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

by Susanna Gregory

  Michael regarded him askance. ‘There are easier ways to remove a man from office than destroying the University and its peaceful relations with the town.’

  ‘Yes – like ransacking your office in the dead of night, undermining your trade agreements, and appointing a lot of useless beadles in your name.’

  ‘Hah! De Wetherset was not the driving force behind all that – Heltisle was. You are wrong about de Wetherset, Matt. He probably would like me gone, but he would never harm the University to achieve it. Heltisle, on the other hand, is ruthless, and exactly the kind of man to frame a friend to benefit himself.’

  Bartholomew considered. Heltisle as the culprit made more sense than de Wetherset, who had always been the more reasonable of the pair. ‘So you think Heltisle disguised himself as de Wetherset and came to kill Isabel?’

  ‘I think it is easy to remove a badge from a hat, and Heltisle was also present when we claimed that Isabel could identify Orwel’s killer. And while the Chancellor would never provoke a war between the University and the town to oust me, Heltisle might. Although this is a dreadful accusation to make . . .’

  ‘And Heltisle is a dreadful man.’

  CHAPTER 14

  Michael paid a passing carter to take Abbess Isabel to St Radegund’s, where she was received with grief, shock and dismay. Important heads of houses came to demand an explanation, so it was some time before he and Bartholomew managed to extricate themselves – although it would have been longer still if Prioress Joan had not intervened. Sensing their rising agitation at the delay, she ordered her colleagues to silence.

  ‘They will tell us when there is more news,’ she informed them briskly. ‘Until then, I would rather they hunted Isabel’s killer than stood around here chatting to us.’ She turned to the scholars. ‘So go – do your duty while we pray for this saintly lady’s soul.’

  Michael gave her a grateful nod, and he and Bartholomew hurried back to the town. Both were appalled by how many troublemakers from the villages were flooding in, eager to fight a foundation they had always resented, and the monk began to drag his heels.

  ‘You do realise that someone may be manipulating us,’ he said. ‘That the killer wants me to accuse the Vice-Chancellor of a serious crime, so that we will be weak and divided when the crisis comes?’

  ‘Then do not accuse him,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘Just ask what he did after we said we were going to talk to Isabel. If he is innocent, he has nothing to fear.’

  ‘It is not his fear that worries me,’ muttered Michael. ‘It is his indignation.’

  They avoided the market square, which was almost certain to be thronged with angry tradesmen, and threaded through the maze of alleys opposite the butts instead. They were just walking up Shoemaker Row when they were hailed by Clippesby.

  ‘There you are!’ he cried in relief. ‘Ethel told me that I would find you if I looked long enough, but I was beginning to think she was wrong.’

  ‘What is the matter?’ asked Bartholomew anxiously. He had seen that wild-eyed, frantic expression before, and it meant Clippesby was in possession of some troubling fact.

  ‘Last week, Ethel – the College’s top hen – heard Heltisle claim that Suttone had run off to get married. In other words, it was not fear of the plague that made him resign, but lust. Ethel did not believe it, so she wrote to Suttone, begging the truth. His reply arrived an hour ago. It is—’

  ‘Not now!’ snapped Michael, trying to push past him.

  ‘Wait, Brother! Listen! Suttone explains everything. It was not the plague or a woman that made him go. He went because Heltisle forced him to. Here. See for yourself.’

  Michael snatched the letter and read it, his face turning angrier with every word. Clippesby summarised it for Bartholomew.

  ‘Heltisle threatened to destroy our College with lies unless Suttone did as he was told, and as Michael was away, Suttone had nowhere to turn for help. He bowed to the pressure, because he felt it was the best way to protect the rest of us.’

  ‘Mallett overheard Suttone and Heltisle arguing the night before Suttone resigned,’ said Bartholomew, recalling what the student had told him while they had tended the riot-wounded together. ‘He thought Suttone was close to tears . . .’

  ‘What in God’s name did Heltisle threaten to do?’ breathed Michael, staring at the letter. ‘Suttone does not say.’

  ‘Something very nasty,’ said Clippesby, ‘or he would have held his ground. But he crumbled, and Heltisle arranged for de Wetherset to be elected in his place.’

