The Sanctuary Murders: The Twenty Fourth Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew Book 24)

by Susanna Gregory

  Its Prior was a quiet, decent man named John, who had one of the widest mouths Bartholomew had ever seen on a person. He appeared to have at least twice as many teeth as anyone else, and when he smiled, Bartholomew was always put in mind of a crocodile.

  ‘We were having a meeting in our chapel, so the first we knew about the blaze was when our porter came to tell us that you were racing out to the Spital,’ John said apologetically. ‘But perhaps your nuns saw something – our guesthouse overlooks the road.’

  He left them to make their own way there. As they went, Michael told Bartholomew that he had housed ten nuns there – nine from Swaffham Bulbeck and one from Ickleton Priory.

  ‘Both foundations are wealthy,’ he explained, ‘and I thought they might become Michaelhouse benefactors if I put them somewhere nice. It was a serious mistake.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because last year, Abbess Isabel of Swaffham Bulbeck visited Ickleton on behalf of the Bishop. She was so shocked by what she found that its Prioress – Alice – was deposed. And which nun should be sent to represent Ickleton at our conloquium? Alice!’

  ‘That must be uncomfortable for both parties,’ mused Bartholomew.

  ‘It is more than uncomfortable,’ averred Michael. ‘It has resulted in open warfare! I offered to find one faction alternative accommodation, but neither will move, on the grounds that it will then appear as if the other is the victor.’

  Bartholomew was intrigued. ‘What did Abbess Isabel find at Ickleton, exactly?’

  ‘Just the usual – corruption, indolence, licentiousness.’

  ‘Those are usual in your Order, are they?’

  Michael scowled. ‘I meant those are the most common offences committed by the rare head of house who strays from the straight and narrow. Alice allowed her friends to live in the priory free of charge, and gave them alms that should have gone to the poor. She also let her nuns miss their holy offices, and too many men were regular visitors.’

  ‘Then it is no surprise that the Bishop deposed her. But are you sure that Abbess Isabel did not exaggerate? I have met her, and she is very easily shocked.’

  ‘She is,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘Probably because she is generally considered to be a saint in the making.’

  Bartholomew was surprised to hear it. ‘Is she?’

  ‘She was to have married an earl, but when she expressed a desire to serve God instead, he chopped off her hands. That night, he was struck dead and her hands regrew.’

  Bartholomew regarded him askance. ‘Surely, you do not believe that?’

  ‘The Pope did, and granted her special dispensation to wear a white habit instead of a black one, as an expression of her purity. But how did you meet her?’

  ‘She is the one who found Paris the Plagiarist’s body. She was so upset that she fainted, so I carried her into a tavern to recover – where she saw the landlady’s low-cut bodice and swooned all over again. I wondered at the time why her habit was a different colour. I wanted to ask, but she did not seem like a lady for casual conversation.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Michael. ‘Saints are not, generally speaking.’

  Abbess Isabel was a slender, sallow woman whose bright white habit made her appear ghostly. She emerged from the Gilbertines’ stable on a donkey, and Michael whispered that she was scheduled to speak on humility at the conloquium that day.

  ‘Hence her arrival on a simple beast of burden,’ he explained. ‘A practical demonstration of self-effacement. Of course, the fact that she feels compelled to show us how humble she is does smack of pride . . .’

  Suddenly, the Abbess raised her pale eyes heavenwards in a rapt expression. Her black-robed retinue immediately grabbed the donkey’s bridle and formed a protective ring around her, to ensure that her communication with God was not interrupted.

  ‘We could be here a while,’ murmured Michael. ‘She goes into trances.’

  ‘Or perhaps it is a ruse to avoid her,’ said Bartholomew, nodding to where another nun was coming from the opposite direction. ‘The deposed Alice, I presume?’

  Alice was short and thin, and her beady black eyes held an expression of such fierce hatred that Bartholomew was sure she should never have been allowed to take holy orders. The malevolent glower intensified when she saw Isabel being pious. Then she began to scratch so frantically at her scalp that he suspected some bothersome skin complaint – perhaps one that rendered the sufferer unusually bad-tempered.

  ‘I was astonished when I learned that she was Ickleton’s sole delegate,’ whispered Michael. ‘I assumed she was still in disgrace.’

