The Sanctuary Murders

Chapter 6

Bartholomew did not want to investigate seven murders, especially as it was his last term as a scholar, so every day was precious. He tried to slip away, but Michael blocked his path and demanded to know where he thought he was going.

‘You cannot need me when you have Dick,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘Besides, I have no jurisdiction here. It is not University property and no scholar has died.’

‘Paris the Plagiarist was a scholar,’ said Michael soberly. ‘And as I am sure all seven deaths are connected, you do have jurisdiction here. Moreover, the Girards were hired as proxies by our Chancellor and his deputy, which is worrisome. You must help me find out what is going on.’

Tulyet agreed. ‘I should tell you now that de Wetherset and Heltisle are on my list of suspects. It is possible that they found out the Girards had no intention of honouring the arrangement and killed them for it.’

‘Much as I dislike Heltisle, I do not see him dispatching children,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And if de Wetherset cared about the money, he would not have given it all to Hélène.’

‘We should not lump the two of them together in this,’ said Michael. ‘De Wetherset is unlikely to soil his hands with murder – he is an intelligent man, and would devise other ways to punish a deceitful proxy. Heltisle, however, is cold, hard and ambitious. I would not put any low deed past him.’

‘I can see why he dispatched the plagiarist – a man who brought our University into disrepute – but why kill the spicer?’ asked Bartholomew uncertainly.

‘Bonet supplied the University with goods,’ shrugged Michael. ‘Perhaps there was a disagreement over prices. I know for a fact that Heltisle wants to renegotiate some of our trade deals when the current ones expire.’

‘I shall leave de Wetherset and Heltisle to you,’ said Tulyet. ‘But first, we should speak to the people here – staff, Frenchmen and nuns.’

He marched away to organise it, while Bartholomew grumbled about losing valuable teaching time. The monk was unsympathetic.

‘You may have no University to resign from unless we find our culprit. It is possible that these murders are a sly blow against us – Paris was a scholar; Bonet sold us spices; and now we have our Chancellor and his deputy’s proxies murdered.’

Bartholomew was not sure what to think, but there was no time to argue, as Tulyet was waving for them to join him in the hall. Once inside, all three gazed around in admiration. It was a high-ceilinged room with enormous windows that allowed the sunlight to flood in. The tables and benches were crafted from pale wood, while the floor comprised creamy white flagstones, a combination that rendered it bright, airy and cheerful.

‘This is wasted on lepers and lunatics,’ muttered Michael. ‘Indeed, I could live here myself. It is much nicer than Michaelhouse.’

Tulyet wanted to question the peregrini first. They shuffled forward uneasily. All hailed from the wealthier end of village life – craftsmen and merchants who earned comfortable livings, and who had been respected members of the community before war and rebellion had shattered their lives. There were nine children including Hélène, seven women of various ages, five very old men and the four Jacques.

Most questions were answered by Father Julien, with occasional help from a stout woman named Madame Vipond – the weaver Bartholomew had seen outside. While the two of them spoke, Delacroix and his companions snarled and scowled, so it soon became apparent that the Jacques resented the priest’s authority and itched to wrest it from him.

‘We had no choice but to leave France,’ Julien told Tulyet. ‘The barons burned every house in our village, and as I have already said, they murdered all but thirty of our people. None of the dead were Jacques.’

‘Because we were away when the barons came,’ objected Delacroix, detecting censure. ‘How could we defend our village when we were not there?’

‘My point exactly,’ murmured Julien acidly.

‘We chose to resettle in Winchelsea because my husband and I had sold baskets there for years,’ said Madame Vipond after a short, uncomfortable silence. ‘I knew it well and thought we could rebuild our lives among good and kindly people. We gave money to charitable causes and adopted their ways. We tried to become part of the town.’

‘And when the Dauphin’s raiders came, my brothers died trying to defend it,’ spat Delacroix. ‘Then what did those good and kindly people do? Accuse us of being spies! So we ran a second time, abandoning all we had built there. We have virtually no money, so it will be difficult to leave here and settle somewhere else. Perhaps you will give us funds, Sheriff.’

‘Why would I do that?’ asked Tulyet, startled. ‘I have my own poor to look after.’

‘Because we could stir up trouble if you refuse,’ flashed Delacroix. ‘You want to stay on our good side, believe me. We–’

‘Delacroix, stop!’ cried Julien. ‘We are not beggars, and we do not make threats.’

‘Well, I suppose we have this,’ said Delacroix, brandishing a fat purse. ‘The money earned by the Girards for being proxies. It will keep the wolf from the door for a while.’

‘How does it come to be in your possession?’ demanded Michael immediately.

Delacroix regarded him evenly. ‘I took it from their bodies when we removed them from the shed – for safekeeping.’

‘Give it to Michael,’ ordered Julien. ‘He will return it to its rightful owners.’

‘It is Hélène’s now,’ said Michael, before Delacroix could refuse and there was more sparring for power. ‘Chancellor de Wetherset wants her to have it.’

Unexpectedly, Delacroix’s eyes filled with tears at the kindness, while a murmur of appreciation rippled through the others.

‘Are you sure?’ asked Julien warily. ‘He will receive nothing in return except our gratitude.’

‘He knows,’ said Michael. ‘However, the offer was made when he thought Hélène was the child of lunatics. He may reconsider if he learns the truth, so I recommend you stay well away from the town.’ He looked hard at the Jacques. ‘Especially you.’

‘He is right,’ agreed Tulyet. ‘Tensions are running unusually high at the moment, so you must leave as soon as possible. How soon can it be arranged?’

‘We will go today,’ sniffed Delacroix. ‘We know where we are not wanted.’

‘It takes time to prepare twenty-five people for travel when most are either very old or very young,’ countered Julien. ‘We shall aim for Friday – the day after tomorrow.’

‘Very well,’ said Tulyet. ‘Now tell us about the Girard family. Did you like them?’

