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

by Susanna Gregory

  ‘No!’ snapped Joan, when he stopped. ‘Do not give up. Not yet.’

  He did as he was told, and was on the verge of admitting defeat when the child’s eyes fluttered open. She sat up and began to cough.

  ‘Praise the Lord!’ breathed Joan. ‘A miracle!’

  She fetched Eudo’s discarded shirt and wrapped it around the girl, although it was Amphelisa who took the dazed child in her arms and crooned comforting words.

  Bartholomew turned his attention back to the shed. Its roof was a sheet of orange flames, and groans and crashes emanated from within as it collapsed in on itself.

  ‘What of the woman?’ he asked hoarsely.

  ‘We could not reach her,’ rasped Eudo, whose face was ashen. ‘It was Mistress Girard, God rest her soul.’

  CHAPTER 4

  The next morning dawned cool, damp and wet. Bartholomew fancied he could smell burning in the misty drizzle from the still-smouldering Spital shed, although this was impossible as it was too far away. His sleep had teemed with nightmares, so he had risen in the small hours and gone to the hall to read. But even Galen’s elegant prose could not distract him from his thoughts, so he had spent most of the time staring at the candle, thinking about the fire.

  By the time it was out, the rubble had been far too hot for retrieving bodies, so Tulyet, whose responsibility it was to investigate, had asked him to return the following day to examine the victims. A roll call had revealed five people missing – the rescued girl’s parents, uncle, aunt and teenaged brother.

  The bell rang to wake the scholars for Mass, so he went to the lavatorium – the lean-to structure behind the hall, built for those interested in personal hygiene. Until recently, only cold water had been available, but Michael liked the occasional wash himself, and had ordered the servants to provide hot as well. It was an almost unimaginable luxury.

  Bartholomew stank of burning, so he scrubbed his skin and hair vigorously, then doused himself with some perfume that someone had left behind. He wished he had used it more sparingly when it transpired to be powerful and redolent of the stuff popular with prostitutes. He started to rinse it off, but the bell rang again, this time calling scholars to assemble in the yard, ready to process to the church. He left his soiled clothes in the laundress’s basket, and sprinted to his room for fresh ones, wearing nothing but a piece of sacking tied around his waist.

  ‘You had better not do that when you are married,’ remarked Theophilis, watching disapprovingly. ‘Not with a woman about.’

  Bartholomew was tempted to point out that Matilde was unlikely to mind, but held his tongue lest Theophilis thought he was being lewd. Back in his room, he donned a fresh white shirt, black leggings and a clean tabard. Then he forced his feet into shoes that were still wet from fire-drenching water, and hurried into the yard.

  Michael was already there, hood up to keep the drizzle from his immaculately barbered tonsure. His Benedictine students stood in a small, sombre cluster behind him, while Bartholomew’s medics formed a much noisier group near the hall. Aungel was with them and they were laughing. When he caught the words ‘chicken’ and ‘debate’, he surmised that they were reviewing William’s attempt to debunk Clippesby’s thesis the previous day.

  Clippesby and Theophilis were by the gate, so he went to join them. The Dominican was kneeling, and Bartholomew thought he was praying until he realised he was talking to the College cat. Theophilis listened carefully as Clippesby translated what the animal had said, then rolled his eyes, mocking the Dominican’s eccentricity. Bartholomew bristled, but William strode up before he could take issue with him.

  ‘I have a bone to pick with you, Matthew,’ the friar said coolly. ‘Your students kept asking questions during my sermon yesterday.’

  ‘Of course they did,’ said Bartholomew, aware of Theophilis sniggering. ‘They have been trained to challenge statements they deem illogical or erroneous.’

  William’s scowl deepened. ‘My exposition was neither, and the next time I give a lecture, they will not be invited.’

  Bartholomew was sure they would be delighted to hear it. Then Aungel approached.

  ‘Yesterday was great fun, Father,’ he declared enthusiastically. ‘I have never laughed so much in all my life. The best part was when you claimed that all robins are nominalists, because they know the names of the worms they eat.’