  ‘So there we are,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Yet more evidence that Heltisle is less than scrupulous. We must stop him before he does anything else to further his ambitions.’

  ‘He is at St Mary the Great,’ supplied Clippesby. ‘He was in his College, but a pigeon heard him tell a student that he wanted to keep an eye on de Wetherset.’

  ‘We shall corner him there,’ said Michael grimly, ‘but let me do the talking, Matt. If you charge in and accuse him of murder, and it transpires that we are mistaken—’

  ‘We are not mistaken,’ said Bartholomew soberly.

  Michael and Bartholomew hurried along the high street, acutely aware that everyone they passed was armed to the teeth. There was a good deal of vicious muttering, mostly directed against the French, who, it was rumoured, were poised to invade at any moment.

  Bartholomew glanced up at the sky to gauge the time. They had spent much longer at St Radegund’s than they should have done, and it would be dark in a couple of hours. Tradesmen were carting their wares to safer places, while homeowners nailed boards across windows and doors. Everywhere was a sense that now the day was nearly over, trouble was at hand.

  ‘I fear Dick has given Leger an impossible task,’ he said unhappily. ‘Even under cover of darkness it will be difficult to spirit slow-moving ancients and children away from the Spital with no one noticing.’

  ‘It will,’ agreed Michael. ‘But he must succeed. Failure is too awful to contemplate.’

  ‘Perhaps we should help. They—’ Bartholomew stopped walking suddenly and frowned his puzzlement. ‘Look over there – Gonville theologians talking to candle-makers.’

  ‘Yes, there will be a spat in a few moments. I could intervene, but they will only pick a quarrel with someone else. It is not worth the time it would take.’

  ‘No, look at them. They are not about to fight: they are having an amiable discussion.’

  Michael narrowed his eyes. ‘So what does that mean? That we are all friends again? Why, when only a few hours ago we were itching to kill each other?’

  ‘I do not know, but it makes me more uneasy than ever.’

  They reached St Mary the Great, where a number of Michael’s beadles stood guard.

  ‘The Vice-Chancellor was here,’ said one. ‘But then he and de Wetherset went out, taking a dozen of our lads to protect them. He promised to come back soon, though, and if you would like to wait inside, you can have a bit of our ale.’

  ‘Thank you, Silas,’ said Michael, heartened by the show of affection, as it meant the beadles would follow him when the crunch came. ‘But we need to find him now.’

  ‘Maybe Isnard knows where he went,’ suggested Silas, eager to be helpful. ‘Hey! Isnard! Have you seen Master Heltisle?’

  ‘He was in the market square a few moments ago,’ said Isnard, swinging towards them on crutches that were spotted with someone else’s blood. ‘But he left when I threw a stone at him. I wish it had hit the bastard! What he is doing to the trade agreements is—’

  ‘Did you see where he went?’ interrupted Michael urgently.

  ‘Towards Tyled Hostel,’ replied Isnard. ‘But you two should go home and stay there, because there will be trouble tonight. We are going to find every Frenchman we can lay our hands on and hang them.’

  ‘No, Isnard!’ cried Bartholomew, shocked. ‘You cannot—’

  ‘We do not care if it is a townsman or a scholar,’ interrupted Isnard, his usually good-
natured face turned ugly with hatred. ‘They will all die. Your own Heltisle just reminded us of the Winchelsea massacre, and it must be avenged.’

  ‘So now we know the next stage of Heltisle’s plan,’ said Michael breathlessly, as he and Bartholomew ran towards Tyled Hostel. ‘Uniting town and scholars in a purge against hapless foreigners. I will try to stop it, but I will fail in the face of such impassioned bigotry, and then he will demand my resignation.’

  ‘There will be a bloodbath of innocents,’ said Bartholomew, equally appalled. ‘Look what happened to Bruges and Sauvage – I am sure they died just because of their names.’

  ‘Heltisle has deployed the most insidious weapons of all,’ panted Michael. ‘Ignorance and intolerance. God help us all!’

