The Sanctuary Murders

Chapter 1

Cambridge, early May 1360

It was noon, and the bell had just rung to tell the scholars of Michaelhouse that it was time for their midday meal. The masters drew their discourses to a close, and the servants came to turn the hall from lecture room to refectory, carrying trestle tables from the stack near the hearth and setting benches next to them.

Most Fellows were only too happy to stop mid-sentence and rub their hands in gluttonous anticipation, but one always needed a nudge to make him finish. This was Doctor Matthew Bartholomew, who felt there was never enough time in the day to teach his budding physicians all they needed to know. He was regarded as something of a slave driver by his pupils, although he genuinely failed to understand why.

‘Enough, Matt!’ snapped Brother Michael, tapping his friend sharply on the shoulder when the first two more polite warnings went unheeded.

Michael was a portly Benedictine and a theologian of some repute. He was also the University’s Senior Proctor, and had recently been elected Master of Michaelhouse – although what had actually happened was that he had announced he was taking over and none of the other Fellows had liked to argue.

Under Michael’s auspices, College meals had improved dramatically. Gone was the miserable fare of his predecessors, and in its place was good red meat, plenty of bread and imported treats like raisins. He considered food a divine blessing, and was not about to deprive himself or the scholars under his care of God’s gracious bounty.

As he dragged his mind away from teaching, Bartholomew was astonished that it was midday already. He had been explaining a particularly complicated passage in Galen’s De semine, and as semen held a special fascination for most of the young lads under his tutelage, they had not minded running over time for once.

‘Are you sure it is noon, Brother?’ he asked, startled. ‘I only started an hour ago.’

‘Four hours ago,’ corrected Michael. ‘I appreciate that you have much to cover before you leave us for a life of wedded bliss in ten weeks, but you should remember that even your lively lads have their limits. They look dazed to me.’

‘Transfixed,’ corrected Bartholomew, although it occurred to him that while De semine might have captured their prurient imaginations, he was less sure that his analysis of purgative medicines, which had taken up the earlier part of the morning, had held their attention quite so securely. Indeed, he was fairly sure a couple had dozed off.

‘Well, you can continue to dazzle them this afternoon,’ said Michael, drawing him to one side of the hall, out of the servants’ way. ‘But make the most of it, because tomorrow morning will be wasted.’

Bartholomew frowned. ‘Will it? Why?’

Michael scowled. ‘Because William is scheduled to preach on the nominalism–realism debate. You know this, Matt – we have been discussing ways to prevent it for weeks. But my predecessor agreed to let him do it, and William refuses to let me cancel.’

Father William was the College’s Franciscan friar. He was bigoted, stupid, fanatical and a disgrace to the University in more ways than his colleagues could count. Unfortunately, he had been a Fellow for so long that it was impossible to get rid of him, as the statutes did not list dogmatism and unintelligence among the crimes for which an offender could be sent packing.

‘You should have tried harder,’ grumbled Bartholomew, hating the thought of losing an entire morning to the ramblings of a man who knew even less about the subject than he did.

The dispute between nominalists and realists was deeply contentious, although Bartholomew failed to understand why it evinced such fierce passions. It was a metaphysical matter, revolving around the question of whether properties – called universals – exist in reality or just in the mind or speech. Even those who did not really understand it felt compelled to make a stand, with the result that a lot of rubbish was being spouted. William was a worse offender than most.

‘“Tried harder”?’ asked Michael crossly. ‘How, when William threatened to sue me for breach of contract if I stood in his way? Yet I shall be glad of a morning away from the lecture hall. I have a lot to do now that I am Master of Michaelhouse and Senior Proctor.’

‘You mean like hunting whoever murdered Paris the Plagiarist?’

Paris, an elderly French priest, had caused a major scandal the previous term, when he had stolen another scholar’s work and passed it off as his own. In academic circles, this was considered the most heinous of crimes, and had brought great shame to King’s Hall, where Paris had been a Fellow. Someone had stabbed him ten days before, but Michael was no nearer to finding the killer now than he had been when it had first happened.

