‘I did not realise you were a veteran of Poitiers,’ he said obsequiously. ‘You may pass.’
‘Will I be allowed back in again?’ asked Bartholomew warily.
Orwel nodded. ‘And if this lot give you any trouble, send for me. I was at Poitiers, too, so we are comrades-in-arms. Those always stick together, as you know.’
‘He does know,’ said Michael, sailing past. ‘But he does not countenance insolence or stupidity, so you might want to watch yourself in future.’
St Radegund’s Priory was a sizeable foundation, far larger than was necessary for the dozen or so nuns who lived there. However, even the spacious refectory, massive dormitory and substantial guest quarters were not large enough to accommodate all the conloquium delegates, especially now that the twenty from the Spital and the ten from the Gilbertine Priory had joined them. Most bore the discomfort with stoic good humour, although a few complained. Needless to say, Sister Alice was among the latter.
‘I had to reprimand her,’ said Prioress Joan, who was basking in the adulation of her colleagues for a thought-provoking presentation entitled Latrine Waste and Management. ‘Her moaning was beginning to cause friction.’
She looked larger and more horse-like than ever that day, towering over her sisters like a giant, but there was a rosy glow about her, and she radiated vitality and robust good health.
‘Joan was the only one brave enough to do it,’ put in Magistra Katherine, the inevitable smirk playing around her lips. ‘Everyone else is afraid of annoying Alice, lest the woman turns her malevolent attentions on them.’
‘No one wants to suffer what I have endured at her hands since we arrived,’ elaborated Abbess Isabel, whose white habit positively glowed among all the black ones. ‘But Prioress Joan took the bull by the horns, and Alice has been quiet ever since.’
‘Well, something had to be done,’ shrugged Joan, clearly pleased by the praise. ‘I told her to bathe, too, because if I have to watch her claw at herself like a horse with fleas for one more day . . .’
Even the thought of it made some nuns begin scratching, and Bartholomew watched in amusement as Michael did likewise. Others joined in, until there were upwards of twenty Benedictines busily plying their nails. Then the monk asked if there was anything he could do to make their stay more pleasant, and the scratching stopped as minds turned to less itchy matters.
‘I will survive a few cramped nights, but poor Dusty may not,’ declared Joan, fixing Michael with a reproachful eye. ‘You said he could have the old bakery, but the moment I finished cleaning it out, the nuns from Cheshunt dashed in, claiming they would rather share with him than with Alice. But he prefers to sleep alone, so shall I oust them or will you?’
‘Neither,’ said the monk, thinking fast. ‘I will take him to Michaelhouse. Cynric knows horses, so he will be well looked after there.’
Joan beamed and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘I was right about you, Brother! You are a good man. May I visit him whenever I please?’
Michael hesitated, uneasy with women wandering unsupervised in his domain. Then he glanced at Joan, and decided that it would be a deranged scholar indeed who considered her to be the lady of his dreams. He nodded, then changed the subject by asking about the dagger that had killed Paris, which she had half-recognised earlier.
‘I know it is familiar,’ she said with a grimace. ‘But the answer continues to elude me, even though I have been wracking my brain ever since. But I shall not give up. It will come to me eventually.’
‘Then let us hope it is sooner rather than later,’ said Michael, disappointed, and moved to another matter. ‘How is the conloquium going?’
‘Not well,’ sighed Abbess Isabel, although Bartholomew was sure that every other nun had been about to say the opposite. ‘We have made no meaningful policy decisions, despite the fact that I have been praying for some ever since I arrived. This is unusual, as God usually does exactly what I want.’
‘Oh, come, Isabel,’ chided Joan. ‘We have decided a great deal. For example, none of us will ever store onions in a damp place again, having heard Abbess Sibyl of Romsey wax lyrical on the subject.’
‘So there you are,’ drawled Katherine. ‘A decision that will impact every nun in our Order, made by us, here at St Radegund’s.’
Joan was oblivious to sarcasm. ‘And it is an important one! I use an onion poultice on Dusty’s hoofs, so it is imperative to ensure a year-round supply.’ She beamed. ‘And the conloquium has certainly made me count my blessings. I have listened to other prioresses list the problems they suffer with their flock, and mine are angels by comparison.’