‘We did,’ replied Madame Vipond, although she did not look at the Jacques. ‘They were strong and wise, and our lives here will be harder without them.’

‘Did you see anything that might help us catch their killer?’ asked Tulyet. ‘Or did any of you visit them in the shed yesterday?’

‘It was their private place,’ explained Julien, ‘where they went for time together as a family. They disliked being disturbed.’

‘So what happened when the fire began? Who first noticed it?’

‘Delacroix saw smoke when he went to the kitchen for bread,’ replied Julien. ‘He sent Goda to raise the alarm, while he went to see about putting it out. The rest of us stayed well back, so we would not get in the way.’

‘Did it cross your minds that the Girards might still be inside?’

‘Of course not!’ snarled Delacroix. ‘The door was open, so we naturally assumed they had left.’

‘And Goda seemed certain that it was empty,’ elaborated Julien. ‘Then Tangmer ordered it shut to contain the blaze – at that point, he still thought we could put it out.’

‘Goda,’ mused Michael. ‘Are you on good terms with her?’

‘You think she is the killer?’ Delacroix laughed derisively. ‘The Girards knew how to look after themselves – they would never have been bested by a tiny little woman.’

‘Besides, Goda has no reason to harm us,’ added Julien, shooting him a glance that warned him to guard his tongue. ‘No one here does.’

‘What about the dagger?’ asked Tulyet, laying it on the table. ‘I have scrubbed the soot off it, so examine it again now it is clean. Do you recognise it?’

There was a moment when Bartholomew thought he was playing tricks – that Tulyet had substituted the murder weapon for another in the hope of catching the culprit out – but then he saw the wide blade and the jewelled hilt, both of which gleamed expensively. It was a world apart from the greasy black item he had plucked from the rubble.

‘No,’ said Julien, peering at it. ‘But it is ugly – a thing specifically designed for the taking of life. You should throw it in a midden, Sheriff, where it belongs.’

‘I think it is handsome,’ stated Delacroix, a predictable response from a warlike man. ‘But I have never seen its like before.’

One by one, the other peregrini approached to look, but all shook their heads.

‘So none of you noticed anything unusual about the shed before the fire?’ pressed Michael when they had finished. ‘No strangers loitering? No visitors you did not know?’

‘Just the ones we have already mentioned,’ replied Julien. ‘The miller, the ditcher and the two knights from the castle.’

‘Plus all those Benedictine nuns,’ put in Delacroix, glaring at Michael.

They interviewed the Spital staff next, beginning with Tangmer and Amphelisa, although Bartholomew quickly became distracted when Amphelisa described how she had mended a persistently festering cut on Delacroix’s leg. He asked how she had come by such skills.

‘From being near Rouen when the Jacquerie struck,’ she replied. ‘The slaughter was sickening. Delacroix will tell you that the barons were worse, but the truth is that both sides were as bad as each other.’

‘Yet you agreed to house him here,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘Him and his five renegade friends.’

‘Because Julien begged me to. Besides, the Girards said they wished they had never become involved with the Jacquerie, and I suspect Delacroix and his friends will feel the same way when they are older and wiser.’

Bartholomew was not so sure about that, but she changed the subject then, telling him her views on treating ailments of the mind with pungent herbs. He listened keenly, aware all the while of the scent of oils in her clothes. They made him wonder if he should distil some in Michaelhouse, as there were times when the presence of a lot of active young men, few of whom bothered to wash, drove him outdoors for fresh air. Then he remembered that it would not matter after July, because he would be living with Matilde.

Meanwhile, Michael and Tulyet questioned Tangmer, who seemed smaller and humbler than he had been before he had been caught harbouring Frenchmen.

‘I founded this place to atone for my niece’s crimes,’ he said miserably, ‘and to redeem the Tangmer name. But now foul murder is committed here. Will we never be free from sin?’

‘Not as long as you shelter dangerous radicals and pass them off as lunatics,’ said Tulyet baldly. ‘So, what more can you tell us about yesterday?’

‘Nothing I have not mentioned already. I knew I should have refused these people sanctuary, but Amphelisa … well, she is a compassionate woman. Of course, having those nuns here at the same time has been a nightmare. I live in constant fear that one will guess what we are doing and report us.’

He had no more to add, so Tulyet beckoned Eudo forward. The big man approached reluctantly, twisting his hat anxiously in his ham-like hands.

‘Where were you when the fire started?’ asked Tulyet, watching him fidget and twitch.

‘Out,’ replied Eudo, furtively enough to make the Sheriff’s eyes narrow. ‘I arrived home just as the alarm was being raised. I opened the gates then, so we could get water from the stream. We used buckets, you know. They were–’

‘“Out” where exactly?’ demanded Tulyet, overriding Eudo’s clumsy attempt to divert the discussion to safer ground.

Eudo would not look at him. ‘On private Spital business. I cannot say more.’

‘Did you go alone?’

Eudo glanced at Tangmer, who nodded almost imperceptibly. ‘Yes, but I cannot–’

‘Who did you see on this mysterious excursion?’ snapped Tulyet. ‘And bear in mind that I am asking for your alibi. If you cannot provide one, I shall draw my own conclusions from all these brazen lies.’

‘He is doing it for me,’ interposed Tangmer, much to Eudo’s obvious relief. ‘I sent him to the town to buy some decent ale. You see, Amphelisa makes ours, but … well, she has a lot to learn about brewing. I am loath to hurt her feelings, so Eudo gets it for me on the sly.’

‘I do,’ nodded Eudo. ‘But I cannot prove it, because I am careful never to be recognised there. Obviously, we cannot have word getting back to Amphelisa.’

It sounded a peculiar tale to Michael and Tulyet, who pressed Eudo relentlessly in an effort to catch him out. They failed.

‘He has just put himself at the top of my list of suspects,’ muttered Michael, when they had given up, leaving the big man to escape with relief. ‘He is not even very good at prevarication – I have rarely heard such embarrassingly transparent falsehoods.’