‘I suspect the culprit acted in a drunken rage,’ the monk confided. ‘He was no doubt sorry afterwards, and aims to get away with his crime by keeping his head down. I shall not give up, of course, but the trail is stone cold.’

‘You have no leads at all?’

‘There are no clues and no witnesses. It was a random act of violence.’

‘Not random,’ said Bartholomew, who had been particularly repelled by what Paris had done. Academic integrity was important to him, and he thought Paris had committed an unpardonable offence. ‘I imagine he was killed for being a fraud, a liar and a cheat.’

‘His killer may be someone who feels like you,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘But I think he was struck down because he was French.’

Bartholomew blinked. ‘You consider being French worse than stealing ideas?’

‘Most townsmen do. The Winchelsea massacre ignited much anti-French fervour, as you know. The last few days have seen the rise of a ridiculous but popular belief that anyone with even remote connections to France will applaud what happened in Sussex.’

Bartholomew grimaced, aware of how quickly decent people could turn into a mob with unpalatable opinions. ‘Of course, our own army is no better. I saw them run amok in Normandy once, and it was an ugly sight.’

‘Hush!’ warned Michael sharply. ‘Say nothing that might be considered pro-French, not even here among friends. Emotions run too high, and folk are eager to roust out anyone they deem to be a traitor.’

‘No one can accuse me of being unpatriotic,’ grumbled Bartholomew. ‘Not when I shall squander an entire evening practising archery tonight – time that would have been much better spent teaching.’

‘It would,’ agreed Michael. ‘But shooting a few arrows will not save you from the prejudices of the ignorant.’

Reluctantly, Bartholomew conceded that the monk was right. ‘Townsfolk glare at me when I go out, even ones I have known for years. I am glad Matilde and Edith are away.’

Matilde, the woman he was going to marry, had gone to fetch an elderly aunt to their wedding, and had taken his sister with her for company.

‘I wish I was with them,’ sighed Michael. ‘Of course, that would leave Chancellor de Wetherset unsupervised. I like the man, but he should let me decide what is best for the University, and it is a wretched nuisance when he tries to govern for himself.’

Bartholomew smothered a smile. Over the years, Michael had manipulated the post of Senior Proctor to the point where he, not the Chancellor, wielded the real power in the University. The last two incumbents had been his puppets, implementing the policies he devised and following his edicts. But the current holder, Richard de Wetherset, bucked under Michael’s heavy hand.

‘He ran the University well enough when he was Chancellor before,’ Bartholomew said, not surprised that de Wetherset had his own ideas about what the office entailed.

‘Yes, but times have changed since then, and I do not want him undoing all the good I have done. For example, he disapproves of me compromising when dealing with the town – he thinks we should best them every time, to show them who is in charge. He believes the only way forward is to fight until we are the undisputed rulers.’

‘And have sawdust in our flour, spit in our beer, and candles that smoke?’

‘Quite! Of course, none of it would be a problem if Suttone was still in post. Why did he not talk to me before resigning as Chancellor? I would have convinced him to stay, and then there would be no great rift opening between us and the town.’

‘Depose de Wetherset,’ shrugged Bartholomew. ‘You have dismissed awkward officials in the past, so I am sure you can do it again.’

‘It is tempting, but no,’ said Michael. ‘Not least because it would mean another election, and I am tired of fixing those. De Wetherset is not a bad man or a stupid one. We worked well together in the past, and I am sure we can do it again. He just needs a few weeks to adjust to my way of doing things.’

While the servants toted steaming pots and platters from the kitchens, Bartholomew looked around the place that had been his home for so many years – something he had taken to doing a lot since Matilde had agreed to be his wife. Scholars were not permitted to marry, so he would have to resign his Fellowship when he wed her at the end of term. He loved her, but even so, he was dreading the day when he would walk out of Michaelhouse for the last time.

The College comprised a quadrangle of buildings around a muddy courtyard, with the hall and the Fellows’ room – called the conclave – at one end, and two accommodation blocks jutting from them at right angles. The square was completed by a high wall abutting the lane, along which stood a gate, stables, sheds and storerooms. It had grounds that ran down to the river, and included an orchard, vegetable plots and a private pier.