  Bartholomew was alarmed to note that it was not only the candle-makers and Gonville who had agreed to a truce for the purposes of fighting a common enemy. Trinity Hall’s ranks were swelled with merchants, while several hostels had united with tradesmen from the market square. However, not everyone could bring themselves to do it, and King’s Hall was engaged in a furious spat with a band of arrogant young burgesses. Heltisle had been fiendishly clever, thought Bartholomew, as when trouble did come, it would be impossible to know who was on whose side, thus exacerbating and prolonging the crisis.

  They reached Tyled Hostel, where more of Michael’s beadles had been allocated guard duty, although none were very happy about it. Their resentment intensified when some of Heltisle’s Horde swaggered past, making the point that Michael’s men were mere sentries while they could roam where they pleased. Michael homed in on the Horde’s leader.

  ‘You have no right to wear that uniform, Perkyn – not when I dismissed you for malingering. Moreover, why are you lurking down here? When the trouble starts, it will be on the high street or in the market square, so that is where you need to be.’

  ‘Not according to Master Heltisle,’ countered Perkyn, making no pretence of being under the Senior Proctor’s command. ‘He reminded us that Michaelhouse houses more Frenchmen than any other foundation in the University, so we are waiting to trounce them when they come out. They will not get past us to murder our women and children.’

  Bartholomew suspected that Heltisle had given them tacit permission to assault anyone from the College, regardless of his origins. The Vice-Chancellor was attacking Michael on all fronts.

  ‘We have exactly the same number of overseas students as Tyled Hostel,’ Michael informed him curtly, ‘and three fewer than Bene’t. Now, enough nonsense. You will go—’

  ‘Master Heltisle said you would try to order us away from your lair,’ interrupted Perkyn insolently. ‘And he told us to ignore you. So piss off!’

  There was a collective intake of breath from the real beadles, which made Perkyn suddenly doubt the wisdom of taking on the Senior Proctor. Michael eyed the man coldly for a moment, then turned to his loyal followers.

  ‘Arrest these fools. Heltisle is no longer in charge. I am.’

  The real beadles cheered, then quickly rounded up the startled Horde and marched them towards the proctors’ gaol. When they had gone, Michael hammered on Tyled Hostel’s door, but no one was home except two elderly Breton scholars – the pair who Bartholomew had treated for a series of fear-induced nervous complaints a few days before. They tugged the visitors inside and closed the door quickly, both pale with terror.

  ‘Heltisle came to collect de Wetherset’s armour,’ said one. ‘And our students have gone to join the trouble outside. We tried to stop them, but they called us foreign traitors . . . They intend to fight when the trouble starts.’

  ‘Where is Heltisle now?’ demanded Michael.

  ‘Gone to make sure Bene’t is safe,’ replied the second, close to tears. ‘If you see Aynton, please ask him to come home. We are frightened here all alone.’

  Bartholomew took them to Michaelhouse, where William, Aungel and Clippesby had already taken steps to defend the College from attack. Armed students patrolled the perimeter, and the gates could be barred at a moment’s notice. One of the Bretons grasped Bartholomew’s hand as he ushered the pair safely inside.

  ‘I shall pray for you,’ he whispered. ‘You will need all the help you can get if you are to defeat the evil that has arisen among us.’

  It was an uncomfortable journey to Bene’t, as more than one person pointed out Bartholomew and Michael as men who hailed from a foundation housing foreigners. One was a patient, so Bartholomew stopped to reason with her, but Michael pulled him on. She had been drinking, which meant she was unlikely to listen.

  Bene’t was like a fortress, with students in armour stationed along the top of its walls and archers guarding its gates. Bartholomew was dismayed to note that several held weapons that shone with fresh blood. If they were willing to fight in broad daylight, what would the town be like when it was dark?

  ‘Master Heltisle was here,’ called a student, shouting down from the wall because he refused to open the gate. ‘But then he went out again.’

  ‘Where did he go?’ demanded Michael, making no effort to disguise his exasperation.

  ‘To rid the University of French infiltrators,’ came the belligerent reply. ‘And to make sure that the town scum know their place – which is under our heel.’

