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

by Susanna Gregory

  There was a brief, appalled silence. Then Amphelisa opened her mouth to deny it, but Tangmer forestalled her by slumping on a bench with a groan of defeat.

  ‘How did you guess?’ he asked in a strangled whisper.

  Amphelisa stood next to him, one hand on his shoulder and her face as white as snow. Julien’s expression was resigned, but Delacroix scowled in a way that suggested he was more angry than dismayed at being found out.

  ‘Tell us your story,’ ordered Tulyet. ‘If your presence here is innocent, you will come to no harm.’

  ‘No harm?’ sneered Delacroix. ‘I walked through your town yesterday, and I heard what was being said about France on the streets. You hate us all, regardless of whether or not we support the Dauphin and his army.’

  ‘Yes,’ acknowledged Michael, ‘there is much anti-French sentiment, and had you been caught there, you might well have been lynched. But we are not all ignorant bigots. We will hear what you have to say before passing judgement.’

  ‘I had to do it,’ whispered Tangmer, head in his hands. ‘They came to me – a host of bewildered, frightened people, including children. How could I turn them away?’

  ‘We paid you,’ spat Delacroix. ‘That is what convinced you to hide us, not compassion.’

  ‘The money was a consideration,’ conceded Tangmer stiffly, ‘but our chief motive was pity. These people are not soldiers, but families driven from their homes by war. We call them our peregrini, which is Latin for strangers.’

  ‘Why choose here?’ asked Tulyet, before Michael could say that he did not need Tangmer to teach him a language he used on a daily basis. ‘Cambridge is hardly on the beaten track.’

  ‘Because Julien is my uncle,’ explained Amphelisa. Her French was perfect, and was the language used for the rest of the conversation.

  ‘So he is your uncle and every member of the Spital’s staff is a Tangmer,’ said Tulyet drily. ‘You are fortunate to boast such a large family.’

  ‘My husband has a large family,’ said Amphelisa with quiet dignity. ‘I only have Julien, as all the rest were killed in France two years ago. After their deaths, Julien brought the surviving villagers to England, where they lived peacefully until the raid on Winchelsea . . .’

  ‘Winchelsea was where we settled, you see,’ explained Julien. ‘But it was attacked twice, and each time, the Mayor accused us of instigating the carnage – that we told the Dauphin when best to come.’

  ‘Why would the Mayor do that?’ asked Tulyet sceptically.

  ‘Because he should have defended his town,’ replied Julien, ‘but instead, he hid until it was safe to come out. He needed a way to deflect attention from his cowardice, so he found some scapegoats – us.’

  ‘We fought for Winchelsea,’ said Delacroix bitterly. ‘My brothers and I tried to repel the raiders at the pier, and both of them died doing it. The town should have been grateful, but instead, they turned on us.’

  ‘We had to abandon the lives we had built among folk we believed to be friends,’ said Julien. ‘Our situation looked hopeless, but then I remembered Amphelisa’s new Spital . . .’

  ‘But why stay in England?’ pressed Tulyet. ‘Why not go home?’

  Bartholomew knew the answer to that, because the marks on Delacroix’s neck were indicative of a failed lynching, plus there was the fact that these peregrini had fled France two years ago . . .

  ‘You are Jacques,’ he surmised. ‘Men who rebelled against their aristocratic overlords, and who were outlawed when that rebellion failed.’

  This particular revolt, known as the Jacquerie, had been watched with alarm in England, as there had been fears that it might spread – French peasants were not the only ones tired of being oppressed by a wealthy elite. The Jacques had voiced a number of grievances, but first and foremost was the fact that they were taxed so that nobles could repair their war-damaged castles, on the understanding that the nobles would then protect the peasants from marauding Englishmen. The nobles did not keep their end of the bargain, and village after village was looted and burned. Crops were destroyed, too, and the people starved.

  The Jacquerie foundered when its leader was executed, after which the nobles retaliated with sickening brutality. Thousands of peasants were slaughtered, many of whom had had nothing to do with the uprising. Those who could run away had done so, although most of them had nowhere else to go.

