholomew could tell, was a window. Clearly, nuns had a different view of what should constitute prison than anyone else.

‘I will answer your questions,’ she conceded loftily. ‘But in return, all charges against me will be dropped and I will be reinstated as Prioress of Ickleton.’

Michael ignored the demand. ‘We found the comb you hid in Abbess Isabel’s room. However, your plot to see her accused of theft has failed. The comb was stolen from the Spital, but she has never been there. You have, though.’

Alice was unfazed. ‘I have already told you: I did not take it. You will have to devise another explanation for how it ended up where it did.’

Bartholomew pushed his anxieties about the deteriorating situation in the town to the back of his mind, because a solution was beginning to reveal itself to him at last. He was sure Alice had stolen the comb, but was less certain that she had put it in Isabel’s room to incriminate her, because Joan was right: no one would believe the Abbess would steal, and Alice would know it. The only other explanation was that Alice had given it to Isabel, and the Abbess had secreted it there herself.

‘I believe you,’ he said, speaking slowly to give his thoughts time to settle. ‘You would have chosen a far more imaginative hiding place than under a bed.’

‘Is that where she put it?’ scoffed Alice. ‘What a fool! She should be demoted, so that someone more intelligent can be installed in her place. Someone like me.’

‘So you did give it to her,’ pounced Bartholomew. ‘Why?’

Alice folded her arms. ‘I refuse to say more until you promise me something in return.’

‘Very well,’ said Michael. ‘I promise to recommend clemency when you are sentenced to burn at the stake.’

Alice gaped at him. ‘Burn at the stake? What for?’

‘Buying cursing spells from a witch. Do not deny it, because we have witnesses. So what will it be? Cooperation or incineration?’

Alice’s hubris began to dissolve. ‘You misunderstand, Brother. The spell was only a harmless bit of fun – nothing malicious.’

‘No one will believe you. Now, the comb: why did you steal it?’

Alice looked at Michael’s stern, angry face, and the remaining fight went out of her. ‘Because Isabel charged me to visit the Spital, find the comb and bring it to her. In return, she promised to get me reinstated.’

‘You believed her?’ asked Michael, sure Isabel would have done nothing of the kind.

‘Not at first,’ admitted Alice. ‘But I was desperate, so I decided to take a chance.’

‘Did she say why she wanted it?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘She refused to tell me. And then, when I was accused of theft and needed her to prove my innocence, she denied all knowledge of our arrangement. She betrayed me!’

‘So you bought a cursing spell to teach her a lesson,’ surmised Bartholomew.

‘To make her confess to what she had commissioned me to do. I am not a thief – just the agent of one.’

Michael regarded her in disgust. ‘You lie! If Isabel had told you to steal, you would have trumpeted it from the rooftops when you were accused. But you never did.’

Alice shrugged and looked away. ‘I wanted to, but I am not stupid – I know who folk would have believed, and challenging Isabel would have done me more harm than good. But I am telling the truth now: she is the dishonest one, not me.’

‘Then how unfortunate for you that she has disappeared,’ said Bartholomew, feeling vaguely tainted by the whole affair, ‘and can never corroborate your tale.’

‘Disappeared?’ asked Alice uneasily. ‘Do you mean she has slunk off to pray in some quiet church? Or that she has run away?’

Michael glanced at Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps Isabel is the killer. She brained Orwel, realised that Clippesby might have witnessed her crime, and rather than claim yet another victim – one who is a real saint in the making – she elected to vanish.’

‘Leaving her possessions behind?’ asked Bartholomew doubtfully, assailed by the sudden sense that their reasoning was flawed, and that pursuing Isabel as a suspect would lead them astray at a time when they could not afford to make mistakes.

‘Leaving her spare habit and a few books behind,’ corrected Michael. ‘None of which are essential to a woman fleeing the law.’ He glared at Alice. ‘Regardless, she is not in a position to help you, so tell us more about your dealings with her.’

‘But I have told you everything already,’ whispered Alice, her plans for vengeance and a triumphant return to power in tatters around her, ‘other than that she was writing a report which she said would cause a stir.’

‘What report?’ demanded Michael. ‘It was not in her room.’

‘I think she left it with the Gilbertines. But do not ask me what it contains, because she refused to let me read it.’ Alice’s small faced turned hard again. ‘However, if it is more evidence of my so-called wrongdoings, it will be a pack of lies.’