  ‘Now what?’ asked Bartholomew, aware that last remark had been heard by several passing apprentices, so was sure to bring Bene’t reprisals later.

  ‘Back to St Mary the Great. Perhaps he went there while we have been chasing our tails out here.’

  Heart pounding with tension, Bartholomew turned to run back along the high street. They passed Tulyet on the way, who reported tersely that Heltisle had refused to support another curfew on the grounds that scholars had a right to go where they pleased.

  ‘But we would have a riot for certain if there was one rule for you and another for us,’ finished Tulyet, his voice tight with anger. ‘So now everyone has licence to be out tonight.’

  ‘Have you heard from Leger?’ asked Bartholomew anxiously.

  ‘He sent a message to say that he will try to whisk his charges away as soon as darkness falls,’ replied Tulyet. ‘Pray God he succeeds, because I cannot help him.’

  They went their separate ways, although Bartholomew paused for a moment to listen to Verious howling for all loyal Englishmen to destroy the enemy spies. The ditcher’s face was bloated with drink, and Bartholomew doubted he was capable of distinguishing between an ‘enemy spy’ and folk he had known all his life. This was borne out when Isnard approached, and he would have been punched if the bargeman had not swiped irritably at him with a crutch.

  Bartholomew felt as though he was in a nightmare, where every step took longer than it should, and St Mary the Great never seemed to be getting any closer. But they reached it eventually, and Michael aimed for the door.

  ‘Heltisle has been here since we left,’ said Bartholomew, suddenly hesitating.

  ‘How do you know?’ asked Michael uneasily.

  ‘Because your beadles are no longer in place. I suspect he sent them away in the hope that this church will be attacked. It will be seen as a direct assault on the University, and will allow him to claim that you are incapable of defending us.’

  ‘If you are right, then this is the last place he will be,’ said Michael. ‘He will not want to be inside when a mob marches in.’

  ‘He knows nothing serious will happen until nightfall,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Until then, he will be busily gathering the documents he thinks he will need for when you have gone.’

  The door was open, so they slipped inside. The church was empty, and not so much as a single clerk laboured over his ledgers.

  ‘Good,’ breathed Michael. ‘They all have had the sense to hide.’

  ‘Or gone to join the fighting,’ Bartholomew whispered back. ‘Now follow me quietly. I want to see what Heltisle is doing before we challenge him.’

  He crept through the shadowy building to the grand room that had so recentl
y been Michael’s, and peered around the door. Then it was all he could do not to gasp in shock at what he saw. De Wetherset stood there with a stone in his hand, looming over someone who lay prostrate on the floor. The victim was Vice-Chancellor Heltisle.

  CHAPTER 15

  Bartholomew’s insistence on stealth meant that he and Michael had several moments when they could see de Wetherset, but the Chancellor was unaware of them. He was muttering to himself, and the savage expression on his portly features told them all they needed to know about the identity of the killer. He had donned his armour, suggesting that he aimed to be in the thick of whatever happened that night, making sure it did not fizzle out before it had achieved what he intended.

  ‘I cannot believe it,’ breathed Michael. He was ashen, partly from shock that de Wetherset should be guilty, but mostly from knowledge of the harm it would do the University when the truth emerged. ‘How could he?’

  De Wetherset crouched next to Heltisle, peered at the wound he had inflicted, and raised the rock for a final, skull-crushing blow.

  ‘Stop!’ howled Bartholomew, not about to stand by while it happened, even if the victim was the detestable Heltisle. ‘No more, de Wetherset. It is over.’

  The Chancellor whipped around in alarm. ‘Thank God you are here!’ he cried in feigned relief. ‘It transpires that Heltisle is a false friend. I asked why he had sent all the beadles away from our church, and his response was to race forward and stab me.’

  Bartholomew was amazed that de Wetherset should expect them to believe it. ‘The wound is to the back of his head, which means he cannot have been rushing at you. I suspect he was sitting at the desk when you hit him. Besides, you have no injury.’

  ‘He missed,’ said de Wetherset, eyeing him with dislike. ‘Although not from want of trying – his metal pen was aimed right at my heart. Of course I defended myself.’