‘She spoke through a half-closed door, so I never saw her face. She said it was an abomination that French scum were hiding in our town, and she wanted me to kill them.’
Bartholomew struggled to understand the implications of what he was being told. ‘If this nun spoke to you on Monday, it means that you knew there were Frenchmen in the Spital when the fire broke out on Wednesday.’
‘Yes, I did. Leger and I were pleased that some were roasted, but we did not do it. I swear on my immortal soul that neither of us went anywhere near the Spital that morning.’
‘Why did you not tell Dick all this?’
‘Because Leger wants to be Sheriff, so it is in our interests to see Tulyet’s investigation fail. But now my end is near . . . well, his ambitions are less important than my conscience.’
Bartholomew was still grappling to understand what Norbert had done. ‘But some of the Spital’s fugitives were Jacques – rebels. You should not have kept that to yourselves.’
‘We didn’t – we have been spreading the word slowly and carefully through the town. Leger says that instant rumours can be dismissed as falsehoods, but measured hints and whispers are far less easy to ignore. We watched the tale take hold more strongly tonight, and by morning, everyone will know who is in the Spital.’
Bartholomew was glad the peregrini had gone, although he hoped the generous souls who had taken pity on them would not suffer in their stead. ‘Where did you meet this nun?’
‘At St Radegund’s, when I was delivering messages from the King to various abbesses.’
‘What else can you tell me about her?’
‘Just that I could hear her scratching as she spoke. It is not a nice habit in a woman.’
Alice, thought Bartholomew. The Lyminster nuns had guessed the truth about the Spital’s lunatics, so it was no surprise that Alice had done so, too. Yet confiding in Norbert was akin to arranging a massacre. Was she so twisted by hatred that she would bring about the deaths of harmless women and children?
Norbert seemed to sense his thoughts. ‘Yes,’ he whispered. ‘She is evil. I could hear the malevolence in her voice as she spoke to me.’
Bartholomew hurried straight home to tell Michael what Norbert had confessed, only to find the Master’s quarters empty. He scribbled a note detailing his findings, and left it on the desk. Then he returned to his own room and fell into an exhausted sleep. Not long after, the bell rang to call everyone to morning prayer. He rose and shuffled wearily into the yard, where Cynric was waiting to talk to him – the book-bearer had visited the Franciscans’ chapel during the night, and had made an alarming discovery among the dead. Bartholomew listened to his tale in horror.
Michael did not appear for the service, so Bartholomew fretted all through it, unsettled by Cynric’s news. The monk was missing for breakfast, too, and Bartholomew only picked at the meaty pottage that was served. William took Michael’s place at the high table, booming the preand post-prandial Graces with great relish and many grammatical mistakes.
When the meal was over, Bartholomew told Aungel which texts to teach that day, oblivious to the young Fellow’s dismay at what he considered to be unrealistic goals, then hurried to his room, where he gathered fresh supplies for the wounded at the friary. Michael arrived just as the physician was about to leave, his face grey with fatigue and his habit bearing signs of the previous night’s skirmish.
‘We declared a total curfew in the end,’ he said. ‘But that did not stop some feisty souls from sneaking out. Dick, Theophilis and I raced about like hares all night, quelling one spat only for another to break out. Dick hanged three of the worst offenders this morning.’
‘They were executed for affray?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily.
‘For murder – they were caught red-handed and there is no doubting their guilt. However, he is keen for everyone to think it was for rioting – he made the threat, and must be seen to carry it out, or no one will believe him the next time he is compelled to do it.’
‘What is happening on the streets now?’
‘Nothing – the mischief-makers have gone home at last.’ Michael grimaced. ‘We should be hunting the rogue who stabbed Paris, Bonet and the Girards – and whoever dispatched poor old Wyse – but instead all we do is struggle to keep a lid on this brewing war.’
‘What did the triumvirate do to help last night?’
‘They disappeared into St Mary the Great, where they stayed until dawn. No doubt they were plotting against me while I risked life and limb outside. What was the final death toll?’
‘It will be fourteen by now, although only four were scholars.’
