‘Because Satan told me,’ replied Margery grandly. ‘He dropped in yesterday morning, and said he plans to take up residence there. I imagine it was him who started that fire – not deliberately, of course, but because his fiery hoofs touched dry wood.’
‘You are right,’ said Bartholomew sombrely. ‘The Devil was involved in starting the blaze, because only a very evil being could want people roasted alive.’
Margery sniffed. ‘Satan is not evil – just misunderstood. He—’
‘You mentioned a nun,’ interrupted Michael, unwilling to listen to such liberal views about the Prince of Darkness. He was a monk, after all. ‘She came to you with “a peculiar request”.’
‘It was Alice, the short, spiteful one who was deposed from Ickleton,’ replied Margery. ‘She asked me to make her some candles that reek of manure.’
Michael frowned his bemusement. ‘Why would she want something like that?’
‘To send to folk she does not like. The recipients will light them in all innocence, then spend days trying to dislodge the stink from their clothes.’
‘I see,’ said Michael. ‘And Alice told you all this willingly?’
Margery nodded. ‘She was reluctant at first, but hate burns hot inside her, and once she started, she could not stop. One of her targets is that elegant, arrogant nun, who thinks she is better than everyone else because her brother is the Bishop . . .’
‘Magistra Katherine,’ supplied Bartholomew.
‘Yes, so if she dies in suspicious circumstances, you will know who to question first. Another enemy is Prioress Joan, who called her a spiteful little harpy. And a third is Abbess Isabel, whose report to the Bishop saw her disgraced.’
‘Did Alice buy spells that would kill or hurt them?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily. He did not believe in the efficacy of such things, but if Alice was attempting to purchase some, then her intended victims should be warned to be on their guard.
‘I do not deal in those,’ replied Margery loftily, although his relief evaporated when she added, ‘other than for very special customers.’
‘I assume you refused to make these smelly candles, too,’ said Bartholomew.
‘Of course not! She paid me a fortune to invent them, and I like a challenge. If I succeed, I can sell them to others who want to annoy their foes. You may have one – free of charge – for that nasty old Heltisle if you like.’
Bartholomew laughed. ‘It is tempting, but I do not think Matilde would approve.’
‘She would! She cannot abide him either. Mind you, that villain Theophilis is worse. He sniffs around poor Master Clippesby like a dog on heat, and I do not like it.’
‘We should go,’ said Tulyet, tired of listening to her. ‘Time is passing.’
He set a cracking pace, and no one spoke again until they reached the Spital. When they arrived, he glanced up at the towering walls.
‘God’s blood!’ he blurted. ‘What is that?’
Bartholomew and Michael looked to where he pointed, and saw something pale rise from the ground and ascend the wall. There was an approximate head and body, with two trailing wisps that might have been legs. It floated upwards, then disappeared over the top.
‘It is someone playing a trick,’ determined Michael. ‘Go and look in the undergrowth, Matt. You are better at these things than me.’
Bartholomew took a stick and thrashed around in the weeds at the foot of the wall, but there was nothing to see – no tell-tale footsteps or hidden pieces of twine.
‘If it is a prank, then it is a very clever one,’ he told Michael eventually. ‘I have no idea how it was managed. Perhaps it really was a ghost.’
‘Do not be ridiculous,’ said Michael firmly. ‘There is no such thing as ghosts. Well, other than the Holy Ghost, of course, but that is different.’
CHAPTER 5
There was a bell rope outside the Spital’s main entrance so that visitors could announce their arrival. Michael gave it a tug, and when nothing happened, pulled harder. Then he exchanged a look of astonishment with Bartholomew and Tulyet when, instead of the usual cheery jangle that characterised such arrangements, a bell of considerable size boomed out. It echoed mournfully around them, stilling the merry chatter of sparrows in the nearby bushes.
‘Goodness!’ murmured Bartholomew, when the deep hum had died away. ‘How very sinister! It feels as though we are about to ask for admittance to the Devil’s lair.’
‘Do not jest about such matters,’ admonished Tulyet uneasily. ‘There is something distinctly odd about this place. Perhaps Margery is right about Satan making it his own – and the thing we just watched shimmer over the wall was one of his familiars.’
‘It was a trick,’ said Michael firmly, ‘even if we did find no evidence to prove it. However, we shall use it to our advantage, because if folk believe this place is infested by evil sprites, they will keep their distance. Then if the lunatics do transpire to be French, they are less likely to be discovered.’
‘Alternatively,’ cautioned Bartholomew, ‘local folk may object to such a place on their doorstep, and will raze it to the ground. Then we shall have dozens of victims, not five.’
They were still debating when the massive Eudo opened the gate. He peered out warily, standing so that his bulk prevented them from seeing inside.
‘You cannot come in,’ he stated in a tone designed to brook no argument.
‘Oh, yes, we can,’ countered Tulyet. ‘People died here yesterday, and it is our duty to investigate. So either let us in now or we shall return with soldiers.’