  ‘Perhaps her replacement wanted rid of her for a while,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘Having a former superior under your command cannot be easy.’

  ‘Especially one like Alice, who is bitter and quarrelsome. Of course, Swaffham Bulbeck is not the only convent Alice has taken against. She has also declared war on Lyminster, because the Bishop’s sister lives there. Putting them in the Spital was another mistake on my part, as they invariably meet when they ride to St Radegund’s each morning. There have been scenes.’

  Alice marched towards Michael, bristling with anger. ‘I have a complaint to make, Brother. That worldly Magistra Katherine spoke at the conloquium today, and she was so boring that I had to leave.’

  ‘You call Katherine worldly?’ blurted Michael. ‘After you were dismissed for—’

  ‘I made one or two small errors of judgement,’ interrupted Alice sharply. ‘And was then condemned by people who are far worse sinners than I could ever hope to be.’

  ‘Hope to be?’ echoed Bartholomew, amused.

  Alice ignored him. ‘Katherine is like her brother – a hypocrite. How dare he dismiss me when he fled the country to escape charges of murder, theft, kidnapping and extortion!’

  She had a point: the Bishop had indeed been accused of those crimes, and rather than stay and face the consequences, he had run to Avignon, to claim sanctuary with the Pope. Everyone knew he was guilty, so Bartholomew understood why Alice objected to being judged by him. Michael opened his mouth to defend the man whose shoes he hoped to fill one day, but Alice was already turning her vitriol on someone else she did not like.

  ‘And that Abbess Isabel is no saint,’ she hissed. ‘She is selfish and deceitful.’

  Isabel was not about to hang around being holy while Alice denigrated her to the Bishop’s favourite monk. She barked an order that saw her nuns drop the donkey’s bridle and step aside. Then she rode forward to have her say.

  ‘You are a disgrace, Alice,’ she declared, her pale eyes cold and hard. ‘It is wrong to make light of your own crimes by pointing out the errors of others. There is no excuse for what you did.’

  ‘And you never make mistakes, of course,’ jeered Alice. ‘You are perfect in every way. How wonderful it must be to be you.’

  ‘She is perfect,’ declared one of Isabel’s nuns angrily. ‘Just ask the Pope. We are honoured to serve her, so keep your nasty remarks to yourself.’

  ‘Yesterday’s fire,’ interposed Michael quickly. ‘The arsonist almost certainly used the road outside to reach the Spital. Did any of you notice anything suspicious?’

  ‘No,’ replied Isabel shortly. ‘If we had, we would have told you already.’

  ‘I was not here,’ said Alice haughtily. ‘I was at the conloquium.’

  ‘But I prayed for the Girard family all night,’ Isabel went on, as if her enemy had not spoken, ‘which was not easy with Alice lurking behind me – I could feel her eyes burning into the back of my head. She will be bound for Hell unless she learns to replace malice with love.’

  Alice bristled. ‘I was praying for the Girards, but you were praying for yourself – that your so-called piety will win you a place among the saints.’

  ‘While you are here, Brother,’ said another of the nuns frostily, ‘perhaps you will tell Sister Alice to keep her maggot-infested marchpanes to herself. She will deny sending them to the Abbess, but we all know the truth.’ />
  ‘Liar!’ snarled Alice. ‘I have better things to do than buy you lot presents.’

  ‘What time did you arrive at the conloquium, Alice?’ asked Michael, speaking quickly a second time to nip the burgeoning spat in the bud.

  ‘Not until the afternoon,’ admitted Alice. ‘Before that, I was in a town church, practising my own presentation, which is later this week.’

  ‘So you cannot prove where you were at the salient time?’ asked Isabel, raising her white eyebrows pointedly.

  Alice bristled. ‘I sincerely hope you are not accusing me of setting this fire. Why would I do such a thing?’

  ‘To harm the ladies from Lyminster,’ replied another of Isabel’s retinue promptly. ‘You hate them almost as much as you hate us, and your enmity knows no bounds.’

  ‘And you, Isabel?’ asked Michael before Alice could defend herself. ‘Where were you?’