‘He is third on mine,’ said Tulyet. ‘After de Wetherset and Heltisle.’

Goda was next. She flounced towards them, resplendent in her handsome kirtle. Her shoes were new, too, and over her hair she wore a delicate net that was studded with beads. She was so tiny that when she sat on the bench, her feet did not touch the floor, so she swung them back and forth like a restless child.

‘I was in the kitchen all morning, making bread,’ she began. ‘Delacroix came to beg some, then left. He was back moments later, jabbering about a fire. I ran outside, and saw smoke seeping through the shed roof.’

‘Then what?’ asked Michael.

‘I yelled the alarm. All the staff dropped what they were doing and raced to put it out. However, I can tell you for a fact that none of them were near the shed when it started – I would have noticed.’

‘Obviously, the fire was lit some time before the smoke became thick enough to attract your attention,’ said Michael. ‘Ergo, how do you know that a member of staff did not set the blaze and then slink away, ready to come running when the alarm was raised?’

‘Because I was kneading dough, which is boring, so I spent the whole time gazing through the open door,’ she replied promptly. ‘I would have seen anyone go to the shed.’

‘Yet someone did,’ Michael pointed out. ‘And we have five dead to prove it.’

‘Oh, I saw the Girards popping in and out,’ said Goda impatiently. ‘But no one else. Perhaps they were weary of being persecuted, and decided to kill themselves.’

Michael felt he could come to dislike this arrogantly flippant woman. ‘You think they stabbed themselves in the back? I am not even sure that is possible. And even if it is, why not choose an easier way to die?’

Goda shrugged. ‘Unless you can find a way to quiz the dead, you may never know. However, I can assure you that no staff member had anything to do with it.’

‘What about the peregrini?’ asked Tulyet. ‘There are tensions among them. Were any of them near the shed?’

‘Not that I saw. And before you ask, the nuns were in the guesthouse, although they emerged to gawp when the shed began to burn in earnest.’

‘Are you sure it was the Girards “popping in and out” of the shed?’ asked Tulyet. ‘Because someone committed a terrible crime there, and as you claim no one else was in the vicinity and we know the victims did not kill themselves …’

‘Oh, I see,’ she said, nodding. ‘One time, it could have been the killer impersonating them. It is possible – the shed is some distance from the kitchen, and I was not watching particularly closely.’

‘So, with hindsight, is there anything that struck you as odd?’

Goda shook her head. ‘Obviously, this person took care not to be suspicious. What would be the point of donning a disguise, if you then go out and give yourself away with attention-catching behaviour?’

Michael fought down his growing antipathy towards her. ‘The Spital had several visitors before the fire began. What can you tell us about those?’

‘I only saw Sister Alice. She is always pestering our nuns, even though Magistra Katherine has told her that she is not welcome here. Prioress Joan is kinder, but even her patience is wearing thin. Magistra Katherine has the right of it, though: Alice is a thief, so the other nuns should have nothing to do with her.’

‘A thief?’ echoed Michael warily. ‘How do you know?’

‘Well, once, when all our nuns were at the conloquium, Alice visited the guesthouse while I happened to be cleaning under the bed. Rashly assuming she was alone, she began riffling through their things. I saw her slip a comb up her sleeve and walk off with it.’

Michael was not sure whether to believe her. ‘Was it valuable?’ he asked warily.

For the first time, Goda considered her answer with care, and he saw that the cost of things mattered to her.

‘I would not have paid more than sixpence for it,’ she replied eventually. ‘I told our nuns when they got back, and it transpired that the comb belonged to Prioress Joan. I thought she would not care, given that she is not a vain woman, but she was very upset.’

‘Could Alice have set the fire?’ asked Tulyet, while Michael held his breath; he did not want a Benedictine to be the culprit.

‘Possibly,’ said Goda. ‘But we have let no nun get anywhere near the peregrini, which would mean she killed five people she never met. That seems unlikely.’

‘Look again at the murder weapon,’ ordered Tulyet, laying it on the table in front of her. ‘Have you seen it before?’

Goda spent far more time than necessary turning it over in her hands. When it became clear that she was more interested in assessing its worth than identifying its owner, Tulyet tried to take it back. There was a tussle when she declined to part with it.

‘It is a nice piece,’ she said watching covetously as Tulyet returned it to his scrip. ‘What will you do with it once your enquiries are over? I doubt you will want to keep it, but I will give you a fair price.’

‘I shall bear it in mind,’ said Tulyet, taken aback and struggling not to let it show.

‘That is a fine new kirtle,’ said Michael, wondering if Alice was not the only one with sticky fingers. ‘How did you pay for it?’

Goda regarded him coolly. ‘By saving my wages. Unlike most people, I do not fritter them away on nothing. Not that my clothes are any of your affair. Now, is that all, or do you have more impertinent questions to put to me?’

‘You may go,’ said Tulyet coldly. ‘For now.’

As time was passing, Tulyet suggested that he finished speaking to the staff on his own, while Bartholomew and Michael tackled the nuns.

‘Prioress Joan has just returned from the conloquium,’ he said, watching her dismount her handsome stallion while her ladies flowed from the guesthouse to welcome her back. Bartholomew recalled that she had left them to pray while she went to give a lecture on plumbing.

‘And let us hope one of us has some luck,’ sighed Michael, ‘because I cannot believe that someone could stab four people, drug two children, set a building alight, and saunter away without being seen.’

The guesthouse was a charming building. Its walls were of honey-coloured stone, it had a red-tiled roof, and someone had planted roses around the door. Most of the windows were open, allowing sunlight to stream in, and the furniture was simple but new and spotlessly clean. All the nuns were there, except one.

‘Our Prioress went to settle Dusty in the stables,’ explained Magistra Katherine de Lisle. ‘She spends more time with him than she does at her devotions.’

