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

by Susanna Gregory

  ‘Well, if he did, Theophilis would not be looking for it on my desk, lying out for all to see. He knows anything important will be locked away. You are wrong about him, Matt.’

  Bartholomew failed to understand why the monk refused to accept what was so patently obvious. He looked out of the window again while Michael riffled about in his pantry for treats, and saw Clippesby with a drowsing chicken – he was going to the henhouse to put her to roost. Theophilis changed course to intercept him, and asked a question to which the Dominican shook his head. Theophilis persisted, and Clippesby became agitated. So did the bird, which flew at Theophilis with her claws extended.

  The Junior Proctor jerked away with a yelp. He looked angry, so Bartholomew hurried down to the yard to intervene – the hen was Gertrude, and it would be unfortunate if Theophilis hurt her, as the nominalists in the University were likely to see it as an act of war. The last thing they needed was another excuse for strife.

  ‘This lunatic knows something about the murders,’ spat Theophilis, jabbing his finger accusingly at Clippesby. ‘He saw something last night, but declines to tell me what.’

  ‘What did you see, John?’ asked Bartholomew, while Clippesby retrieved the hen and stroked her feathers. She relaxed, although her sharp orange eyes remained fixed on Theophilis.

  ‘You will not get a sensible answer,’ hissed Theophilis. ‘Just some rubbish about a mouse. He ought to be locked away where he can do no harm. All this nonsense about philosophising fowls! He is an embarrassment, and as soon as I have a spare moment, I am taking him to the Spital. They know how to deal with madmen.’

  Clippesby regarded him reproachfully. ‘But you have been fascinated by the birds’ theories for weeks, so why—’

  ‘You are a fool,’ interrupted Theophilis, so vehemently that Clippesby flinched and the hen’s hackles rose again. ‘I thought you were more clever than the rest of us combined, but I was wrong. I should never have befriended you.’

  ‘Not befriended,’ said Bartholomew, suddenly understanding exactly why Theophilis had spent so much time in the Dominican’s company. ‘Milked for ideas.’

  Theophilis regarded him contemptuously. ‘You are as addle-witted as he is if you think I am interested in any theory he can devise.’

  ‘But you are interested,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘Because Clippesby is cleverer than the rest of us combined. The whole University is talking about the Chicken Debate, and his arguments are respected by people on both sides of the schism. He has single-handedly achieved what others have been striving to do for decades.’

  He saw that Michael had followed him outside and was listening. William had sidled up, too, although Theophilis was too intent on arguing with Bartholomew to notice either.

  ‘Clippesby is a one-idea man,’ the Junior Proctor said contemptuously. ‘He has shot his bow and now his quiver is empty.’

  ‘On the contrary, he has been working on his next treatise all term, and it promises to be every bit as brilliant as the first. It is almost ready, so you aim to steal it and pass it off as your own. That is why you have quizzed him so relentlessly.’

  ‘Lies!’ cried Theophilis outraged. ‘I would never—’

  ‘But first, you must get rid of him,’ Bartholomew forged on. ‘You began calling him a lunatic a few days ago, rolling your eyes and smirking behind his back. Now you aim to have him locked him away, so that no one will hear when he says “your” treatise is really his.’

  ‘But he is insane! He should be shut in a place where he cannot embarrass us. And I resent your accusations extremely. Why would I claim credit for a discussion between hens?’

  ‘Oh, I am sure you can adapt it to a more conventional format. And that is why you were in Michael’s room just now – not spying for Heltisle, but looking for something that will allow you to discredit Clippesby.’

  ‘What if I was?’ flared Theophilis, capitulating so abruptly that Bartholomew blinked his surprise. ‘I will make sure that this new treatise honours Michaelhouse, whereas Clippesby will just draw attention to the fact that we enrol madmen. It is better for the College if I publish the work under my name. Surely, you can see that I am right?’

  Bartholomew was so disgusted that he could think of no reply, although the same was not true of William, who stepped forward to give Theophilis an angry shove.

  ‘You are despicable,’ he declared, as Theophilis’s eyes widened in horror that his admission had been heard by others. ‘There is no room in Michaelhouse for plagiarists.’