  ‘Praying,’ replied the Abbess serenely. ‘In St Botolph’s Church. All my sisters were with me, so none of us can help you identify your arsonist. Now I have a question for you, Brother: have you caught Paris the Plagiarist’s killer yet? I cannot forget the sight of his dead white face, and it disturbs me to think that his murderer might pass us in the street.’

  ‘He might,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘And our best – perhaps our only – chance of catching him now is if you remember anything new.’

  ‘Then I shall tell God to jog my memory,’ said Isabel, and smiled. ‘So you will soon have the culprit under lock and key, because He always accedes to my demands.’

  ‘That shows you are no saint,’ spat Alice at once. ‘No one makes demands of God.’

  Isabel’s entourage took exception to this remark. A furious quarrel ensued, and this time, not even Michael could quell it.

  Bartholomew backed away, pulling the monk with him. ‘You are brave to have anything to do with this conloquium, Brother,’ he murmured, ‘if these delegates are anything to go by.’

  ‘Fortunately, they are not,’ said Michael with a heartfelt sigh. ‘Shall we see if Dick is ready for the Spital?’

  Tulyet had trailed his knights and their followers to the castle, and was confident that they were all condemned to an unpleasant afternoon wrestling each other in the dusty bailey. He hurried back to the Trumpington road, where he found Bartholomew and Michael still busy with the nuns. While he waited for them to finish, he discussed the town’s unsettled atmosphere with Prior John, who was worried that it might spread to infect his peaceful convent.

  ‘It would not normally worry me,’ confided John, ‘but Michael’s nuns are a querulous horde, who never stop squabbling. I would never have agreed to take them had I known what they were like. All I can say is thank God I am a Gilbertine, not a Benedictine!’

  Tulyet laughed. Then Michael and Bartholomew appeared, so he bade John farewell and set off towards the Spital with them. They had covered about half the distance when they met big Prioress Joan riding a spirited stallion. He and Michael admired her skill as she directed it over the treacherous, rock-hard ruts, although Bartholomew’s attention was fixed on the horse – it had an evil look in its eye and he did not want to end up on the wrong end of its teeth.

  ‘Here is a handsome beast,’ said Michael, approvingly. ‘The horse, I mean, not you, Abbess. Does he belong to your convent?’

  ‘Do you ask as the Bishop’s spy or as a man who appreciates decent horseflesh?’ said Joan, a twinkle in her eye. ‘Because if it is the former, then of course Dusty belongs to the convent. You know as well as I do that Benedictines are forbidden expensive possessions.’

  ‘Horses do not count,’ averred Michael, although Bartholomew was sure St Benedict would have begged to differ. ‘You call him Dusty? An unworthy name for such a fine creature.’

  ‘A grand one would raise alarms when we submit our accounts,’ explained Joan with a conspiratorial grin. ‘But no one questions hay for a nag called Dusty. Would you like to take him for a canter later? I do not usually lend him out, but I sense you could manage him.’

  ‘Are you sure he could bear the weight?’ asked Bartholomew, looking from the monk’s substantial girth to the horse’s slender legs.

  ‘Ignore him, Brother,’ said Joan, giving Bartholomew a haughty glare. ‘People accuse me of being too large for a woman, but they do not know what they are talking about. The truth is that I am normal, while everyone else is excessively petite.’

  ‘And I have unusually heavy bones, although few are intelligent enough to see it,’ said Michael, pleased to meet someone who thought like him. He eyed Bartholomew coolly. ‘Even my closest friend calls me plump, and has the effrontery to criticise my diet.’

  ‘Then that is just plain rude,’ said Joan, offended on his behalf. ‘A man’s victuals are his own affair, just as a woman’s size is hers.’

  ‘Quite right,’ agreed Michael. ‘Shall we ride out together and discuss this vexing matter in more detail? I shall borrow something from King’s Hall – they have the best stables.’

  Joan revealed her long teeth in a delighted smile. ‘After the conloquium, when I am not obliged to listen to my sisters whine about the difficulties involved in running a convent. In my opinion, if you have a problem, you solve it. You do not sit about and grumble like men.’

  ‘Problems like your priory’s chapel,’ mused Michael. ‘Part of it collapsed, so you rebuilt it with your own hands. Magistra Katherine told me.’