Bartholomew studied Katherine with interest. Like her prelate brother, she was tall, haughty, and had a beaky nose and hooded eyes. She was perhaps in her sixth decade, but her skin was smooth and unlined. A smirk played at the corners of her mouth, and he was under the impression that she considered herself superior to everyone else, and thought other people existed only for her to mock. He wondered if arrogance ran in the family, because her brother was also of the opinion that he was the most important thing in the universe.

‘Caring for God’s creatures is a form of worship,’ said Michael, who was known to linger in stables at the expense of his divine offices himself. ‘I will fetch her while the rest of you tell Matt about yesterday’s tragedy.’

Bartholomew was happy with that, as he had no wish to visit a place where he would meet an animal that would almost certainly dislike him on sight – horses instinctively knew he was wary of them, and even the most docile of nags turned mean-spirited in his presence.

‘There are a lot of you,’ he remarked when the monk had gone.

‘Twenty,’ replied Katherine, a faint smile playing about her lips. ‘We brought more delegates than any other convent.’

‘Why?’

‘Because Prioress Joan offered to bring any nun who wanted to travel. Some came for the adventure, others to meet fellow Benedictines, the rest to learn something useful. But I was invited personally by the organisers because I am a talented speaker who can preach on a variety of interesting subjects. I am not styled Magistra Katherine for nothing, you know.’

She began to list her areas of expertise, although as most pertained to theology, Bartholomew thought she was sadly mistaken to describe them as ‘interesting’. Sensing she was losing his attention, she finished by saying that Joan’s relaxed rule made for a contented little community of nuns at Lyminster.

While she spoke, the other sisters occupied themselves with strips of leather and pots of oil, filling the room with the sweet scent of linseed. Eschewing such menial work, Katherine picked up a book, clearly aiming to read it the moment Bartholomew left.

‘To thank her for bringing us here, we are making new reins for Prioress Joan,’ explained one nun, smiling. ‘Or rather, for Dusty. He is strong, and is always snapping them.’

‘They know the surest way to her heart,’ said Katherine, then indicated the tome in her lap. ‘Whereas I prefer to study Master Clippesby’s treatise. He must be a remarkable man, because I have never encountered such elegant logic.’

‘He is a remarkable man,’ agreed Bartholomew, hoping they would never meet. The mad Dominican would not be what Katherine expected, and they would almost certainly disappoint each other. ‘He has a unique way with animals.’

‘Joan would like him then,’ said Katherine with a smirk. ‘Especially if he is good with horses. But his theories are astonishing. And what an imagination, to use chickens to speak his views.’

Clippesby would argue that the views were the birds’ own, but Bartholomew decided not to tell her that. He changed the subject to Alice.

‘Yes, the wretched woman did visit shortly before the fire started,’ said Katherine. ‘She will not leave us alone, despite our efforts to discourage her. You know why, of course.’

‘Do I?’

‘Because my brother was so shocked by the way she ran Ickleton Priory that he deposed her. Now she aims to avenge herself on him through me. But she will not succeed, because she is not clever enough.’

Unwilling to be dragged into that dispute, Bartholomew returned to the subject of the fire. ‘Did you see Alice near the shed? Or talking to the … patients, particularly those who died?’

‘Not yesterday or any other day,’ replied Katherine. ‘However, that is not to say she did not do it – just that we never saw her.’

All the nuns denied recognising the murder weapon, too, although Bartholomew had to be content with sketching it on a piece of parchment, as Tulyet had the original.

‘We are unlikely to know anything to help you,’ said Katherine, clearly impatient to get to her reading, ‘because a condition of us staying here is that we keep away from the lunatics. We have obliged, because none of us want to exchange these nice, spacious quarters for a cramped corner in St Radegund’s.’

‘But you must look out of the windows,’ pressed Bartholomew, loath to give up. ‘And one faces the shed.’

‘It does,’ acknowledged Katherine. ‘But it is nailed shut, and the glass is too thick to see through. The only ones that open overlook the road.’

Bartholomew saw she was right, and wondered if it was why Alice had rummaged through the nuns’ belongings when they were out – no one from inside the Spital could have looked in and seen her, and she would have got away with it, if Goda had not been cleaning under the beds. Assuming Goda was telling the truth, of course.

‘Is Joan missing a comb?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ replied Katherine. ‘An ivory one. She was upset about it, as it was the one she used on Dusty’s mane. Goda says Alice took it, which Alice denies, of course. If it is true, it will be part of some malicious plot against me or my brother. Her vindictiveness knows no bounds, so if you do arrest her for roasting lunatics, I should be very grateful.’

‘Where were you when the blaze began?’ asked Bartholomew, and when her eyebrows flew upwards in instant indignation, added quickly, ‘Just for elimination purposes.’

Katherine indicated her sisters. ‘We were all in here, except for the hour before the fire. At that point, I was in the garden behind the chapel and Joan was in the stables. We predicted that Alice would come, you see, and we aimed to avoid her.’

‘Alice did come,’ put in another nun. ‘But she left when we told her that Magistra Katherine and Prioress Joan were unavailable. The rest of us were here until the alarm was raised, at which point Prioress Joan came to take us outside lest a stray spark set this building alight, too.’

Bartholomew regarded Katherine thoughtfully. ‘You cannot see the shed from in here, but you can from behind the chapel …’

There was a flash of irritation in the hooded eyes. ‘Very possibly, but I was engrossed in Clippesby’s book and paid no attention to anything else.’

‘But you heard the alarm raised,’ pressed Bartholomew.

Katherine regarded him steadily. ‘I was absorbed, not on another planet. Of course I stopped reading when everyone started shouting and I saw the smoke.’

‘So you have no alibi,’ said Bartholomew, hoping she would not transpire to be the killer, as the Bishop would be livid.

Katherine gave another of her enigmatic smiles. ‘I am afraid not, other than my fervent assurance that high-ranking Benedictine nuns have better things to do than light fires in derelict outbuildings.’

Unfortunately, her fervent assurance was not enough, thought Bartholomew, watching her open the book to tell him that the interview was over.