‘Of course it will,’ said Michael, regarding her with distaste.

Out in the yard, Joan was waiting to tell them that St Radegund’s had been scoured from top to bottom, but Abbess Isabel was not in it. Michael nodded brisk thanks for her help, declined her offer to look for Isabel in the town, and left the convent at a run. When he and Bartholomew reached the Barnwell Causeway, they saw a smudge of smoke, grey against the blue sky. Was it someone burning old leaves? Or had trouble erupted already?

‘Isabel’s report will be about Alice,’ predicted Bartholomew as they trotted along, ‘because Alice continues to claim that she was unfairly dismissed – that Isabel exaggerated or invented the charges against her. No would-be saint likes being accused of dishonesty, so I suspect Isabel aims to expose Alice’s unsavoury character once and for all.’

‘Alice was asked to steal and lie, and she did,’ mused Michael, ‘proving how easily she can be corrupted. It is possible, I suppose.’

‘Although if Isabel is the killer, why not just dispatch Alice, like she has her other victims? It would have been a lot simpler.’

‘She would have headed our list of murder suspects if she had,’ shrugged Michael, ‘and that sort of allegation is a lot more serious than defaming a nun whom no one likes. Unfortunately, her disappearance has convinced me that she is the culprit. I am sorry for it, as her crime will reflect badly on my Order.’

‘But why would she dispatch Orwel? Or any of the victims, for that matter? It makes no sense.’

‘I had high hopes of answers at St Radegund’s,’ sighed Michael wearily, ‘but we should have stayed home and worked on quelling the trouble instead.’

Bartholomew was inclined to agree, and looked at the plume of smoke again. He tried to determine where it originated, stepping off the road to see if he could identify a church to give him his bearings. It was then that he saw a flash of white deep in the undergrowth. His stomach lurched.

‘Oh, Lord!’ he gulped. ‘It is the Abbess!’

As he and Michael fought their way through the thicket towards the body, Bartholomew noted twin tracks where feet had been dragged backwards along the ground. There were also splashes of blood, suggesting that Isabel had been attacked on the Causeway, then hauled off it, out of sight. She was well hidden, and he would have missed her if he had not left the road to look at the smoke. He crouched next to her and was startled when her eyes flickered open – he had assumed she was dead. Michael dropped to his knees and took her hand in his.

‘Abbess?’ he called. ‘Can you hear me?’

Isabel did not move.

‘Head wound,’ said Bartholomew tersely, wondering how long she been there. Since she had visited Margery two nights before? But no – she could not have survived her injury that long. Moreover, the blood was wet, suggesting a recent assault.

‘And there is the weapon,’ said Michael, nodding at the bloodstained stone that lay next to her. ‘The same as Wyse and Orwel.’

‘So we were wrong about her,’ whispered Bartholomew. ‘She is not their killer.’

‘She is trying to speak! You listen – your ears are sharper. What is she saying?’

Bartholomew did his best, but still only heard half the softly murmured words.

‘She does not know who attacked her,’ he relayed. ‘She heard footsteps behind her, but was hit before she could turn around. The first blow caught her shoulder, so she tried to fight back, but the second knocked her down. Her assailant kept his face hidden the whole time.’

He strained to decipher more, aware that Isabel’s voice was growing fainter as the effort drained her strength. Eventually, he sat back.

‘She wants a priest now. She says she refused to die until God sent her one, as it will help her case … her beatification.’

He moved away so Michael could perform last rites. Isabel’s eyes shone with an inner joy when the monk pronounced the final absolution, then it faded and she stopped breathing.

‘Such faith,’ said Michael softly in the silence that followed. ‘I wish I … But never mind. What else did she tell you?’

‘That we should go to the Gilbertines, where she has left a full report, and that the comb holds the key to all we need to know about Paris and the others.’

‘What did she mean?’

‘I could not hear that part. She also said that Alice is irredeemably wicked, because even when she was pretending to be her – Isabel’s – friend by “acquiring” the comb, she was still sending her deadly gifts. Her dying wish is for Alice to be excommunicated.’

Michael winced. ‘But she charged Alice to steal, declined to tell the truth when the theft became public knowledge, and was plotting to see Alice ousted from our Order. That is hardly an example of good fellowship.’