  ‘Only six men from our village dabbled in rebellion,’ said Julien quietly. ‘The remaining two hundred souls did not, but they were murdered anyway. Thirty of us escaped, mostly old men, women and children. I led them, along with the six Jacques, to Winchelsea, thinking it would be safe.’

  ‘Were the Girards among the six?’ asked Bartholomew.

  ‘Only the two men,’ replied Julien, then nodded at Delacroix. ‘He is another, along with three of his friends.’

  Delacroix went pale with fury. ‘You damned fool! Now we will have to leave. We cannot stay here if the truth is out.’

  ‘Where will you go?’ asked Tulyet, obviously hoping it would be soon.

  Bartholomew understood why the Sheriff wanted them gone. First, he had his hands full keeping the peace between University and town, and did not have the time or the resources to protect strangers as well. But second and more importantly, there was a radical minority – Cynric among them – who thought the Jacquerie had been a very good idea, and who would love to hear what Delacroix had to say about social justice and insurrection.

  ‘Delacroix is right,’ said Michael gently, when there was no reply to Tulyet’s question. ‘You cannot stay here – it is too dangerous.’

  ‘You have been dissuading folk from visiting this place with rumours of hauntings and pagan sacrifices,’ put in Bartholomew, ‘and the “ghostly manifestation” you staged for us was clever, too. But it will not work for much longer. Curiosity will win out over fear, and people will come to see these things for themselves.’

  ‘Especially if Margery Starre sells them protective charms,’ added Michael. ‘And they feel themselves to be invulnerable.’

  Meanwhile, Tulyet was regarding Delacroix appraisingly. ‘The Girard men sold themselves as proxies when our King issued his call to arms. Why? It was a needless risk.’

  Delacroix shrugged. ‘We needed the money – we are running out, and we cannot expect Tangmer to feed us all for nothing.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Tangmer fervently; Amphelisa shot him a reproachful glance.

  ‘But they would never have gone to the butts,’ continued Delacroix. ‘It would have been suicide. They were going to get Tangmer to declare them too mad to venture out.’

  Michael drew Bartholomew aside while Tulyet continued to question the two peregrini. ‘Perhaps you were right – de Wetherset and Heltisle did guess that the Girards aimed to cheat them, and killed them for revenge.’

  But Bartholomew was no longer sure. ‘I do not see the Chancellor and his deputy scrambling over walls with a tinderbox. Also, de Wetherset told us to give the money to Hélène. If he had been angry enough to kill her kin, he would have demanded it back.’

  ‘Maybe he was salving his guilty conscience,’ shrugged Michael. ‘He is not entirely without scruples, although I cannot say the same about Heltisle. I say we put them both on our list. Of course, Delacroix is an angry man, so perhaps these murders can be laid at his feet. Look at the bodies now, Matt, and see what they can tell you.’

  Unwilling to perform in front of an audience, Bartholomew ordered everyone out. They went reluctantly and stood by the side door, where Tulyet demanded to know what had prompted Delacroix to join the Jacquerie, and Delacroix snarled answers that did nothing to secure his removal from a list of murder suspects.

  Bartholomew took a deep breath and began. Four victims were burned beyond recognition, although one was relatively undamaged. He began with him, and immediately made a startling discovery. He considered calling Tulyet and Michael at once, but decided to spare them the sight of what needed to be done next. He w
orked quickly, and when he had finished, put everything back as he had found it.

  He went outside to wash his hands. Even after a vigorous scrub, they still stank of charred flesh, so he splashed them with some of Amphelisa’s cedarwood oil. Then he went to where Michael and Tulyet were waiting for him.

  ‘The fire did not kill them,’ he began. ‘Or rather, it did not kill the adults – the lad died from inhaling smoke. The other four were stabbed.’

  ‘Stabbed?’ echoed Michael, startled.

  ‘Death was caused by one or more wounds from a double-edged blade, inflicted from behind,’ Bartholomew went on. ‘A dagger. If you find the weapon, I may be able to match it to the wounds.’

  ‘But the boy died from the smoke?’ asked Tulyet. ‘How do you know?’ His expression was one of dismay and disgust. ‘Please do not tell me that you looked inside him!’

  ‘It was the only way to be sure,’ said Bartholomew defensively.