Michaelhouse had never been wealthy, and bad luck and a series of unfortunate investments had resulted in it teetering on the verge of collapse more times than Bartholomew could remember. However, now Michael was Master, things had changed. New benefactors were eager to support a foundation with him at its helm, and his ‘election’ had attracted not just generous donations, but powerful supporters at Court, which combined to ensure the College a much more stable and prosperous future.

He had also appointed two new Fellows. The first was Bartholomew’s student John Aungel – young, energetic and eager to step into his master’s shoes. The second was Will Theophilis, a canon lawyer who had compiled a popular timetable of scripture readings entitled Calendarium cum tribus cyclis. Theophilis was ambitious, so Michael had also made him his Junior Proctor, which he promised would lead to even loftier posts in the future.

Michael had raised the College’s academic standing as well. He had written several sermons that were very well regarded in theological circles, while Bartholomew had finally published the massive treatise on fevers that he had been compiling for the past decade – a work that would spark considerable controversy if anyone ever read it. No one had attempted it yet, and the only comments he had received so far pertained to how much space it took up on a bookshelf.

But these were eclipsed by a stunning theosophical work produced by John Clippesby, a gentle Dominican who talked to animals and claimed they answered back. Michael had wasted no time in promoting it, and the College now basked in its reflected glory.

Clippesby’s thesis took the form of a conversation between two hens – one a nominalist, the other a realist. Although an eccentric way of presenting an argument, his logic was impeccable and the philosophy groundbreaking without being heretical. The whole University was gripped by the ‘Chicken Debate’, which was considered to be the most significant work to have emerged from Cambridge since the plague.

The two new Fellows filled the seats at the high table once occupied by Master Langelee and Chancellor Suttone. Master Langelee had gone to fight in France, where he was far more comfortable with a sword in his hand than he had ever been with a pen; Suttone had resigned the Chancellorship and disappeared to his native Lincolnshire. Bartholomew missed them both, and had liked the College more when they were there. Or was he just getting old and resistant to change?

‘Do you think Michael will excuse me tomorrow, Matt?’

The voice that broke into his thoughts belonged to Clippesby, who cradled a sleeping duck in his arms. The Dominican was slightly built with dark, spiky hair and a sweet, if somewhat other-worldly, smile.

‘Tomorrow?’ asked Bartholomew blankly.

‘Father William’s lecture,’ explained Clippesby. ‘He will attempt to explain why he thinks realism is better than nominalism, and I do not think I can bear it.’

One of William’s many unattractive traits was his passionate dislike of anyone from a rival Order. He particularly detested Dominicans, and was deeply jealous of Clippesby’s recent academic success. His determination to ridicule the Chicken Debate was why he had refused to let Michael cancel his lecture – he believed he could demolish Clippesby’s ideas, although he was wholly incapable of succeeding, and would likely be intellectually savaged in the process. Bartholomew was not surprised the kindly Clippesby was loath to watch.

‘I am sure Michael will understand if you slip away,’ he said. ‘I hope to miss it, too – with any luck, a patient will summon me.’

Clippesby wagged a cautionary finger. ‘Be careful what you wish for. It might come true.’

‘What might come true?’ asked Theophilis, coming to join them.

The new Junior Proctor had long black hair parted in the middle, and a soft voice that had a distinctly sinister timbre. Bartholomew had disliked him on sight, which was unusual, as he tended to find something to admire in the most deplorable of rogues. He considered Theophilis sly, smug and untrustworthy, although Michael often remarked how glad he was that the canon lawyer had agreed to be his deputy.

‘We were discussing wishes,’ explained Clippesby, laying an affectionate hand on the duck’s back. ‘Ada here expressed a desire for a large dish of grain, but when one appeared, greed made her ill. Now she is sleeping off her excesses.’

‘Goodness!’ murmured Theophilis, regarding the bird askance. ‘Perhaps she should have enrolled at King’s Hall instead – that is the College noted for overindulgence, not ours. Incidentally, have you thought about the questions I raised last night – the ones about Scotist realism and the problem of universals?’