‘Eighteen, then,’ said Michael softly, ‘if we include the three who were hanged and their victim. Eighteen dead for nothing!’
‘Do you want official causes of death?’ asked Bartholomew, and gave his report without waiting for an answer. ‘Nine townsmen died of knife wounds, while the tenth was shot. Of the scholars, two were bludgeoned, one was shot, and Bruges was stabbed.’
‘Stabbed?’ asked Michael. ‘You mean shot – he and the other King’s Hall lad were caught by the first volley of arrows. You said he was dead when you reached the mound.’
‘He was dead, which is why I did not examine him very carefully – I was more concerned with the living at that point. But Cynric went to the Franciscans’ chapel and saw the dagger still in Bruges’s back. He pulled it out and brought it home. It is on the table.’
Michael went to look at it, then gaped his shock. ‘But it is almost identical to the ones that were used on Paris and the Girard family! Are you telling me that the killer struck again – while we were watching?’
Bartholomew raised his hands in a shrug. ‘He must have done, because Bruges was dead when I arrived at the targets. Cynric asked the surviving archers if they saw anyone else lurking around, but none of them did. The fact that it was dark did not help – the targets were illuminated, but the area around them was not.’
‘Lord!’ breathed Michael. ‘Do you think one of them did it – that there were sour words between the opposing teams while they were deciding who won the contest?’
‘Cynric said they watched each other very carefully, as everyone knew their rivals would try to cheat. Bruges was alive when the arrows were loosed, which means the killer struck after they landed, but before we all reached the targets to see who had been hit.’
‘There goes our theory that Paris, Bonet and the Girards were killed for being French,’ sighed Michael. ‘Bruges is from Flanders.’
‘I am not sure everyone appreciates the difference,’ said Bartholomew soberly. ‘I wager anything you please that the killer is sitting in his lair at this very moment, congratulating himself on ridding the town of another enemy.’
‘Do you think he gave the order to shoot? The killer?’
Bartholomew rubbed his eyes tiredly. ‘I explained all this in the message I left in your room. Did you not read it?’
‘What message? My desk was empty.’
Bartholomew outlined what he had written, at the same time wondering who had taken the note. The obvious suspect was Theophilis, who had then carried it to his real masters in St Mary the Great. Or perhaps he was the killer, and was even now working out how to avoid being caught while simultaneously continuing his evil work.
‘So Norbert yelled the order for the archers to prepare, to give King’s Hall a fright, but someone else hollered the command to shoot,’ summarised Michael when Bartholomew had finished. ‘And all the while, our killer loitered boldly, awaiting his next victim.’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘Norbert thought the second command came from a townsman who acted without considering the consequences. The killer just took advantage of it.’
‘So we can discount Norbert and Leger for the Spital murders, because you believe what Norbert told you regarding their whereabouts?’
‘Yes, and we can discount Tangmer and Eudo, too, which means we are left with the peregrini, Amphelisa, Sister Alice
, Magistra Katherine, the triumvirate, Theophilis—’
‘Not Theophilis or de Wetherset,’ interrupted Michael. ‘And not Heltisle either, much as it pains me to admit it. They are more likely to wound with plots than daggers.’
‘But you see Aynton as a stabber?’
‘I do. I told you: there is something about him that I do not trust at all.’ Michael returned to the list. ‘I cannot see nuns committing murder either.’
‘Not even Sister Alice, who betrayed the peregrini to Norbert, along with the injunction to kill them all? Moreover, far from narrowing our list of suspects down, her gossip means that we now have to expand it to anyone who might have heard the rumour about Tangmer sheltering French spies.’
‘Are you sure Norbert was telling the truth? I would not put it past him to lie on his deathbed, just to confound us.’
‘He seemed sincere. Will you confront Alice today?’
‘Of course, although you should not forget that Norbert did not see her face, and it is not difficult to don a habit, stand in the shadows and impersonate a nun. But first, I must sleep. There is no point in challenging anyone when my wits are muddy from fatigue. Will you come with me to St Radegund’s later?’