  He had long believed that dissection would be a godsend in cases such as this, where answers would otherwise remain elusive, and for years he had itched to put his skills to the test. But now he had formal permission from the University to do it, he found it made him acutely uncomfortable. He was nearly always assailed by the notion that the dead knew what he was doing in the name of justice and did not like it.

  ‘So you found smoke in his innards,’ surmised Michael, speaking quickly before Tulyet could further express his disquiet. He was not keen on the dark art of anatomy either, but he certainly appreciated the answers it provided.

  Bartholomew nodded. ‘There are no other marks on him, so I suspect he was dosed with a soporific – that he went to sleep and never woke up. The same must have happened to Hélène, who is also wound-free. There was smoke in the lungs of one of the women, too – almost certainly the one who passed Hélène to safety.’

  ‘So her injury was superficial?’ asked Tulyet.

  ‘No, it was fatal – it punctured her lung. It just did not kill her instantly.’

  ‘Probably Hélène’s mother,’ mused Tulyet, ‘using her dying strength to save her child. It is a pity you failed to rescue her – she could have told us who did this terrible thing before she breathed her last.’

  ‘Does Hélène know?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Has anyone spoken to her?’

  ‘I did, and so did Amphelisa, but with no success. I have asked Amphelisa to persist, but do not expect answers – if you are right about the soporific, Hélène may have slept through the entire thing.’

  ‘Matt’s findings explain a good deal,’ said Michael. ‘Such as why the family did not leave when the shed began to burn. They were either dead, wounded or asleep. The killer must have left the bodies where they would not be spotted by the casual observer.’

  At that point, the Spital folk began to edge towards them, keen to learn what had been discovered. Amphelisa was holding Hélène, who drowsed against her shoulder, making Bartholomew suspect that whatever she had been fed the previous day was still working. It meant the dose had been very powerful.

  Delacroix’s face darkened in anger when Tulyet told them what Bartholomew had found, while Father Julien’s hands flew to his mouth in horror. Amphelisa held Hélène a little more tightly, and Tangmer closed his eyes, swaying, so that Eudo and Goda hastened to take his arms lest he swooned.

  ‘Hélène refused to drink her milk today,’ whispered Amphelisa, stroking the child’s hair, ‘because she said yesterday’s was sour. So she was right – someone put something in it that changed the taste.’

  ‘Did she say anything else?’ asked Tulyet keenly.

  ‘That she did not finish it, so her brother had it instead.’ Amphelisa looked away. ‘All I hope is that it rendered him unconscious before . . .’

  ‘Does she remember who gave it to her?’

  ‘She collected it from the kitchen, which is never locked, so anyone could have sneaked in to . . .’ Tangmer was ashen-faced. ‘How could anyone . . . to poison a child’s milk!’

  ‘Hélène had a daily routine,’ said Julien wretchedly. ‘After church, she fetched the milk from the kitchen for herself and her brother, which she took to the shed to drink. Her family liked that shed. They called it their house and treated it as such.’

  ‘Who else knew all this?’ asked Michael.

  Amphelisa raised her hands in a Gallic shrug. ‘Everyone here. However, none of us is responsible for this terrible deed. The staff are all Henry’s kin, while the peregrini would never hurt each other.’

  ‘There were visitors yesterday,’ said Delacroix in a strained voice. His fists were clenched at his sides and he looked dangerous. ‘Tell them, Tangmer.’

  Tangmer took a deep breath to pull himself together. ‘First, Verious the ditcher came to clear a blocked drain, after which the miller delivered flour. Then there were your two new knights, Sheriff, who arrived with tax invoices for me to sign.’

  ‘Do not forget the nuns,’ said Delacroix tightly. ‘Twenty from Lyminster, plus the one who was deposed for whoring – Sister Alice.’

  ‘I hardly think nuns poison children and burn the bodies,’ said Michael coolly. ‘Especially ones from my Order.’

  Delacroix regarded him with open hatred. ‘You would not say that if you had been in France two years ago. The Benedictines were as rabid as anyone in their desire for vengeance against those who baulked at paying crippling taxes to greedy landowners.’