He often asked the Dominican’s opinion on philosophical matters, although he demonstrated a polite interest in the answer only as long as Clippesby was within earshot; once the Dominican was away, he mocked his eccentric ways. This duplicity was another reason why Bartholomew had taken against him.

‘Things have a common nature indeed!’ he scoffed when Clippesby had gone. ‘What nonsense! He should be locked up, where he can do no harm.’

‘If you really think that,’ said Bartholomew icily, ‘why do you spend so much time with him?’

Theophilis shrugged. ‘It amuses me. Besides, there is no harm in making friends, even with lunatics. But speaking of friends, I have been invited to St Radegund’s Priory tomorrow, to hear a nun pontificate on sainthood. I have permission to bring a guest, so would you care to join me? It will allow you to escape William’s tirade.’

Bartholomew flailed around for an excuse to decline, as even listening to William was preferable to a jaunt with Theophilis. ‘I may have patients to attend,’ he hedged. ‘You will be better off asking someone else.’

‘Perhaps another time, then,’ said Theophilis, all amiability.

Bartholomew hoped not.

A short while later, the bell rang to announce that the food was ready to be served. The students aimed for the body of the hall, while Michael and his five Fellows stepped on to the dais – the raised platform near the hearth where the ‘high table’ stood. The Master’s chair occupied pride of place in the middle, with benches for Bartholomew, Clippesby and Aungel on his right, and William and Theophilis to his left.

Michael waited until everyone had reached his allotted place, then intoned a Grace. It was neither too short nor too long, and each word was beautifully enunciated, so that even William, whose grasp of Latin was questionable, could follow. As Michael spoke, Bartholomew reflected on the other Masters he had known during his tenure – dear old Kenyngham, who had been overly wordy; the smarmy Wilson cousins; and Langelee, whose Graces had been brief to the point of irreverence. Michael did everything better than any of them, and he wondered why he and his colleagues had not elected him sooner.

When the monk finished, everyone sat and the servants brought the food from behind the serving screen. There was bread – not white, but not rye bulked out with sawdust either – and a stew containing a good deal of meat and no vegetables, just as Michael liked it. As a sop to Bartholomew’s insistence on a balanced diet, there was also a small dish of peas.

Meals were meant to be eaten in silence, with no sound other than the Bible Scholar’s drone, but Michael considered this a foolish rule. Students spent much of the day listening to their teachers, so it was unreasonable to expect them to stay quiet during meals as well. A few were monks or friars, used to such discipline, but most were not, and needed to make some noise. Moreover, many were eager to discuss what they had learned that day, and Michael hated to stifle intelligent conversation.

The students were not the only ones who appreciated the opportunity to talk. So did Bartholomew, because it allowed him to collar Aungel and issue yet more instructions about how the medical students were to be taught after he left. He was about to launch into a monologue regarding how to approach the tricky subject of surgery – physicians were supposed to leave it to barbers, but he liked to dabble and encouraged his pupils to do likewise – when his attention was caught by what Theophilis was saying in his slyly whispering voice.

‘The Chancellor granted the stationer special licence to produce more copies of the Chicken Debate this morning. All profits are to go to the University Chest.’

Michael gaped his shock. ‘But de Wetherset cannot decide how and when that treatise is published, and he certainly cannot pocket the proceeds for the University! They belong to Clippesby – and, by extension, to Michaelhouse.’

‘He told me that Clippesby had agreed to it,’ explained Theophilis. ‘The Vice-Chancellor arranged it with him, apparently.’

He glanced at the Dominican, who was feeding wet bread to the two hens he had contrived to smuggle into the hall. As a relative newcomer, Theophilis still found Clippesby’s idiosyncrasies disconcerting. The other Fellows were used to animals and birds joining them for dinner, although Bartholomew had banned rats in the interests of hygiene and cows in the interests of safety.

‘Well, Clippesby?’ demanded Michael angrily. ‘Did you treat with Vice-Chancellor Heltisle behind my back?’