  ‘There is not,’ agreed Michael, regarding his Junior Proctor with hurt disappointment. ‘Consider your Fellowship here terminated.’

  ‘Do not expel him on my account,’ begged Clippesby, distressed as always by strife. The hen clucked, so he put his ear to her beak. ‘Gertrude says that—’

  ‘You see?’ snarled Theophilis, all righteous indignation. ‘He is stark raving mad!’

  ‘He is,’ agreed William. ‘Because I would not speak in your defence if you had been trying to poach my ideas. It takes a very special lunatic to be that magnanimous.’

  ‘You cannot eject me, because I resign,’ said Theophilis defiantly. ‘From Michaelhouse and the Junior Proctorship. I want nothing more to do with any of you.’

  ‘Good,’ said William. ‘I will help you pack. Is now convenient?’

  When Theophilis had been marched away by a vengeful William, Michael invited Bartholomew and Clippesby to his rooms for a restorative cup of wine. Bartholomew supposed he should feel triumphant that his doubts about the Junior Proctor’s integrity should be correct, but instead he felt soiled. He glanced at Clippesby, who perched on a stool with the hen drowsing on his lap.

  ‘What will poor Theophilis do now?’ asked the Dominican unhappily. ‘No other College will take him once they learn what he did. His academic career is over.’

  ‘You are too good for this world,’ said Michael. ‘If he had tried to steal my ideas, I would have driven him from the country, not just the College.’

  Clippesby kissed the chicken’s comb. ‘There was never any danger of him taking my ideas. Gertrude and Ma warned me weeks ago that his interest in them was not quite honourable, so they have been having a bit of fun with him.’

  Michael regarded him warily. ‘What kind of fun?’

  A rare spark of mischief gleamed in the friar’s blue eyes. ‘Theophilis will publish a thesis soon, but as Gertrude and Ma have been largely responsible for its contents, it will have some serious logical flaws. Then they will help William prepare a counterclaim.’

  Bartholomew shook his head wonderingly. ‘Which will have the dual purpose of bringing more academic glory to Michaelhouse – William’s refutation is sure to be flawless if your hens are involved – and embarrassing Theophilis by having his errors exposed by the least able scholar in the University. My word, John! That is sly.’

  Clippesby kissed the bird again. ‘Gertrude has a very wicked sense of humour.’

  Michael eyed him with a new appreciation. ‘It is a scheme worthy of the most slippery of University politicians. Perhaps I should appoint you as my new Junior Proctor.’

  ‘No, thank you,’ said Clippesby vehemently, then turned to Bartholomew. ‘When you confronted Theophilis, did I hear you accuse him of spying for Heltisle?’

  Bartholomew nodded. ‘Why? Do you know something to prove it?’

  ‘I know something to disprove it. Hulda the church mouse often listens to Heltisle and de Wetherset talking. She says they did ask Theophilis to monitor you, but he refused.’

  ‘Did he say why?’ asked Michael. ‘And more to the point, why did this mouse feel compelled to eavesdrop on high-ranking University officials in the first place?’

  ‘Because she was afraid they would conspire against you – which they did, by trying to buy your Junior Proctor. But Theophilis was loyal. He refused to betray you, even for the promise of your job.’

  ‘Then what a pity he transpired to be an idea-thief,’ spat Michael in disg
ust. ‘Faithful deputies do not grow on trees. I do not suppose he was pumping you for ideas when any of these murders was committed, was he? Matt has him at the top of his list of suspects.’

  ‘He was with Gertrude, Ma and me when Paris was stabbed,’ replied Clippesby promptly. ‘Does that help?’

  Bartholomew was not sure whether to be disappointed or relieved. He had wanted Theophilis to be the culprit, especially in the light of what the man had tried to do to Clippesby, but it would be better for Michaelhouse if the killer was someone else. Then he recalled another thing that Theophilis had said.

  ‘He mentioned you knowing something about the murders. Do you?’

  ‘Just another snippet from Hulda the mouse – that she saw a nun running away from the Brazen George last night. It was not long after Orwel was bludgeoned, although Hulda did not know this at the time, of course.’

