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

by Susanna Gregory

‘The place was thick with smoke,’ added Goda. ‘It was hard to see anything at all.’

  Tulyet, Michael and Bartholomew were meticulous, but there was nothing to explain why anyone should have stabbed four people and left them with their sleeping children to burn. Tulyet was thoughtful.

  ‘This reminds me of the first Winchelsea raid,’ he said, ‘where other families were shut inside a burning building and left to die. It was in a church, and became known as the St Giles’ Massacre.’

  ‘But those victims were not stabbed and poisoned first,’ Michael pointed out. ‘At least here, no one was burned alive.’

  ‘Hélène’s mother was,’ countered Bartholomew soberly.

  Feeling they had done all they could at the Spital, they turned to leave, but as Bartholomew picked his way off the rubble, a charred timber cracked under his foot. He stumbled to one knee, and it was then that he saw something they had missed.

  ‘Here is the weapon that killed the Girards,’ he said. ‘The blade is distinctive, because it is abnormally wide and thick. Shall we test it against the wounds, to be certain?’

  ‘We believe you,’ said Michael hastily, keen to be spared the ordeal.

  Bartholomew hesitated. ‘There is something else, although I cannot be sure . . .’

  ‘Just tell us,’ ordered Tulyet impatiently.

  ‘Bonet the spicer,’ said Bartholomew. ‘His wounds were unusually wide, too.’

  ‘You think this weapon killed him as well?’ asked Tulyet sceptically.

  ‘The only way to be sure is to measure his injury against the blade,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘I can do that, if you like.’

  ‘Bonet was buried today, and we are not digging him up,’ said Tulyet firmly. ‘But what about the scholar who was stabbed – Paris? Could this blade have killed him as well?’

  ‘No,’ replied Michael, before Bartholomew could speak, ‘because I have that in St Mary the Great. I shall show it to you tomorrow.’

  Tulyet turned the dagger over in his hands. ‘This is an unusual piece – I have never seen anything quite like it. However, I can tell you that it would have been costly to buy. The hilt is studded with semi-precious stones and the blade is tempered steel.’

  He took it to where the Spital’s people – staff and peregrini – were milling around restlessly. They all craned forward to look, then shook their heads to say none of them had seen it before.

  ‘Ask in the town,’ suggested Delacroix tightly. ‘Or at the castle – your two new knights are rich enough to afford quality weapons, and they hate the French, too.’

  ‘They do,’ acknowledged Tulyet. ‘But they are also blissfully ignorant about who is hiding here.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ asked Bartholomew in a low voice. ‘Tangmer mentioned them coming to deliver tax documents. Perhaps they saw something to raise their suspicions then.’

  ‘They will be questioned,’ said Tulyet firmly. ‘Along with the miller, Verious and the nuns. It seems our killer has claimed seven French victims, so we must do all in our power to stop him taking an eighth.’

  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.’
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br />   ‘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.’