Heltisle was the first ever to hold the office of Vice-Chancellor, a post de Wetherset had created on the grounds that the University was now too big for one man to run. De Wetherset was right: it had doubled in size over the last decade, and involved considerably more work. Appointing a deputy also meant that Michael could not swamp him with a lot of mundane administration, as he had done with his puppet predecessors – a ploy to keep them too busy to notice what he was doing in their names. De Wetherset passed such chores to Heltisle, leaving him free to monitor exactly what the monk was up to.

Clippesby nodded happily. ‘He told me that the money would be used to build a shelter for homeless dogs. How could I refuse?’

Michael’s expression hardened. ‘Your dogs will not see a penny, and you are a fool to think otherwise. Heltisle loathes Michaelhouse, because we are older and more venerable than his own upstart College. He will do anything to harm us.’

Clippesby smiled serenely. ‘I know, which is why I added a clause to the contract. It states that unless the kennel is built within a week, he will be personally liable to pay me twice the sum raised from selling the treatise.’

The other Fellows gazed at him in astonishment. Clippesby was notoriously ingenuous, and was usually the victim of that sort of tactic, not the perpetrator.

‘And Heltisle signed it?’ asked Michael, the first to find his tongue.

Clippesby continued to beam. ‘I do not think he noticed the addendum when he put pen to parchment. He was more interested in convincing me that it was the right thing to do.’

Michael laughed. ‘Clippesby, you never cease to amaze me! Heltisle will be livid.’

‘Very probably,’ acknowledged Clippesby. ‘But the dogs will be pleased, and that is much more important.’

‘I hope you do not expect me, as Junior Proctor, to draw Heltisle’s attention to this clause when the week is up,’ said Theophilis uneasily.

‘I shall reserve that pleasure for myself,’ said Michael, eyes gleaming in anticipation.

For the rest of the meal, the monk made plans for the unexpected windfall – the gutters on the kitchens needed replacing, and he wanted glass in the conclave windows before winter.

While Michael devised ways to spend Clippesby’s money, Bartholomew studied Theophilis. Because Michael had given him his Fellowship and started him on the road to a successful academic career, Theophilis claimed he was in the monk’s debt. In order to repay the favour shown, he had offered to spy on the Chancellor and the Vice-Chancellor on Michael’s behalf. It was distasteful, and Bartholomew wondered yet again if Michael was right to trust him.

‘Heltisle will not have fallen for your ruse,’ warned Father William, a burly, rough-looking man with a greasy halo of hair around an untidy tonsure. His habit had once been grey, but was now so filthy that Bartholomew considered it a health hazard. ‘He will have added some clause of his own – one that will make us the losers.’

‘He did not,’ Clippesby assured him. ‘I watched him very closely, as did the robin, four spiders and a chicken.’

‘Which chicken?’ demanded William, eyeing the pair that pecked around Clippesby’s feet. ‘Because if it is the bird that expounded all that nominalist nonsense, then I submit that its testimony cannot be trusted.’

‘She, not it,’ corrected Clippesby with one of the grins that made most people assume he was not in his right mind. He bent to stroke one of the hens. ‘Gertrude is a very sound theologian. But as it happens, it was her sister Ma who helped me to hoodwink Heltisle.’

This was too much for William. ‘How can a debate between two fowls be taken seriously?’ he scoffed. ‘It is heresy in its most insidious form. You should be excommunicated!’

Clippesby was a firm favourite among the students, far more so than William, so there was an instant angry growl from the body of the hall. Aungel, so recently a student himself, rushed to the Dominican’s defence.

‘Many Greek and Roman philosophers used imaginary conversations between animals as a vehicle to expound their theories,’ he pointed out sharply. ‘It is a perfectly acceptable literary device.’

‘But those discussions were between noble beasts,’ argued William. ‘Like lions or goats. But Clippesby chose to use hens.’ He virtually spat the last word.

‘Goats?’ blurted Theophilis. ‘I hardly think they can be described as noble.’

‘What is wrong with hens?’ demanded Clippesby at the same time.

‘They are female,’ replied William loftily. ‘And it is a fact of nature that those are always less intelligent than us males.’ He jabbed a grubby finger at Gertrude. ‘And do not claim otherwise, because I saw her eating worms the other day, which is hardly clever.’