Isabel sniffed. ‘Anyone would be an angel compared to Alice. She was on the verge of turning Ickleton into a brothel before I came along. Your brother should have done more than depose her, Magistra Katherine – he should have ordered her defrocked.’
‘Perhaps he did not want to be denounced as a hypocrite,’ suggested Joan with a shrug of her mighty shoulders. ‘We all know he enjoys a romp with—’
‘He believes in second chances,’ interrupted Katherine swiftly, and changed the subject. ‘The conloquium has been worthwhile for me, because it brought Clippesby’s thesis to my attention. Unfortunately, I still have not had the pleasure of meeting him.’
‘No,’ said Michael ambiguously. ‘You have not.’
‘I suppose the conference has been worthwhile,’ conceded Isabel grudgingly. ‘Magistra Katherine explained the nominalism–realism debate in a way we all understood. Then Sister Florence of York showed us how to get an additional habit out of an ell of cloth, while Alice taught us something called “creative accounting”.’
‘I would not recommend you follow that advice,’ said Katherine drily. ‘Her intention was to land you all in deep water with your bishops.’
Isabel shrugged off her bemusement and turned to Michael. ‘What of the murders? I have been praying for the victims’ souls, even though the ones at the Spital were insane and thus outside God’s grace.’
‘The insane are not outside God’s grace,’ objected Bartholomew, startled. ‘If anything, they are further inside it, as they cannot be held responsible for their sins. Unlike the rest of us.’
‘I would not know,’ retorted Isabel loftily. ‘I do not have any sins.’
‘Right,’ said Michael, after a short, startled silence. ‘We need to speak to Alice. Will someone fetch her? While we wait, I shall ensure your victuals are up to scratch. I am obliged to monitor all aspects of this conloquium, including the quality of the food.’
It was some time before Michael declared himself satisfied that the delegates were being properly fed. Then he and Bartholomew went to the church, where Alice had been ordered to sit until he was ready to see her.
The church was the convent’s crowning glory, a large, peaceful place with a stout tower. Parts of it had suffered from the lack of funds that affected many monastic foundations, so there were patches of damp on the walls, while some of the stained glass had dropped out of its frames. It smelled of mould, old wood and the wildflowers that someone had placed on every available surface.
Most nuns waiting in a holy place would have used the time for quiet prayer, but such a rash thought had not crossed Alice’s mind. She paced angrily, muttering under her breath about the indignities she was forced to endure. Abbess Isabel and Magistra Katherine were the names most frequently spat out, although some venom was reserved for the nuns who had opted to share their sleeping quarters with a horse rather than her. She scratched so vigorously as she cursed that Bartholomew asked if she needed the services of a physician.
‘All I need is to know why I was dragged here,’ she snarled. ‘I was in a session on medicine, learning lots of useful things. You hauled me out, so I missed most of it.’
‘Medicine?’ asked Bartholomew with interest.
‘Strong ones, used to cure serious ailments. I was enjoying myself.’
‘Perhaps you were,’ said Michael. ‘But only qualif
ied medici should administer such potions, and we do not want any more suspicious deaths to explore.’
‘I am not a killer,’ declared Alice indignantly. ‘And if you are here to accuse me of stealing Joan’s comb again, I shall complain to the Bishop about being hounded for an incident that I have already explained away.’
‘We came to ask if you have remembered anything new since we last spoke,’ said Michael. ‘You will appreciate that we are eager to catch the rogue who murdered five Spital people, particularly as I suspect that he also stabbed a spicer and an elderly priest.’
‘You mean an elderly plagiarist,’ mused Alice. ‘Perhaps you should look to your University for a suspect, Brother, rather than accusing innocent nuns.’
‘I accuse no one,’ said Michael. ‘All I want from you is information. You were in the Spital when the killer struck, and I thought you might have noticed something to help us.’