He was about to leave when Michael walked in with Joan, deep in a conversation about hocks and withers. She was taller than Michael, who was not a small man, and her hands were the size of dinner plates.

‘Have you answered all his questions?’ she asked of her nuns, jerking a huge thumb in Bartholomew’s direction. ‘Nice and polite, like I taught you?’

‘We have,’ replied Katherine, resignedly closing her book again. ‘Although he is disturbed by my inability to prove that I did not incinerate an entire family.’

‘Katherine often disappears to read on her own,’ said Joan. ‘Of course, you will probably say that I cannot prove my whereabouts either, given that I was with Dusty. Or will you? I understand your Clippesby talks to animals – perhaps he will take Dusty’s statement.’

‘It is no laughing matter,’ said Michael sternly. ‘People died in that fire.’

‘Yes,’ acknowledged Joan, contrite. ‘And we shall continue to pray for their souls. However, as it happens, I can do better than Dusty for an alibi. One of the servants – that ridiculously tiny lass – was in the kitchen the whole time. And if I could see her, she must have been able to see me.’

‘Goda?’ asked Michael. ‘So you can vouch for her?’

‘I suppose I can,’ said Joan. ‘I would not normally have noticed her, but she was wearing yellow, a colour Dusty does not like, and he kept snickering in her direction. She was certainly in the kitchen when the blaze would have started.’

‘So, Brother,’ drawled Katherine, amused, ‘I am your only Lyminster suspect. My brother will be horrified when he learns that you have me in your sights.’

‘Then let us hope we find the real culprit before it becomes necessary to tell him,’ said Michael, smiling back at her.

‘That poor family,’ said Joan, sitting heavily on a bed. ‘What will happen to their friends now? There cannot be many places willing to hide Frenchmen.’

‘You know?’ breathed Michael, shocked, while Bartholomew gaped at her. ‘But how?’

‘We are not fools,’ replied Joan softly. ‘Tangmer nailed the window shut to prevent us from seeing them, but we have ears – we often hear the children chattering in French.’

‘Joan took a few of us to Winchelsea when we heard about the raid,’ said Katherine. ‘We wanted to help, and the town is only sixty miles from our convent. We arrived five days later, and although we were spared the worst sights, what remained was terrible enough. We heard the rumours about the “spies” who told the Dauphin when best to come. It did not take a genius to put it all together. We know exactly who these folk are.’

‘Have you told anyone else?’ asked Michael uneasily.

She shot him a withering glare. ‘Of course not! These people have a right to sanctuary, just like any Christian soul. I shall not even tell my brother.’

‘I hope the murders do not panic them into flight again,’ said Joan. ‘It will be more dangerous still on the open road, as I imagine the sentiments spoken on Cambridge’s streets will be just the same in other towns and villages.’

‘We shall include them in our prayers, along with the victims of Winchelsea.’ Katherine nodded to her Prioress. ‘Joan has already started work on a chantry chapel for those who lost their lives there.’

Joan blushed self-effacingly. ‘It is the least we can do,’ she mumbled.

‘God only knows what led the Dauphin’s men to do such dreadful things,’ Katherine went on. ‘All I can think is that they were possessed by the Devil.’

‘I rather think they decided to murder, loot and burn without any prompting from him,’ said Joan grimly. ‘I trust they will make their peace with God, because I cannot find it in my heart to forgive them.’

Katherine touched her arm in a brief gesture of sympathy, and the Prioress turned away quickly to hide her tears, embarrassed to show weakness in front of strangers. Two or three of the younger nuns began to sob.

‘Yesterday brought it all back to us,’ said Katherine, and for once, there was no smug amusement in her eyes. ‘Burned bodies and wounds inflicted in anger …’

Joan took a deep breath and dabbed impatiently at her eyes. ‘I am more sorry than I can say that we failed to save the family here.’

‘You will move to St Radegund’s today,’ decided Michael. ‘The killer may strike again, and the Bishop would never forgive me if anything happened to his sister. Or any nun.’

‘I would rather stay here,’ said Katherine at once. ‘St Radegund’s is too noisy.’

‘Worse, there will be no decent stabling for Dusty,’ put in Joan, clearly of the opinion that his comfort was far more important than that of her nuns.

‘I will arrange something for him,’ promised Michael. ‘He will not suffer, I promise.’

‘I cannot see that we are in danger,’ argued Katherine stubbornly. ‘We are not French.’

‘We do not know for certain why the Girards were targeted,’ said Michael. ‘It may have nothing to do with their nationality.’

‘Oh, come, Brother,’ said Katherine irritably. ‘Of course it does! Why else would their children have been dispatched, too? But please do not uproot us now. The conloquium will finish in a few days, after which we will be gone.’

‘Five days,’ said Michael promptly. ‘Too many to justify the risk. Please do as I ask.’

‘Then we shall stay in the Gilbertine Priory instead,’ determined Katherine. ‘It will put us in Alice’s objectionable presence, but that is a small price to pay for a quiet place to read.’

‘Alice and Abbess Isabel’s flock will be moving to St Radegund’s as well,’ said Michael. ‘So pack your belongings, and I shall arrange for an escort as soon as possible.’

Katherine rolled her eyes, although Joan nodded briskly and ordered her nuns to begin preparations. They did as they were told reluctantly, and it was clear that Katherine was not the only one who resented the loss of their comfort.

‘Speaking of Alice,’ said Michael, ‘did Matt ask you about the comb she took?’

Joan scowled. ‘It was Dusty’s favourite, and I was vexed when I found it gone. Alice denies it, of course, although Goda has no reason to lie. Doubtless she aims to use it for mischief, so if it does appear in suspicious circumstances, please remember the malice she bears us.’

‘The malice she bears me,’ corrected Katherine. ‘It was my brother who deposed her.’