‘But you eat worms, Father,’ said Clippesby guilelessly. ‘There is one in your mouth right now, in fact – it was among the peas.’

There followed an unedifying scene during which William spat, the chickens raced to examine what was expelled, Clippesby struggled to stop them, and the students howled with laughter. Aungel joined in, while Theophilis watched in tight-lipped disapproval. Michael could have ended the spectacle with a single word, but he let it run its course, feeling it served William right.

‘How do you like University life, Theophilis?’ asked Bartholomew, once the commotion had died down and everyone was eating again, although no one was very interested in the peas. ‘Are you happy here?’

‘Yes – I enjoy teaching, while spying on the Chancellor and his deputy for Michael is pleasingly challenging. However, the tension between scholars and the town is worrisome.’

‘Relations are strained at the moment,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘But the hostility will subside. It always does.’

‘Perhaps it has in the past, but that was when Michael was in charge,’ said Theophilis, pursing his lips. ‘Now we have de Wetherset, who has a mind and opinions of his own. For example, Michael wanted to pass an edict forbidding scholars from speaking French on the streets, but de Wetherset blocked it, which was stupid.’

Bartholomew agreed. ‘It would have removed one cause for resentment. However, in de Wetherset’s defence, there are a lot of scholars who do not know English – and tradesmen will not understand them if they speak Latin. I understand his reservations.’

Theophilis lowered his voice. ‘De Wetherset wants to rule alone, like he did the last time he was Chancellor. He chips away at Michael’s authority constantly, so that Michael grows weaker every day. Moreover, Heltisle supports him in all he does, which is why de Wetherset created the post of Vice-Chancellor, of course – for an ally against Michael.’

‘De Wetherset will never best our Master,’ said Bartholomew confidently. ‘So it does not matter if he has Heltisle to support him or not – Heltisle is irrelevant.’

‘I hope you are right, because if not, de Wetherset will take us to war with the town, and I fear–’ Theophilis broke off when a soldier from the castle hurried in and a student conducted him towards the high table.

‘You are needed at the market square,’ the man told Bartholomew breathlessly. ‘Bonet the spicer has been murdered, and the Sheriff wants your opinion about it.’

It was not far from the College to the market square, where Jean Bonet occupied a handsome house overlooking the stall where he sold his costly wares. He had lived in Cambridge for many years, but his nationality had only become a problem since the Winchelsea massacre and the King’s call to arms. He lived alone, and was reputed to be fabulously wealthy.

Bartholomew arrived at the spicer’s home to find three men waiting for him. One was Sheriff Tulyet, who owed at least part of his shrieval success to the good working relationship he had developed with Michael. He had been horrified when Suttone had resigned, lest the new Chancellor proved to be less amenable. He was right to be concerned: relations had grown chilly with de Wetherset at the helm, despite Michael’s efforts to keep matters on an even keel.

Tulyet was dwarfed by the two knights who were with him. They were Sir Norbert and Sir Leger, sent by the King to oversee the town’s military training. The pair were much of an ilk – warriors who had honed their trade in France, with the scars to prove it. Sir Norbert was larger and sported an oily black mane that cascaded over his shoulders. He was a dim-witted brute, never happy unless he was fighting. His friend Leger was fair-headed and a little shorter, but far more dangerous, because he possessed brains to go with his brawn.

‘You took your time,’ Norbert growled when Bartholomew walked in. ‘No doubt you would have been faster if it had been a scholar who asked you to come.’

‘Perhaps he just does not want to help us solve the murder of a Frenchie,’ shrugged Leger slyly. ‘Who can blame him?’

‘I came as quickly as I could,’ objected Bartholomew. He did not care what the two knights thought, but Dick Tulyet was his friend, and he did not want him to think he had dallied.

Tulyet indicated the body on the floor. ‘We believe this happened last night – the alarm was raised when no one opened his shop this morning. Clearly, he has been stabbed, but can you tell us anything that might help us find out who did it?’