Alice’s face was full of spite. ‘I can only repeat what I told you before – that I saw Katherine scurry off alone. She doubtless told you she was reading, but you cannot believe her. She is kin to the most evil, corrupt, dishonest man who ever lived – the Bishop of Ely!’
‘Of course,’ said Michael flatly. ‘Anything else?’
Alice gave the matter serious consideration, and for a while no one spoke. A bell rang to announce the end of one set of lectures, followed by a genteel rumble of voices as the nuns discussed which talk they wanted to attend next. Then the bell chimed to mark the beginning of the next session, after which there was silence. A dog barked in the distance, and an irritable whinny suggested Dusty was eager for attention.
‘I can tell you that it was easy to enter the Spital,’ said Alice eventually. ‘The Tangmers will claim they guard the gate assiduously, but I walked in unchallenged several times. Of course, I imagine they are more careful now.’
‘I hope so,’ muttered Bartholomew.
‘So the killer may have come from outside?’ asked Michael.
‘Well, the staff were more interested in monitoring the billeted nuns than guarding their madmen, so it is possible. The Tangmers are an odd horde, and their chapel is an accident waiting to happen, as it is stupid to store firewood in a place where oils are heated with naked flames. Perhaps that is what happened to the shed: Amphelisa was experimenting in it.’
‘Why would she do that when she has a well-equipped workshop?’
‘Because the workshop is in the chapel,’ explained Alice. ‘And thus out of bounds during services. Perhaps she could not wait until Mass was finished, so found somewhere else to work in the interim – in which case, she did the killer a favour by incinerating his victims.’
Bartholomew pondered the suggestion. Perhaps Amphelisa did find it frustrating to be ousted every time the chapel was needed, especially if Julien was the kind of priest who kept all his sacred offices. It was entirely possible that she had opted to use the shed, which everyone said was tinder-dry and filled with wood. No one had seen her near it, but the staff were her kin by marriage, so unlikely to betray her.
Michael continued to press Alice for more information, but when it became clear that she had said as much as she was going to, they took their leave.
‘I do not know what to think about this comb Alice is supposed to have stolen,’ said Michael, when he and Bartholomew were heading back to the town. He was astride Dusty and the physician walked at his side, careful to stay well away from an animal that he sensed was keen to bite, kick or butt him. ‘Is she guilty? Or is she falsely accused, as she claims?’
‘Does it matter?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘It hardly compares to murder, and I do not know why we are even talking about it.’
‘Because it is the key to the characters of some of our suspects and witnesses,’ replied Michael. ‘Whether they are thieves, liars or vindictive manipulators.’
‘Alice stole it,’ said Bartholomew impatiently. ‘Unless you believe she really was riffling through someone else’s bags in search of nose-cloths. There is something so distasteful about her that she is currently at the top of my list of suspects.’
‘Above Theophilis?’ asked Michael. ‘The Devil incarnate, according to you?’
‘Perhaps not above him,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘He is deceitful, as illustrated by the fact that he spied on the triumvirate for you – betraying men who trust him.’
‘But he did not betray them,’ Michael pointed out. ‘Not when they seem to know exactly what he was doing. And the last time we discussed this, you said he had failed me deliberately, because he was actually on their side. You cannot have it both ways.’
‘Then what about the way he behaves towards Clippesby? Pretending to befriend him, but then mocking him behind his back?’
‘That is distasteful, but hardly evidence of a criminal mind. But here is where you and I part company. I shall spend the rest of the day at the Spital and St Mary the Great, trying to tease more information from everyone we have already interviewed.’
‘You do not want me with you?’ asked Bartholomew, brightening.
‘I do, but a message arrived when we were with the nuns. You are needed by patients, one of whom is Commissary Aynton. Go to him, and while you ply your healing hands, see if you can find out exactly what he was doing on the morning of the fire.’
‘He has already told us – he was either with de Wetherset and Heltisle in St Mary the Great, or practising his lecture on the sheep.’
‘Then press him to elaborate, and see if you can catch him in an inconsistency.’