‘If I must,’ replied Bartholomew without enthusiasm.
The Franciscans occupied a large swathe of land in the east of the town. It was bordered by the main road at the front and the King’s Ditch at the back. Inside, it was pretty, dominated by its church, refectory and dormitory. It also had a substantial guesthouse, which had been converted into a makeshift hospital. Bartholomew walked in and satisfied himself that the surviving wounded were doing as well as could be expected.
‘Norbert died,’ reported Mallett. ‘In his sleep, which was a pity, as I could have charged him for another dose of poppy juice if he had woken.’
‘You will go far,’ muttered Bartholomew in distaste. ‘You already think like most successful medici.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Mallett, flattered. ‘But Islaye and I can manage here for a bit longer, if you have other things to do. It will be no trouble.’
Bartholomew was sure it would not, especially if fees were pocketed in the process. He replaced them with two of their classmates, and went in search of Prior Pechem, a dour, humourless man who had just completed his morning devotions and was on his way to the refectory to break his fast.
‘Your tyranny in the classroom has paid off,’ Pechem remarked. ‘Your lads are much better than Rougham and Meryfeld, who have fifty years’ medical experience between them.’
As Bartholomew had scant regard for his colleagues’ abilities, this compliment fell on stony ground. ‘I saw you and some of your novices at the butts last night,’ he began.
Pechem nodded. ‘The ones who are not exempt from this wretched call to arms. I accompanied them, lest there was trouble.’
‘Were you there when the fight erupted?’
‘Yes, but I whisked them all home the moment the knives came out. I know they were there to learn how to kill, but I am unwilling to let them put theory into practice just yet.’
‘So what did you see?’
‘Not much, because it was dark. I heard a yell to ready bows, followed by another – a different voice, from further away – to shoot. Then all was chaos, blood and confusion.’
‘Did you recognise either of the voices?’
‘Unfortunately not. However, both came from the townsfolk’s side – the first from near the front, and the second from the back. Indeed, it was so far to the rear that the culprit may not have been part of the town faction at all.’
‘What are you saying? That he may have been one of us?’
Pechem shrugged. ‘I would hope not, but who knows? You do not need me to tell you that some of our students are eager to test their newly acquired skills on living flesh.’
‘I hope you are wrong,’ said Bartholomew unhappily.
‘So do I, but I fear I am not. The first order was from some ass who aimed to give everyone a scare, but the second was from someone who wanted to see blood. He knew exactly what he was doing, suggesting a cold and calculating mind. I doubt he will be caught.’
‘Do not underestimate Michael. He has snared cunning criminals before.’
‘Yes, but that was when he had power. Now he must dance to de Wetherset’s tune, and de Wetherset listens too much to Heltisle and Aynton.’
‘You do not like them?’
‘Let us just say that I have reservations. Of course, if there are any more incidents like last night, some of us will demand their resignation.’
‘Please do not,’ begged Bartholomew. ‘They will shift the blame to Michael, because keeping the peace is the Senior Proctor’s responsibility.’
‘They can try, but we are not stupid – we know who is better for the University, and it is not de Wetherset and his power-hungry cronies.’ Then Pechem gave one of his rare smiles and changed the subject. ‘How is Clippesby? That man is a treasure.’
Bartholomew regarded him in surprise. ‘We think so, but have you forgotten that he is a Dominican? A member of a rival Order?’
‘His treatise means we are more kindly disposed towards those now. Before, we deplored their reckless adherence to nominalism, but Clippesby’s hens demonstrated how we can accept their arguments while still remaining true to our own. He is a genius.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘We have known it for years.’
The wounded kept Bartholomew in the Franciscan Priory until mid-morning, after which he left Dr Rougham in charge and walked home. When he arrived, Michael’s window shutters were open and voices emanated from his quarters. He climbed the stairs, and found the Master and his Fellows discussing the previous night’s skirmish.
Michael reclined in his favourite chair, the colour back in his cheeks after a nap and a snack from his private pantry. Theophilis was on a bench next to him, while William sat on the windowsill. Aungel perched on a stool, straight-backed and formal, not yet ready to relax in the presence of men who had so recently been his teachers. Clippesby lay on the floor with two hedgehogs.