‘My head is spinning,’ confessed Tulyet, as he, Bartholomew and Michael walked back to the town at the end of the day. ‘I need to sit quietly and reflect on all we have been told – although I can confirm that Goda did see Joan in the stables, so they have alibis in each other. We can cross them off our list of suspects.’

‘Then who remains on it?’ asked Michael. ‘I would say–’

‘Not tonight,’ interrupted Tulyet wearily. ‘I cannot think straight. We shall discuss it in the morning, by which time I will have questioned the ditcher, the miller and my two knights. Who knows? Perhaps one will confess, and we shall be spared the chore of pawing through all these facts, lies, claims and suppositions.’

‘Then meet us in the Brazen George,’ said Michael, naming his favourite tavern, a place where he was so regular a visitor that the landlord had set aside a chamber for his exclusive use. ‘You are right: our minds will be fresher tomorrow.’

‘I am not sure what to do about the peregrini,’ sighed Tulyet. ‘Instinct tells me to set guards, to prevent the surviving Jacques from spreading their poisonous message. But if I do, I may as well yell from the rooftops that the Spital holds a secret.’

Michael agreed. ‘We should let Tangmer continue what he has been doing. It will only be for two more days, and then they will be gone. Do not worry about the rebels – Julien has promised to keep them under control.’

‘I hope he can be trusted,’ said Tulyet worriedly. ‘We do not need a popular uprising to add to our troubles. What will you do now, Brother?’

‘Matt and I will visit Sister Alice and demand to know why she neglected to mention visiting the Spital before the fire broke out. Then I must arrange for the nuns to move to St Radegund’s. After that, there is a rehearsal of the Marian Singers.’

‘I do not know them,’ said Tulyet politely. ‘Are they new?’

‘You do know them,’ countered Bartholomew wryly. ‘They were formerly known as the Michaelhouse Choir. However, as even speaking that name causes grown men to weep, Michael has decided to revamp their image.’

The monk’s eyes narrowed. He was fiercely defensive of his talentless choristers, and hated any hint that they were less than perfect.

Tulyet laughed. ‘You think naming them after the Blessed Virgin will make folk reconsider their opinions?’

‘I named them after the church where we practise,’ said the monk stiffly. ‘St Mary the Great is the only place large enough to hold us all these days.’

Tulyet changed the subject, seeing it would be too easy to tread on sensitive toes. ‘Then you can speak to the ditcher and the miller. They sing bass, do they not?’

Michael inclined his head. ‘But here we are at the Gilbertine Priory, where Sister Alice is staying. She has filched combs, commissioned stinking candles, and foisted her company on people who do not want it, so perhaps the Spital murders are just a case of unbridled spite, and we shall have our killer under lock and key tonight.’

‘I do not envy you the task of challenging her, Brother,’ said Tulyet. ‘I have met her twice: once when she informed me that Abbess Isabel aims to assassinate the King, and once when she claimed that Lyminster Priory cheats on its taxes. When I declined to act on either charge, she called me names I never expected to hear on the lips of a nun.’

The Gilbertine Priory looked pretty in the early evening sunlight, and Bartholomew and Michael arrived to find the hospitable canons fussing over their guests with cordials and plates of little cakes. Alice was not there, but the nuns from Ickleton were, including their saintly Abbess, whose habit was so white it glowed. Needless to say, none were pleased to learn they were to be moved to a place that was already bursting at the seams.

‘But why should we go?’ demanded Isabel, her voice rather petulant for someone with aspirations of sainthood. ‘None of us are French and I like it here.’

‘I cannot risk it,’ said Michael firmly. ‘Please do as I ask.’

‘Very well,’ sighed Isabel with very ill grace. ‘Although it is foolish and unreasonable. However, you must find us a spot well away from Alice. We find her company irksome.’

‘Did she mention the Spital fire to you?’ asked Michael hopefully. ‘I know she went there the morning it happened.’

‘In the last forty-eight hours, she has uttered less than a dozen words to me,’ replied Isabel tartly, ‘none of which should have come from the mouth of a lady. She is so eaten up with bitterness that she is barely sane.’

Bartholomew and Michael went to Alice’s room, and found her sitting at a table. She scrabbled to hide what she was doing when she saw them at the door, but Michael swooped forward and discovered that she had made a reasonable imitation of the Bishop’s seal and was busily forging letters from him. She was more angry than chagrined at being caught, and began to scratch her shoulder.

‘So tell the Bishop about it,’ she challenged. ‘He has already stripped me of my post and treated me with callous contempt. What more can he do?’

Michael read one of the counterfeit messages and started to laugh. ‘Abbess Isabel is unlikely to believe that he wants her to walk naked from the castle to St Mary the Great. Or that she is then to stand in the market square and pray for the French.’

Alice scowled. ‘It is not–’

‘Just as the Sheriff did not believe that she wants to kill the King,’ Michael went on. ‘You make a fool of yourself with these ridiculous plots. It is time to stop.’

Alice regarded him sullenly. ‘Why should I? I am the victim here and–’

‘Speaking of victims, we have witnesses who say you were in the Spital when five people died. What do you have to say about that?’

‘That I had nothing to do with it. I tried to pay my respects to Magistra Katherine and Prioress Joan, but they were too busy to receive me, so I left – before the blaze began. Next, I went to practise my lecture in an empty church, and I arrived at the conloquium later that afternoon. I told you all this yesterday.’

‘No, you did not,’ countered Michael. ‘You failed to mention the Spital at all.’

Alice regarded him with dislike. ‘It slipped my mind. So what?’

‘Can you prove you left before the fire started?’ asked Michael, keeping his temper with difficulty. ‘Because you were seen arriving at the Spital, but no one mentioned you leaving.’

‘Is it my fault that your so-called witnesses are unobservant asses? However, if you want a culprit, look to Magistra Katherine. I imagine she claims she was reading, and thus has no alibi. Am I right?’

‘Yes,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘But–’

‘I saw her sneaking around in a very furtive manner,’ interrupted Alice. ‘So was that hulking Joan, who is too stupid to be a prioress. She is more interested in horses than her convent, and delegates nearly all her own duties to her nuns.’