  Michael gaped at him. ‘A nun killed Orwel? Which one?’

  ‘Hulda did not say this nun killed Orwel,’ cautioned Clippesby. ‘She said the nun was running away from the Brazen George shortly after Orwel died. She does not know her name, but the lady was thin, pale, and wore a pure white habit.’

  Michael blinked. ‘Abbess Isabel? She would never leave St Radegund’s at that time of night! She knows the town is dangerous, because she is the one who found Paris’s body.’

  ‘How was she running?’ asked Bartholomew of Clippesby. ‘In terror? In triumph?’

  The Dominican shrugged. ‘She was just running.’

  ‘Abbess Isabel is not the killer,’ said Michael firmly. ‘She would never risk her place among the saints by committing mortal sins.’ He turned back to Clippesby. ‘Was this mysterious white figure alone?’

  Clippesby nodded. ‘And not long before, Hulda saw her calling on Margery Starre.’

  ‘Then it cannot have been Isabel,’ said Michael at once. ‘She would never visit a witch. I imagine someone stole her distinctive habit and used it as a disguise.’

  ‘So ask Margery who it was,’ suggested Clippesby. He bent his head when the hen on his lap clucked. ‘But not tonight. Gertrude says she is busy casting spells to prevent another riot.’

  ‘Then we shall see her tomorrow,’ determined Bartholomew, although he could see that Michael itched to have answers immediately. ‘We cannot disrupt Margery’s efforts to keep the peace, Brother. If we do, and trouble breaks out again, everyone will say it is our fault for getting in her way.’

  ‘They will,’ agreed Clippesby. ‘And if more people die fighting, it will be even harder to restore relations between us and the town.’

  Reluctantly, Michael conceded that they were right.

  CHAPTER 13

  The next day saw a change in the weather. Blue skies were replaced by flat grey ones, and a biting north wind scythed in from the Fens. Bartholomew rose while it was still dark, woke Aungel with instructions for the day’s teaching, then joined Michael for a hurried breakfast in the kitchen with Agatha the laundress, who had a great many things to say about the fact that the town and the University were teetering on the brink of yet another major confrontation.

  ‘And it is not just each other they hate,’ she declared, pursing her lips. ‘There are divisions in both that mean the strife will be all but impossible to quell. I would not be in your shoes for a kingdom, Brother. Or the Sheriff’s, for that matter.’

  ‘She is right,’ muttered Michael, as he and Bartholomew hurried to Margery’s home in Shoemaker Row. ‘Dick managed to stamp out some trouble last night, but all it did was give the would-be rioters more cause to resent him – and us.’

  ‘Have you arranged an escape for the peregrini yet?’ asked Bartholomew.

  Michael grimaced. ‘I need to be careful, because if I confide in the wrong nun . . . well, I do not need to explain to you that the matter is delicate.’

  Although it was only just growing light, the streets were busy as folk took advantage of the curfew’s end to see what was happening outside. They included both townsmen and scholars, the latter making no effort to pretend they were going to church. On the high street, some of Heltisle’s Horde were engaged in a fracas with students from King’s Hall, while there was a quarrel in the market square between those who wanted to fight the French spies at the Spital and those who thought it was better to lynch them.

  ‘Vengeance is for God to dispense, not you,’ declared Prior Pechem of the Franciscans as he passed – a remark that meant there were then three factions yelling at each other.

  An angry bellow from Michael was enough to make them disperse, although Bartholomew sensed it was only a matter of time before they were at it again. He suspected most cared nothing about the issues they supported, and their real objective was just a brawl.

  He and Michael reached Shoemaker Row, where Margery’s cottage looked pretty in the daylight – painted a cheerful yellow, with an array of potted plants on the doorstep. It was not how most folk would picture the lair of a witch.

  ‘You will have to go in alone,’ said Michael, who had been walking ever more slowly towards it. ‘I cannot be seen dropping in on her – our students might interpret it as licence to do the same, and enough of them beat a track to her door as it is. Besides, I have my reputation to think of.’

  ‘What about my reputation?’ demanded Bartholomew indignantly.