Bartholomew was sorry the spicer had come to such an end. There had been no harm in him, and he had been careful to keep a low profile once the town – and the University, for that matter – had decided that anyone even remotely foreign should be treated with suspicion and contempt. He was on the floor of his solar, and had been trying to run away when his attacker had struck – the wound was in his back, and his arms were thrown out in front of him. Bartholomew glanced around carefully, reading the clues in what he could see.

‘The killer came while Bonet was eating his supper,’ he began. ‘There is no sign that the door was forced, so I suspect he answered it in the belief that whoever was calling was friendly.’

‘He was clearly no warrior then,’ said Norbert in smug disdain. ‘Or he would have known to consider any visitor a potential threat.’

‘No, he was not a warrior,’ said Bartholomew coolly. ‘And I cannot imagine why anyone would kill a peaceable old man. However, I can tell you that the culprit is a coward of the most contemptible kind – the same kind of vermin who has no problem slaughtering unarmed women and children in French villages.’

Tulyet stepped between him and the knights when hands went to the hilts of swords.

‘What can you tell us about the wound, Matt?’ he asked quickly, to defuse the situation before there was trouble. ‘Was it caused by a knife from the dinner table?’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘Bonet was killed by a blade with two sharp edges – a dagger, rather than a knife.’ He nodded to a bloody imprint on the floor. ‘It lay there for some time after the murder, which probably means the killer left it behind when he fled the scene of the crime. Who found the body?’

Tulyet sighed. ‘Half the population of Cambridge – they burst in en masse when it became clear that something was amiss. My sergeant did his best to keep order, but Bonet was French, so his home was considered fair game for looters. His servants say all manner of goods are missing, and the murder weapon must be among them.’

‘You will never find it then,’ said Norbert, giving the impression that his sympathies lay firmly with the English thieves rather than the French victim. ‘The culprit will know better than to sell it here, so you should consider it gone permanently.’

‘We have asked for witnesses,’ added Leger quickly, seeing Tulyet’s disapproving scowl. ‘But no one saw a thing – or at least, nothing they are willing to admit.’

‘Because Bonet was a Frenchie.’ Norbert was about to spit when he caught Tulyet’s eye and thought better of it. ‘Cambridge folk think as I do – that the world is a better place without so many of them in it.’

‘Then go outside and ask again,’ ordered Tulyet sharply. ‘Because Bonet was not just some “Frenchie” – he was a burgess who lived among us for years. I want his killer caught and hanged.’

‘Even if a scholar did it?’ asked Leger deviously, and smirked. ‘The Chancellor will not approve of you executing his people. It will likely spark a riot.’

It was not a discussion Tulyet was about to have with them. He glared until they mumbled acknowledgement of his orders and slouched out. Bartholomew breathed a sigh of relief. The solar was spacious, but Leger and Norbert overfilled it with their belligerently menacing presence.

‘They might be good at teaching archery,’ he told Tulyet, ‘but they are always trying to pick quarrels with scholars, and one day they will succeed. Then we will have a bloodbath.’

‘I know,’ sighed Tulyet. ‘But Leger is clever – he makes sure all their aggression is couched in terms of patriotic zeal, thus making it difficult for me to berate them. They are a problem I could do without, especially as de Wetherset seems intent on destroying all that Michael and I have built.’

‘Perhaps the situation will improve when the horror of Winchelsea fades in everyone’s mind,’ said Bartholomew, sorry to see the lines of strain in his friend’s face. ‘We cannot hate France and all things French for ever.’

‘I think you will find we can,’ said Tulyet wryly, ‘so do not expect a lessening of hostilities anytime soon. But tell me more about poor old Bonet. You say he was killed with a dagger. So was Paris the Plagiarist. Do we have a common culprit?’

‘I cannot say for certain, but it seems likely, given that both were French. Will it serve to unite town and University, do you think? We have lost a scholar and you a burgess.’

‘Unfortunately, what Norbert said is true: most townsfolk do think the world is a better place with fewer Frenchmen in it. Ergo, I do not see us joining you on Bonet’s behalf, or your scholars standing with us to catch Paris’s killer.’

Unhappily, Bartholomew suspected he was right.