  ‘I never did! You tricked me into saying things I did not mean.’

  ‘We did it because it was so easy,’ said Theophilis in his eerily sibilant voice. ‘And our students learned one extremely valuable lesson: to keep their mouths shut when they do not know what they are talking about.’

  ‘But I do know what I am talking about!’ cried William, aggrieved. ‘I am a Franciscan theologian, and my understanding of the realism–nominalism debate is far greater than that of Clippesby’s stupid chickens.’

  ‘In that case, Father,’ said Theophilis slyly, ‘perhaps you should debate with them directly next time. You might find Ma and Gertrude easier to defeat than the students.’

  William narrowed his eyes. ‘You want me to appear as mad as Clippesby! Besides, all his hens look the same to me. How will I know which are the right ones?’

  Theophilis regarded William warily, not sure if he was serious, while Bartholomew laughed at them both.

  ‘Audrey has just mentioned something interesting,’ said Clippesby, indicating the cat. Bartholomew was glad he never took umbrage at William’s insults, or the College would have been a perpetual battleground. ‘She was hunting near the Spital just before dawn, and she saw what appeared to be a ghost – a spectre that undulated along the top of the walls.’

  The Dominican often went out at night to commune with his animal friends. When he did, he sat so still that he was all but invisible, which meant he frequently witnessed sights not intended for his eyes. Unfortunately, he invariably reported them in a way that made them difficult to interpret.

  ‘You mean you saw a person on the wall,’ said Aungel. ‘Who was it? A townsman trying to get inside to see the charred bodies? A lunatic trying to escape?’

  ‘It was a white, shimmering shape, which rippled along until it vanished into thin air,’ replied Clippesby. ‘Audrey has never seen anything like it, and she hopes never to do so again.’

  ‘Are you sure she was not dreaming?’ asked Bartholomew, hoping Clippesby would not mention the tale to Cynric, or they would never hear the end of it.

  Clippesby nodded. ‘She recited prayers to ward off evil, and ran home as fast as her legs would carry her.’

  ‘What was she doing out there in the first place?’ asked Theophilis suspiciously. ‘It is not safe, given the unsettled mood of the town.’

  ‘She went to make sure that no horses were involved in the fire,’ explained Clippesby. ‘Burning would be a terrible way to die.’

  ‘It would,’ agreed Bartholomew soberly. ‘As five hapless people have discovered.’

  Eventually, the last student emerged yawning from his room, and Michael led the way to church. This was something else that had changed since he and Bartholomew had returned from Clare. The two of them had spent years walking side by side, talking all the way. Now Michael was obliged to be in front, leaving Bartholomew with William, who was not nearly such good company. Aungel and Theophilis were next, followed by Clippesby and any animal he had managed to snag. The students tagged along last, those in holy orders with their heads bowed in prayer, the remainder a noisy, chatting throng.

  They arrived at the church, where it was William’s turn to officiate, with Michael assisting. As William prided himself on the speed with which he could rattle through the sacred words, Mass was soon over, and Michael led the way home.

  The rain had stopped and the sun was out, bathing the town in warm yellow rays. Everywhere were signs of advancing spring – blossom on the churchyard hedges, wildflowers along the sides of the road, and the sweet smell of fresh growth. Then a waft of something less pleasant wafted towards the
m, from the ditch that Tyled Hostel used as a sewer.

  They reached Michaelhouse, where Agatha, the formidable laundress who ran the domestic side of the College, had breakfast ready. Women were forbidden to enter Colleges, lest they inflamed the passions of the residents, although exceptions were made for ladies who were old and ugly. Agatha was neither, although it would be a brave man who tried to force his attentions on her.

  A few students peeled off to change or visit the latrines, but most went directly to the hall, where vats of meat-heavy pottage were waiting. There was also bread and honey for those who disliked rich fare first thing in the morning. Bartholomew opted for the lighter choice – he had already let his belt out once because of Michael’s improved victuals, and did not want to waddle down the aisle to marry Matilde.