‘She did witness Orwel’s murder,’ Bartholomew went on. ‘It frightened her so much that she fled to St Edward’s, where she has been hiding ever since.’

‘Orwel’s body was taken there,’ mused Michael. ‘Its vicar is almost blind, and no one ever attends his services, because he tends to fall asleep in them. By luck, she went to the only church where she could lurk for days without being noticed.’

Bartholomew groaned suddenly. ‘The next morning, I went there to re-examine Orwel, to make sure there was nothing I had missed. I thought I sensed someone watching me.’

‘And you did not go to investigate?’ demanded Michael, unimpressed.

‘No, because I often feel I am not alone when I examine corpses. I assumed it was my imagination or … It never occurred to me that it would be a living person.’

Michael shook his head in disgust. ‘We might have had answers days ago if you had bothered to search the place. So what caused Isabel to leave in the end?’

‘Peas,’ said Bartholomew helplessly. ‘She wanted to know if they are better eaten with meat or fish. She was considering her own contribution to the question as she hurried along the Causeway, which is why she failed to notice her attacker until it was too late.’

‘That means he struck not long before we passed this way ourselves,’ said Michael uneasily. ‘I do not suppose she noticed anything to help us catch him?’

‘She claimed it was Satan, wearing handsome boots over his cloven hoofs and a fine brooch on his hat. She says she snatched it from him, although I think her mind was wandering at that point.’

‘Are you sure? Because there is something shiny by her hand.’

Bartholomew peered into the grass and saw Michael was right. It was a pilgrim badge, like the one de Wetherset wore. The monk gazed at it in alarm.

‘I hope she is not suggesting that the Chancellor attacked her!’ He flailed around for a better explanation. ‘She mentioned handsome boots. De Wetherset’s are not noticeably fine, but Aynton’s are.’

Bartholomew regarded him soberly. ‘Aynton’s are as ugly as sin – he is not the attacker. It is de Wetherset – he always wears this badge in his hat.’

‘Then someone stole it to incriminate him,’ argued Michael. ‘The killer is trying to lead us astray – and he is succeeding if you think the Chancellor would kill a nun.’

‘Think, Brother! We told de Wetherset that Isabel had witnessed Orwel’s murder and could identify the culprit. But we delayed coming here, because he told you to go to the Jewry first, after which you wanted to release Meadowman. He must have dashed straight to St Radegund’s to prevent Isabel from–’

‘No! The other nuns would have mentioned a visit from the University’s Chancellor.’

‘They did not mention it because he never got that far – he saw Isabel trotting along this road first. He dispatched her in exactly the same way that he killed Orwel and Wyse, with a stone.’

‘You are wrong! De Wetherset would not–’

‘We know a scholar sat in the Griffin and waited for Wyse to leave, because witnesses described a portly man with a good cloak, inky fingers and decent boots. It is de Wetherset!’

‘But why? Why would de Wetherset dispatch a harmless ancient like Wyse?’

‘To stir up trouble between us and the town.’

Michael was becoming exasperated. ‘That is the most ridiculous claim I have ever heard! No Chancellor wants his University in flames. What would be the benefit in that?’

‘Because he cannot rule properly as long as you are Senior Proctor – you are too strong and hold too much influence. But you are responsible for law and order, so what better way to discredit you than to create a situation that you cannot handle? He wants everyone to clamour for your dismissal so he can reign alone.’

Michael regarded him askance. ‘There are easier ways to remove a man from office than destroying the University and its peaceful relations with the town.’

‘Yes – like ransacking your office in the dead of night, undermining your trade agreements, and appointing a lot of useless beadles in your name.’

‘Hah! De Wetherset was not the driving force behind all that – Heltisle was. You are wrong about de Wetherset, Matt. He probably would like me gone, but he would never harm the University to achieve it. Heltisle, on the other hand, is ruthless, and exactly the kind of man to frame a friend to benefit himself.’

Bartholomew considered. Heltisle as the culprit made more sense than de Wetherset, who had always been the more reasonable of the pair. ‘So you think Heltisle disguised himself as de Wetherset and came to kill Isabel?’

‘I think it is easy to remove a badge from a hat, and Heltisle was also present when we claimed that Isabel could identify Orwel’s killer. And while the Chancellor would never provoke a war between the University and the town to oust me, Heltisle might. Although this is a dreadful accusation to make …’

‘And Heltisle is a dreadful man.’