CHAPTER 9
Cynric was waiting for Bartholomew by the Barnwell Gate, because the town was growing increasingly restive and he was protective of the physician. Together they walked past the butts, where one or two archers were already honing their skills, taking advantage of the fact that most folk would arrive later, once the day’s work was done.
‘There will be trouble tonight, boy,’ predicted Cynric. ‘It is the town’s turn to practise, but de Wetherset plans to turn up as well. He wants everyone to think he is brave for not buying another proxy, although the truth is that there is no one left for him to hire.’
‘Warn Michael and Theophilis,’ instructed Bartholomew. ‘One of them must convince him to wait until tomorrow before flaunting his courage.’
‘I am not speaking to Theophilis,’ said Cynric, pursing his lips. ‘I cannot abide him. He spent all morning humouring Clippesby by the henhouse, then told Father William that Clippesby is a lunatic who should be locked away.’
‘What do you mean by “humouring” him?’
‘Making a show of asking the chickens their opinions, then pretending to appreciate their replies. I tried to draw Clippesby away, but Theophilis sent me to de Wetherset with a letter, which he said was urgent. But it was not.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because I read it,’ replied Cynric unrepentantly. ‘All it said was that Brother Michael had gone to St Radegund’s to talk to the nuns. It was a ruse to get me out of the way.’
Bartholomew had taught Cynric to read, although he had since wondered if it had been a wise thing to do. He pondered the question afresh on hearing that the book-bearer had invaded the Chancellor’s private correspondence, and yet it was interesting to learn that Theophilis reported Michael’s movements to de Wetherset. It confirmed his suspicion that the Junior Proctor was not to be trusted.
‘You can tell Michael that as well,’ he said. ‘Although you should make sure Theophilis never finds out what you did.’
Cynric turned to what he considered a much more interesting subject. ‘Margery says the Devil is already very comfortably settled in the Spital.’
‘Stay away from that place,’ warned Bartholomew, afraid Cynric would go to see the sight for himself – he did not want his militant book-bearer to encounter like-minded Jacques.
‘I shall,’ promised Cynric fervently. ‘I have no desire to meet the Lord of Darkness, although Margery tells me that he is not as bad as
everyone thinks. But even before Satan moved in, the Spital had a sinister aura. I want nothing to do with it.’
‘Good,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But advise Margery to keep her heretical opinions to herself. The University’s priests will not turn a blind eye to those sorts of remarks for ever, and we shall have a riot for certain if they execute a popular witch.’
Bartholomew found Aynton at his home in Tyled Hostel. The Commissary was in bed, one arm resting on a pile of cushions. His face was white with pain.
‘It happened at the Spital this morning,’ he explained tearfully, ‘and if I had a suspicious mind, I might say it was deliberate.’
‘What was deliberate?’ asked Bartholomew, sitting next to him and beginning to examine the afflicted limb.
‘I assume you know that de Wetherset wants me to solve the Spital murders,’ whispered Aynton. ‘Well, I was interrogating Warden Tangmer, when his cousin – that great brute Eudo – pushed me head over heels. My wrist hurts abominably, but worse, look at my boots! He has ruined them completely!’
Bartholomew glanced at them. They were calf-height, flimsy and so garishly ugly that he thought the scuffs caused by the fall had improved rather than disfigured them.
‘Pity,’ he said, aware that the Commissary was expecting sympathy. ‘But I am sure a good cobbler can fix them.’
‘He says the marks are too deep,’ sniffed Aynton. ‘I shall continue to wear them, as they cost a fortune, but they will never be right again. And my arm is broken into the bargain!’
‘Sprained,’ corrected Bartholomew, applying a poultice to reduce the swelling. ‘Eudo must have given you quite a shove to make you fall over.’
‘The man does not know his own strength. I suspect he did it because I was berating Tangmer for allowing his lunatics to play with swords. Some were engaged in a mock fight when I arrived, you see, which is hardly an activity to soothe tormented minds.’
‘No,’ agreed Bartholomew, supposing the Jacques had been practising the skills they might need to defend themselves, and that their imminent departure meant they were less concerned about being seen by visitors.
The Sanctuary Murders: The Twenty Fourth Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew Book 24) Page 19