Bartholomew went to the window, well away from her, partly because her scratching was making him itch, but mostly because he was repelled by her malevolence. Moreover, one of Vice-Chancellor Heltisle’s patented metal pens lay on the table, and it was very sharp – he felt Alice was deranged enough to snatch it up and stab him with it.

‘Explain why you stole her comb.’ Michael raised a hand when Alice started to deny it. ‘You were seen.’

Alice struggled to look nonchalant. ‘Perhaps I did pick it up, but only to look at – I never took it away. Joan is careless with her things, and probably mislaid it since.’

‘Even if that is true, there is no excuse for poking about among other nuns’ belongings.’

‘I was looking for a nose-cloth, if you must know. Joan always keeps a good supply in her bag.’ Alice smiled slyly. ‘If you do not believe me about the comb, then search this room right now. You will not find it.’

The offer told them that she had hidden it somewhere they were unlikely to look, so they did not waste their time. Michael continued to bombard her with questions, but she stuck to her story: that she had visited the Spital the previous morning, but left when the nuns declined to receive her. She had seen or heard nothing suspicious near the shed, and was well away before the fire started.

‘Your culprit will be Magistra Katherine, Prioress Joan, one of their sanctimonious nuns, or a lunatic,’ she finished firmly. ‘Not one of them can be trusted. I, however, am entirely innocent.’

They reached the Trumpington Gate, where Cynric was waiting to say that Bartholomew had a long list of patients waiting to see him. Bartholomew was pleased, as most lived some distance from the High Street, so he would not be forced to listen to the Marian Singers massacre Michael’s beautiful compositions. He visited a potter near the Small Bridges, and was amazed when he could still hear the racket emanating from St Mary the Great.

He took the long way around to his next patients – two elderly Breton scholars from Tyled Hostel, who were more interested in informing him that they had not voted for de Wetherset as Chancellor than explaining why they needed his services. Eventually, it transpired that they were suffering from a plethora of nervous complaints, all resulting from fear that they might be attacked for being French.

His next call took him past the butts. This was bordered by the Franciscan Priory to the north, the Barnwell Gate in the south, the main road to the west and the filthy King’s Ditch to the east. It comprised a long, flat field with a mound, like an inverted ditch, at the far end. The mound was the height of a man and was topped with targets – circular boards with coloured rings. A line in the grass marked where the archers stood to shoot.

It was Wednesday, so it was the University’s turn to use the ground, and as darkness had fallen, it was lit with torches. Night was not the best time for such an activity, but the daylight hours were too precious – to working men and University teachers – to lose to warfare, so practices had to be held each evening.

The University’s sessions were meant to be supervised by the Junior Proctor, but Theophilis had left Beadle Meadowman to write the attendees’ names in a ledger and ensure an orderly queue, while he joined the Michaelhouse men at the line. The students were trying to listen to Cynric, but Theophilis kept interrupting, and when they stepped up to the mark, most of their arrows flew wide. Cynric turned and stamped away in disgust.

‘That stupid Theophilis!’ he hissed as he passed Bartholomew. ‘He keeps interfering, and now our boys are worse than when we started. He has undone all my good work.’

‘Come and shoot, Matthew,’ Theophilis called, his hissing voice distinctly unsettling in the gloom. ‘Or you will be marked as absent.’

‘I have patients,’ Bartholomew called back, pleased to have an excuse.

‘And I have documents to read, teaching to prepare, and lecture schedules to organise,’ retorted Theophilis. ‘But the King issued an edict, and I am not so arrogant as to ignore it.’

Inwardly fuming – both at the wasted time and the public rebuke – Bartholomew marched up to the line, grabbed a bow and sent ten arrows flying towards the targets. As he did not aim properly, most went wide, although four hit the mark, showing that he had not forgotten everything he had learned at Poitiers. He handed the weapon back without a word and went on his way, pausing only to ensure that his name was in the register.

He visited two customers near the castle, and was just crossing the Great Bridge on his way home when he met Tulyet hurrying in the opposite direction.

‘I have been looking everywhere for you, Matt! Poor old Wyse is dead. Will you look at him? It seems he fell in a ditch and drowned. As it is a Wednesday, he was probably drunk.’

Will Wyse was a familiar figure in Cambridge. He eked a meagre living from selling firewood, and would have starved but for the generosity of the Franciscans, who gave him alms every Wednesday. He always celebrated his weekly windfall by spending exactly one quarter of it on ale in the Griffin tavern.

Tulyet led Bartholomew across the river, then a short way along the Chesterton road, to where the unfortunately named Pierre Sauvage stood guard over Wyse’s body. Sauvage handed Bartholomew a lamp, and the physician saw that Wyse had apparently stumbled, so that his head had ended up in the ditch at the side of the road. The rest of the body was dry. Bartholomew knelt to examine it more closely.

‘An accident?’ asked Tulyet, watching him. ‘A fall while he was in his cups?’

‘He was murdered,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘You see that blood on the back of his head? It is where someone hit him from behind. The blow only stunned him, but his assailant dragged him here, dropped him so his face was in the water, and left him to drown.’

Tulyet gaped at him. ‘Murdered? But who would want to kill Wyse?’

‘Someone who wanted his money,’ predicted Sauvage. ‘Everyone knows he had some on a Wednesday, and that he always staggered home along this road after the Griffin.’

‘But his purse is still on his belt,’ countered Tulyet.

‘Perhaps the culprit was also drunk,’ shrugged Sauvage, ‘but sobered up fast and ran away when he realised what he had done.’

Tulyet shook his head in disgust. ‘Carry the body to St Giles’s, then go to the Griffin and see what his friends can tell you. Perhaps there was a drunken spat. Take Sergeant Orwel – he is good at prising answers from reluctant witnesses.’