  ‘Do the nuns know your “lunatics” are Jacques, Tangmer?’ asked Tulyet before Michael could respond.

  ‘No, because we have taken care to keep them in the dark,’ replied Amphelisa. ‘Although it has not been easy. Fortunately, they spend most of their day at the conloquium, and only come here to sleep.’

  ‘The soporific fed to Hélène must have been uncommonly strong,’ mused Bartholomew, examining the child. ‘She did not finish her milk, but she is still drowsy. Do you keep such compounds here?’

  Amphelisa regarded him warily, knowing what was coming next. ‘This is a hospital for people with serious diseases. Of course we have powerful medicines to hand.’

  ‘How easy is it to steal them?’

  ‘They are stored in the balcony, which you have already seen is secure. I keep the only key on a string around my neck.’

  ‘Then can you tell if anything is missing?’ asked Michael.

  ‘I could try, although it would entail examining every pot in every crate, and there are dozens of them. It would take a long time.’

  ‘Do not bother,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The culprit may not have taken a whole jar, just helped himself to what he needed, then disguised the fact by topping it up with water. I doubt you will find answers that way.’

  He glanced at Michael and Tulyet, glad it was not his responsibility to solve the crime. He did not envy them their task one bit.

  It was a grim procession that trudged from the chapel to the remains of the shed. Tangmer was sobbing brokenly, although it was impossible to know whether his distress was for the victims or because their deaths reflected badly on the place he had founded. Amphelisa walked at his side with the sleeping Hélène, her face like stone. Tiny Goda and massive Eudo followed, hand in hand, with the peregrini in a tight cluster behind them. Bartholomew, Michael and Tulyet brought up the rear, but hung well back, so they could talk without being overheard.

  ‘I think the Girards were killed by a fellow peregrinus,’ whispered Tulyet. ‘None are strangers to bloodshed and some are Jacques – violent revolutionaries.’

  But Bartholomew was uncertain. ‘They are alone in the middle of a hostile country. I should think they know better than to fight among themselves.’

  ‘There were thirty of them – now twenty-five – which makes for a sizeable party,’ argued Tulyet. ‘Differences of opinion will be inevitable. Moreover, living in constant fear of exposure will test even the mildest of tempers, as all will know that the wrong decision may cost the lives of their loved ones. I would certainly kill to protect my wife and
son.’

  ‘Would you?’ asked Bartholomew, rather startled by the confidence.

  Tulyet reflected. ‘Well, to protect my wife. Dickon can look after himself these days.’ He smiled fondly. ‘He is in Huntingdon at the moment, delivering dispatches for me. Did I tell you that he is going to France soon? Lady Hereford wrote to say that her knights “can teach him no more”. Those were her exact words.’

  He swelled with pride, although Bartholomew struggled not to smirk. Lady Hereford had offered to help Dickon make something of himself, but the little hellion had defeated even that redoubtable personage, because Bartholomew was sure her carefully chosen phrase did not mean that Dickon had learned all there was to know. The lad was a lost cause, and Bartholomew was always astonished that Tulyet, usually so shrewd, was blind when it came to his horrible son.

  ‘The strain on these people must be intolerable,’ said Michael, prudently changing the subject. ‘Delacroix is on a knife-edge, and it would take very little for him to snap.’

  ‘Yet this does not feel like a crime where someone has snapped,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘It was carefully planned, almost certainly by someone who knew the Girards’ liking for a flammable building.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Tulyet. ‘We should also remember that four people were stabbed and none fought back, which suggests the culprit knew how to disable multiple victims at once. Delacroix and his cronies were active in the violence that was the Jacquerie . . .’

  ‘They certainly top my list of suspects,’ said Michael. ‘But here we are at the shed, so we shall discuss it later. We do not want them to know what we are thinking quite yet.’

  The shed was barely recognisable. It had collapsed in on itself, and comprised nothing but a heap of blackened timber and charred thatch. Amphelisa pointed out the spot where the bodies had been found.

  ‘There were stacks of wood between them and the door,’ she explained. ‘So the only way Goda could have seen them was if she had gone to the very back of the building and peered behind the pile. That is beyond what could reasonably be expected of her.’