  Joan blushed modestly. ‘She exaggerates – I had lots of help. Besides, I would much rather tile a roof than do the accounts. I thank God daily for His wisdom in sending Katherine to me, as she is an excellent administrator. I could not have asked for a better deputy.’

  ‘We are on our way to the Spital, to find out what happened to the Girard family,’ said Tulyet. ‘You were there when the fire started, so what can you tell us about it?’

  ‘Nothing, I am afraid. I was in the stables grooming Dusty at the time. Katherine was due to give a lecture in St Radegund’s, but when I saw the shed alight, I sent a message asking for it to be postponed, as it seemed inappropriate to jaunt off while our hosts struggled to avert a crisis. I spent most of the time calming the horses.’

  ‘Did you notice any visitors to the Spital yesterday?’ Tulyet asked. ‘I know Tangmer discourages them, but it is possible that someone sneaked in uninvited.’

  ‘Just Sister Alice, who will insist on paying court to us, even though we find her company tiresome. Moreover, I always want to scratch when she is around, because she claws constantly at herself. When she is with us, my nuns and I must look like dogs with fleas.’

  ‘So you saw nothing to help?’ Michael was beginning to be frustrated by the lack of reliable witnesses.

  Joan grimaced. ‘I am sorry, Brother. All my attention was on the horses. Try asking my nuns – I have left them in the Spital to pray for the dead. I am the only Lyminster delegate who will attend the conloquium today, but only because I am scheduled to talk about plumbing. If it were any other day, I would join my sisters on their knees.’

  They were nearly at the Spital when they were hailed by Cynric. The book-bearer carried a sword, and had one long Welsh hunting knife in his belt and another strapped to his thigh. He had also donned a boiled leather jerkin and a metal helmet.

  ‘These are what I wore at Poitiers,’ he reminded Bartholomew, who was eyeing them disapprovingly. ‘When you and me won that great victory.’

  Four years before, he and Bartholomew had been in France, when bad timing had put them at the place where the Prince of Wales was about to challenge a much larger army. They had acquitted themselves adequately, but Cynric’s account had grown with each telling, and had reached the point where he and the physician had defeated the enemy with no help from anyone else. Bartholomew still had nightmares about the carnage, although Cynric professed to have enjoyed every moment and claimed he was proud to have been there.

  ‘Please take them off,’ begged Bartholomew. ‘They make you look as though yo
u are spoiling for a fight.’

  ‘I have to wear them – Master Heltisle put me in charge of training scholars at the butts,’ argued Cynric. ‘And if I do not look the part, no one will do what I say. But never mind that – me and Margery have something to tell you.’

  They had not noticed the woman at the side of the road. Margery Starre was a lady of indeterminate years, who made no bones about the fact that she was a witch. Normally, this would have seen her burned at the stake, but she offered a valuable service with her cures and charms, many of which worked, so the authorities turned a blind eye. Bartholomew was wary of her, as she believed that the Devil – with whom she claimed to be on friendly terms – had helped him to become a successful physician. He dreaded to imagine what would happen if she shared this conviction with his colleagues. Heltisle, for one, would certainly use it to harm him.

  ‘One of those Black Nuns came to me with a peculiar request,’ she began without preamble. ‘And I thought you should know about it.’

  ‘Not that,’ said Cynric impatiently. ‘Tell them about the Spital ghost – about it being the spirit of some hapless soul sacrificed by pagans.’

  ‘I saw it with my own eyes,’ said Margery obligingly. ‘A white spectre, which wobbled along the top of the wall, then disappeared into thin air.’

  ‘Clippesby saw it, too,’ put in Cynric. ‘I overheard him telling the hens about it this morning.’

  ‘It did not speak,’ Margery went on, ‘but I could tell it was a soul in torment.’

  ‘Could you?’ said Bartholomew curiously, although he knew he should not encourage her. ‘How?’

  ‘By its demeanour. And because it left trails of water on the wall – tears. The Spital should never have been built there, as it is the site of an ancient temple.’

  ‘How can you tell?’ demanded Bartholomew, sure she could not. The land on which the Spital was built was no different from its surroundings, and there was nothing to suggest it was special – no ditches, mounds, springs or unaccountable stones.