‘He is at choir practice,’ said Sauvage. ‘But he should be finished by the time I have taken Wyse to the church. Of course, no townsman did this. We would never risk the wrath of the Franciscans – they were fond of Wyse and will be furious when they find out what has happened to him. It will be the work of a University man.’

Bartholomew blinked. ‘What evidence do you have to say such a thing?’

‘First, Wyse was old and frail, so posed no threat to a puny book-man,’ began Sauvage, suggesting he had given the matter some serious thought while he had been guarding the body. ‘Second, the culprit was clever, like all you lot, so he killed his victim in a place where no one would see. And third, scholars hate the sight of blood, which is why Wyse was drowned rather than stabbed.’

‘That is not evidence,’ said Bartholomew impatiently. ‘It is conjecture. There is nothing to suggest that a scholar did this. Indeed, I would say the Sheriff has the right of it, and Wyse died as a result of a disagreement with his friends.’

‘Well, you are wrong,’ stated Sauvage resolutely. ‘You wait and see.’

While Bartholomew visited patients, Michael organised an escort for the nuns, then went to St Mary the Great, his mind full of the music he would teach that evening. There was a Jubilate by Tunstede, followed by a Gloria he had composed himself, and finally some motets for the next matriculation ceremony. De Wetherset had vetoed the Marian Singers taking part in such an auspicious occasion, but Michael was not about to let a mere Chancellor interfere with his plans, and continued to rehearse so as to be ready for it.

He entered the nave and looked around in astonishment, sure half the town had turned out to sing. He experienced a stab of alarm that there would not be enough post-practice food. As it was, they were obliged to share cups – one between three.

Of course, it was his own fault that the choir had grown so huge. He had always known that some of its members were women, and had never been deceived by the horsehair beards and charcoal moustaches. However, he had recently been rash enough to say there was no reason why a choir should consist solely of men, at which point the disguises were abandoned and women arrived in droves. Feeding everyone was an ever-increasing challenge.

He looked fondly at the many familiar faces. There were a host of beadles, Isnard the bargeman and Verious the ditcher, although Michael was less pleased to see Sergeant Orwel among the throng. Orwel was a hard-bitten, vicious, bad-tempered veteran of Poitiers, who had been the cause of several spats between scholars and townsfolk. Michael had never understood why Tulyet continued to employ him, unless it was for his ability to intimidate.

However, the moment Orwel began to sing, Michael forgot his antipathy: the sergeant transpired to be an unexpectedly pure, clear alto. Outside, passers-by were astounded to hear a haunting quartet, sung by Michael, Orwel, Isnard and Verious.

Afterwards, over the free bread and ale, Michael cornered the witnesses he hoped would have insights into the fire. Unfortunately, the miller had been hurrying to unload his wares lest close proximity to lunatics turned him insane himself, so had noticed nothing useful. Disappointed, Michael went in search of Verious, who he found sitting with Isnard and Orwel.

‘Terrible business about the Spital,’ said Isnard conversationally. ‘We heard forty lunatics were roasted alive.’

Michael marvelled at the power of rumour. ‘There were not–’

‘It was that dolphin and his rabble,’ growled Verious. ‘They did it.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Michael worriedly. Had the ditcher guessed the truth when he had been at the Spital and shared the secret with his dubious friends? If so, the peregrini would have to leave at once, before hotheads from the town and the University organised an assault.

‘The dolphin came up the river from the coast,’ explained the ditcher darkly. ‘Looting and burning as he went. Our soldiers guard the gates, so he dared not invade the town, but the Spital is isolated. The Frenchies saw it and seized their chance. Poor lunatics!’

‘I think the Sheriff would have noticed an enemy army rampaging about the countryside,’ said Michael drily. ‘However, someone burned a shed with six people inside it, and I intend to find the culprit. You were in the Spital yesterday, Verious – did you notice anything unusual?’

The ditcher swelled with importance as everyone looked expectantly at him. ‘I saw the lunatics doing what lunatics do – swaying and gibbering.’

‘But did you see anyone near the shed?’ pressed Michael. ‘Or go near it yourself?’

Verious grimaced. ‘No, because them Tangmer cousins would not leave me alone. Every time I tried to slip away to have a nose around, one would stop me. It meant I saw nothing very interesting.’

‘I spotted two of Tangmer’s madmen in the town the day before the fire,’ put in Isnard helpfully. ‘They were chatting to Sir Leger and Sir Norbert, who addressed one as Master Girard. Was he among the dead?’

Michael nodded, although he hated providing Isnard with information that would almost certainly be repeated in garbled form. There was no point in begging discretion, as this would only lead to even wilder flights of imagination.

‘What were they saying?’ he asked.

‘I could not hear,’ came the disappointing reply.

‘I could,’ growled Orwel. ‘Because I saw them talking together, too. But I could not tell what lies the lunatics were spinning to our two good knights, because they were speaking French, and I have never befouled my brain by learning that vile tongue.’

‘French?’ asked Michael, alarmed.

It would be the knights’ first language, given that they were part of the ruling elite, but he was appalled that the Girards should have used it with strangers. Had Leger and Norbert guessed the truth and acted on it? If so, it would put Tulyet in an invidious position – he could hardly hang the King’s favourites, yet nor could he overlook their crime.

‘Here comes Cynric,’ said Isnard, glancing up. ‘Driven away from the butts again by your interfering Junior Proctor, no doubt. That Theophilis cannot keep his opinions to himself, even though he knows less about archery than a snail.’

‘I have something to tell you about the Spital, Brother,’ announced Cynric grandly. ‘We need not worry about the French attacking it again.’

‘No?’ asked Michael warily. ‘Why not?’

‘Because I have just been to see Margery Starre, and she says it is now Satan’s domain,’ explained Cynric. ‘And he has put it under his personal protection. Anyone assaulting it can expect to be sucked straight down to Hell.’

‘Well, then,’ said Michael, hoping that would be enough to protect the peregrini until they could slip away. ‘We had all better keep our distance.’