  The meal was soon over, and Michael intoned a final Grace. Usually, Bartholomew went to the conclave to put the finishing touches to his lectures, but that day he went to his room to collect what he would need for examining bodies. Michael joined him there.

  ‘I cannot stop thinking about yesterday,’ said the monk, and shuddered. ‘Those poor people were inside that burning shed for an age – we did not exactly hurry to the Spital, and even when we did arrive, it was some time before Eudo raised the alarm. Why did no one hear them sooner?’

  Bartholomew had wondered that, too. ‘Maybe the firefighters made too much noise.’

  ‘But they did not, Matt. One of the first things I noticed was that they were labouring in almost complete silence, with none of the yelling and screeching that usually accompanies such incidents. If the victims had shouted, they would have been heard.’

  Bartholomew regarded him unhappily – his reflections during the night had led him to much the same conclusion. ‘So either their pleas were deliberately ignored or something happened to keep them quiet until it was too late.’

  Michael raised his hands in a shrug. ‘Yet everyone seemed genuinely shocked by the tragedy – I was watching very closely. Of course, the Spital’s patients are insane . . .’

  ‘The staff are not. They are all members of Tangmer’s family.’

  ‘Could it have been a suicide pact – the victims decided to die together, but one opted to spare the girl at the last minute?’

  ‘Perhaps the bodies will give us answers. But the Spital is a curious place, do you not think? Its patients are like no lunatics that I have ever encountered.’

  Michael agreed. ‘There is an air of secrecy about it that is definitely suspicious. However, I think I know why. Not one madman spoke the whole time I was listening, and at one point, Prioress Joan shouted orders in French. I assumed no one would understand her, but most of them did.’

  Bartholomew regarded him askance. ‘You think they are French raiders, poised to attack us as they did in Winchelsea? That does not sound very likely!’

  ‘I think they are French,’ said Michael quietly, ‘but not raiders. Most are women, children and old men, so I suspect they are folk who have been living peacefully in our country, but who suddenly find they are no longer welcome. The Spital is their refuge.’

  Bartholomew considered. The monk’s suggestion made sense, as it explained a lot: the peculiar silence, the inmates keeping their distance, the policy of discouraging visitors, and Tulyet, Leger and Norbert being asked to repel spectators.

  ‘Amphelisa is French,’ he said. ‘Perhaps they are her kin. Moreover, she told me that the child we rescued is called Helene Girard . . . Hélène Girard.’ He gave it two different pronunciations – the English one Amphelisa had used, followed by the French. Then he did the same for the other name he had heard: Delacroix.

  ‘Then I am glad I have decided to investigate the matter,’ said Michael, ‘because if we are right, the chances are that the fire was set deliberately with the Girard family inside. Ergo, five people were murdered. It would have been six if you had not saved Hélène.’

  Bartholomew frowned. ‘That is a wild leap of logic, Brother! Moreover, the Spital is outside your jurisdiction – you have no authority to meddle.’

  ‘The Senior Proctor will meddle where he likes,’ declared Michael haughtily. ‘And such a ruthless killer at large most certainly is my business, as I have an obligation to keep our scholars safe. Besides, I have not forgotten Paris the Plagiarist, even if you have.’

  Bartholomew blinked. ‘You think that whoever stabbed him also incinerated an entire family? But what evidence can you possibly—’

  ‘Paris was French, and I am sure we shall shortly confirm that the Girards were French, too. So was Bonet the spicer. It cannot be coincidence, and as Paris was a scholar, it is my duty to find out what is happening. But I cannot sit here bandying words with you. I must visit the castle, and tell our Sheriff what we have reasoned.’

  ‘What you have reasoned,’ corrected Bartholomew, then pointed out of the window. ‘But you are spared a trek to the castle, because Dick is here to see you.’

  The suite allocated to the Master of Michaelhouse was in the newer, less ramshackle south wing, and comprised a bedchamber, an office and a pantry for ‘commons’ – the edible treats scholars bought for their personal use. Needless to say, Michael kept this very well stocked, so Tulyet was not only furnished with a cup of breakfast ale, but a plate of spiced pastries as well. The Sheriff listened without interruption as Michael outlined his theory, although he gaped his astonishment at the claim that the Spital was a haven for displaced Frenchmen.