‘You made friends of the Franciscans with your treatise,’ Bartholomew told the eccentric Dominican.
‘Not all Franciscans,’ growled William, eyeing Clippesby with a combination of resentment and envy. ‘Some of us still think your arguments are seriously flawed.’
‘Are they?’ asked Clippesby with a sweet smile. ‘Please tell me how, so I can amend them. My next thesis is almost finished, and I should not like to repeat any mistakes.’
‘I am not telling you,’ blustered William. ‘You must work them out for yourself.’
The others exchanged amused glances. William noticed and went on the offensive, aiming for Clippesby, because he knew the Dominican would not fight back.
‘I suppose they are philosophers, too,’ he scoffed, jabbing a filthy finger at the hedgehogs. ‘And will tell you what to pen in your next “seminal” work.’
‘Oh, no,’ said Clippesby, all wide-eyed innocence. ‘Hedgehogs have no time for logical reasoning – they prefer to spend their time exploring the town. It is hens who are the theologians, as you would know if you had read their discourse.’
‘Exploring?’ queried Theophilis, and when Clippesby’s attention returned to the animals, he grinned at the others. ‘Exploring what? Libraries, in search of tomes that will lead them to a greater understanding of theology?’
‘Exploring the town,’ repeated Clippesby patiently. ‘For example, Olive and Henrietta here went to the Chesterton road on Thursday, where the scholar killed that old man.’
‘So they did not analyse the naturalism of—’ began Theophilis.
‘Wait a moment,’ interrupted Michael sharply. ‘You witnessed Wyse’s murder?’
‘I did not,’ replied Clippesby. ‘Nor did Olive and Henrietta. However, they saw the culprit running away. They did not know he was a killer at the time, of course – they only realised it later, after the body wa
s discovered.’
‘And you only mention this now?’ cried Michael. ‘After Dick and I have been running ourselves ragged in a hunt for clues?’
‘I have been busy,’ shrugged Clippesby. ‘Heltisle keeps lying about how many copies of my treatise have been sold, while Theophilis insists on entangling me in theological dis—’
‘The killer,’ snapped Michael in exasperation. ‘His name, please.’
‘Olive and Henrietta did not see his face,’ said Clippesby. ‘But his cloak fell open as he passed, revealing his scholar’s tabard. There was also an academic hat tucked in his belt.’
‘Did you recognise the livery?’ pressed Michael.
‘No, because it was too dark.’
‘So how do you know it was the killer you saw?’ interrupted Bartholomew.
‘Because he held a bloodied rock, which he tossed into the copse where Olive and Henrietta were sleeping. It is what caught their attention, you see, otherwise they might have dozed through the entire incident.’
‘Were they asleep?’ asked Theophilis with a sly smile. ‘Or philosophising?’
Even Clippesby was beginning to tire of Theophilis’s persistence. ‘I just told you – hedgehogs do not engage in academic pursuits. Olive and Henrietta wanted a rest, away from the fuss generated by the chickens’ theories.’
‘In other words, stop asking stupid questions,’ translated William. ‘The hens have already written all they know about nominalism and realism, so if you want to delve any deeper into the matter, you will have to consult with me.’
Theophilis laughed and the others joined in. Their mirth was short-lived, though, as William glanced out of the window to see Commissary Aynton walking across the yard. As he could think of no clever riposte to put his colleagues in their place, he vented his spleen on the visitor instead.
‘Here comes one of the Chancellor’s dogs,’ he sneered. ‘Do you want me to send him packing, Brother? I will do it if your Junior Proctor is unequal to the task.’
Michael made a warning sound in the back of his throat as Theophilis started to reply. No foundation liked outsiders to know its members quarrelled, so by the time Aynton was shown in, he might have been forgiven for thinking that all Michaelhouse Fellows loved each other like brothers.
The Sanctuary Murders: The Twenty Fourth Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew Book 24) Page 23