  ‘Already compromised – it is common knowledge that she likes you. Now hurry up! We cannot afford to waste time. If Margery confirms that Abbess Isabel was indeed out and about when Orwel was murdered, we will have to go to St Radegund’s and demand an explanation.’

  Bartholomew entered Margery’s home with the same fear that always assailed him when he stepped across her threshold – that he would find her having a cosy chat with her good friend Lucifer. Or worse, brewing some concoction that contained human body parts. Instead, it was to discover Cynric there, the two of them sitting companionably at the hearth, drinking cups of her dangerously strong ale.

  ‘I am here for Dusty,’ explained the book-bearer, not at all sheepish at being caught in such a place. ‘He has a sore hoof, and Margery makes an excellent onion poultice for those.’

  ‘She probably got the recipe from Satan,’ muttered Bartholomew to himself, ‘who uses it on his cloven feet.’

  ‘No, it is my own formula,’ said Margery pleasantly, startling him with her unusually acute hearing. ‘So what brings you here, Doctor? And openly, too! The last time you came, you skulked outside with your ear to my window shutter.’

  Bartholomew felt himself blush. ‘I was following Sister Alice. She was walking along so furtively that I thought I should see what she was up to.’

  ‘She wanted a cursing spell,’ recalled Margery. ‘But I did not give her one. I decided she was unworthy, so I fobbed her off with a pot of coloured water.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Bartholomew, wondering how ‘unworthy’ one had to be not to pass muster with one of the Devil’s disciples. ‘Did she say what she intended to do with it?’

  ‘Wreak revenge on her enemies, who seem to include everyone she meets. I did not take to her at all, which is why I do not mind disclosing her secrets. I am more discreet with folk I like, such as yourself.’

  ‘How about Abbess Isabel?’ asked Bartholomew, speaking quickly to mask his discomfiture. ‘Do you like her?’

  Margery nodded. ‘She is a little over-passionate about Christianity, but that happens when you spend all your life in a convent, and she cannot help it, poor soul. However, my fondness for her means I will not break her confidence.’

  ‘No?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering how to convince her that it was important she did. Fortunately, he did not have to ponder for long.

  ‘Unless you make it worth my while,’ Margery went on. ‘Do I detect the scent of cedarwood oil about you? Amphelisa’s perhaps? That is excellent stuff – always useful.’

  Bartholomew fished it from his bag and handed it over, marvelling that her sense of smell should be as sensitive as her hearing. ‘She
said it kills fleas.’

  ‘I imagine it does, but it is also good for dissolving unwanted flesh.’

  Bartholomew regarded her uneasily. ‘Unwanted by whom?’ But then he decided he did not want to know the answer, so changed the subject. ‘Tell me about the Abbess.’

  ‘She came to me on Saturday evening, shortly after you and Brother Michael went to the Brazen George – I saw you slip through its back door while I was walking home.’

  ‘How did she seem to you?’

  ‘You mean did she race out afterwards and brain Orwel?’ asked Margery shrewdly. ‘If she did, it had nothing to do with her discussion with me – which was all about a nun she aims to defrock. She is too tactful to mention names, but I knew she meant Alice.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘By her description of a discontented lady with a penchant for stinking candles. She wanted a list of all those Alice intends to hurt, so she could warn them to be on their guard. I obliged her, and in return she gave me a lock of her hair, which she says will be worth a lot of money after she is canonised.’

  Bartholomew decided not to tell Margery that it took years for such matters to be decided, and that those arrogant enough to believe they were in the running would probably be rejected on principle.

  ‘Is Isabel herself on Alice’s list?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, yes, along with the Bishop and a hundred others. I told her to watch herself, because while I am the best wise-woman in Cambridge, I am not the only one, and others are not as scrupulous as me. When Alice realises my coloured water is not having the desired effect, she will take her custom elsewhere.’

  ‘Did Isabel heed the warning?’

  ‘She promised she would. However, she said one thing that bemused me. She said that finding Paris the Plagiarist’s body still haunts her dreams. But why would it? He cannot have been her first corpse, and I am told that his stabbing was not particularly bloody.’

  ‘No more than any other,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And less than some.’