  ‘I am right,’ insisted Michael. ‘The King issued his call to arms because of what the Dauphin did in Winchelsea, so, suddenly, the war is not something that is happening in some distant country, but is affecting people here. Even many of our scholars, who should be intelligent enough to know better, are full of anti-French fervour.’

  ‘While the town is convinced that the Dauphin will appear at any moment to slaughter them all,’ acknowledged Tulyet ruefully. ‘A belief that Sir Leger and Sir Norbert exploit shamelessly to make folk practise at the butts.’

  ‘Leger and Norbert,’ said Michael in distaste. ‘I have heard them in taverns, ranting that all Frenchmen should be wiped from the face of the Earth. It is a poisonous message to spread among the ignorant, who are incapable of telling the difference between enemy warriors and innocent strangers – as Paris the Plagiarist may have learned to his cost.’

  ‘And Bonet,’ sighed Tulyet. ‘But Leger and Norbert have been moulded by the army, where they fought French warriors, massacred French peasants and destroyed French crops. I do not offer this as an excuse, but an explanation.’

  ‘So you believe me?’ asked Michael. ‘About the Spital “lunatics” being French?’

  Tulyet nodded slowly. ‘On reflection, yes. I heard some of the children whisper in that language yesterday. Moreover, none of the adults seemed mad, which suggests they are there for some other reason.’

  ‘So what will you do about it?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily.

  ‘Speak to them – determine whether they are hapless civilians caught in a strife that is none of their making, or spies intent on mischief.’

  ‘They cannot be spies,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘Half of them are children.’

  ‘It would not be the first time babes in arms were used as “cover” by unscrupulous adults,’ said Tulyet soberly. ‘However, I can tell you one thing for certain: something or someone prevented the Girards from escaping the fire, which means they were murdered.’

  ‘Do you think they were killed because they were French?’ asked Bartholomew.

  ‘Perhaps, but we will find out for certain when you examine the bodies – or when Michael and I poke around the remains of the shed together.’

  Michael smiled. ‘You do not object to joining forces with the University, a foundation stuffed to the gills with enemy soldiers, if the town is to be believed?’

  Tulyet raised his eyebrows. ‘Can you blame them? Your scholars strut around whinnying in French, and flaunting the fact that few of them are local. It is d
eliberately provocative.’

  ‘It is,’ conceded Michael. ‘And I shall speak to de Wetherset again later, to see if we can devise a way to make them desist.’

  ‘Good,’ said Tulyet. ‘Because now is not the time to antagonise us – not when so many are being taught how to fight. More than a few itch to put their new skills into practice.’

  Michael stood. ‘Then we had better make a start. If our killer hates Frenchmen enough to burn women and children alive, we need to catch him fast.’

  ‘I have just come from the Spital,’ said Tulyet, not moving. ‘The shed is still too hot for retrieving the victims, so I suggest meeting there at noon.’

  ‘Then in the meantime, Matt and I will question the folk who live along the Trumpington road. Perhaps one of them will have noticed someone slinking along intent on murder and arson.’ Michael raised a hand to quell Bartholomew’s immediate objection. ‘I know it will interfere with your teaching, but it cannot be helped. We must catch the culprit – or culprits – before any more blood is spilled.’

  ‘I will speak to my informants,’ said Tulyet. ‘See if they have heard rumours about groups of Frenchmen living in the area. I hope they would have already told me if there were, but there is no harm in being sure.’

  ‘None at all,’ agreed Michael.

  The three of them left the College, and walked to the high street, where Tulyet turned towards the castle, and Bartholomew and Michael aimed for St Mary the Great. It was Wednesday, the day when the market was dedicated to the buying and selling of livestock, so the town was busier than usual. Herds of cows, sheep and goats were being driven along the main roads, weaving around wagons loaded with crates of poultry. The noise was deafening, as none of the creatures appreciated what was happening and made their displeasure known with a cacophony of lows, bleats, honks, squawks and quacks.