His stern face convinced Eudo to do as he was told. The moment they were inside, the big man closed the gate and secured it with a thick bar.
‘People do not like lunatics,’ he explained. ‘Ergo, we have to protect ours.’
‘So I see,’ remarked Tulyet, looking to where several men were stationed on the walls, clearly standing guard. They were not armed, but sack-covered mounds revealed where weapons were stashed.
The Spital was a very different place than it had been the previous day. The inmates no longer stood in a frightened cluster, but joined the staff in a variety of humdrum activities – sweeping, gardening, laundry. There was not a child in sight. Two inmates moved as though they were not in complete control of their limbs, while three others jabbered self-consciously.
‘Not even madmen do dirty household chores without aprons to protect their clothes,’ Michael murmured as they followed Eudo to the hall. ‘That bell is not to announce visitors, but to warn the inmates to take up pre-agreed roles and positions. All this quiet industry is an act, although not a very convincing one.’
‘I agree,’ whispered Tulyet. ‘But let us go along with the charade, and see what we can learn before we reveal that we know they are Frenchmen in disguise – wealthy Frenchmen, as hiring an entire hospital cannot be cheap.’
‘I suspect they are middling folk – craftsmen and traders,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The one beating rugs has burns like a blacksmith, while the woman weaving baskets is so dexterous that it must be her profession.’
They turned at a shout, and saw the portly Warden Tangmer waddling towards them, red-faced and breathless in his haste. Eudo’s tiny wife Goda was with him, wearing an elaborately embroidered kirtle that made her look like an exotic doll. Bartholomew wondered if her everyday one had been spoiled fighting the fire.
Tulyet opened his mouth to explain why they were there, but the Warden spoke first.
‘We shall bury our dead behind the chapel,’ he announced. ‘We are digging their graves now, so please leave us to do it in peace.’
‘Not until we have ascertained why a whole family was trapped inside a burning shed,’ said Tulyet sharply.
Tangmer winced. ‘It was an accident. We are bursting at the seams with lunatics, so every building is needed to accommodate them all, even ramshackle ones that go up in flames when candles are knocked over.’
Eudo glared at Michael. ‘Which is your fault for foisting t
hose nuns on us.’
Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘I did it because you told me that all your patients are held in secure accommodation inside the hall, and that the guesthouse was never used for that purpose. If you had been honest with me, I would have billeted my sisters elsewhere.’
‘I did not know you were fishing for beds at the time,’ retorted Eudo sullenly. ‘I thought you wanted assurances that your precious University is in no danger from escaped madmen.’
‘So the nuns’ arrival meant that some patients were moved to the shed?’ asked Tulyet. He waited until Eudo and Tangmer nodded before continuing. ‘You are lying again – yesterday, you told me that it was full of tools and building supplies.’
Tangmer gave a pained smile. ‘It is. However, the Girards elected to use it anyway – like a family house.’
‘There were no windows,’ added Eudo, ‘so you had to use candles or a lamp inside. It was also full of dry timber, so if one of the youngsters knocked one over . . .’
‘The door was open when the alarm was first raised,’ said Tangmer, his heckling defiance replaced by anguish. ‘I ordered it closed, thinking it was the best way to contain the blaze. There had been plenty of time for anyone inside to get out, so I do not understand how this terrible thing could have happened. Goda said the shed was empty.’
‘I was sure it was empty,’ put in Goda, shaking her head unhappily. ‘I could not believe it when voices . . .’
‘Did you search it?’ asked Tulyet. ‘Properly?’
Goda grimaced. ‘I went in as far as I dared, but no one was there. All I can think is that they were hiding behind the logs at the very back.’
Tulyet frowned. ‘Why would they hide?’
‘Because we had a visitor, and they were terrified of those,’ explained Goda. ‘I see now that I should have looked harder, but it never occurred to me that they would be more frightened of strangers than a fire.’
‘What visitor?’
‘Sister Alice, who came to see the nuns. I do not know why, as they loathe each other.’
‘Alice did not mention that to us just now,’ muttered Bartholomew. ‘Curious.’
‘She came today as well,’ Goda went on, ‘even though it was early and we were not really ready for . . .’
She trailed off, chagrined, when she realised she had almost let slip something that was meant to be kept quiet. Eudo blundered to her rescue.
‘Ready for the day’s chores,’ he blustered. ‘Some patients were not even dressed, and we were afraid that Alice would go away thinking we are all as lazy as . . . as Frenchmen. That race is worthless, and we hate them.’
‘We do,’ agreed Tangmer with a sickly smile. ‘After what happened at Winchelsea, I shall kill any Frenchman on sight. We all would – every last soul among us.’
‘Does that include your wife?’ asked Bartholomew archly. ‘Or is she exempt?’
‘Amphelisa?’ gulped Tangmer, eyes wide in his panicky face. ‘She is not French!’
Tulyet indicated Bartholomew. ‘I have brought the University’s Corpse Examiner to look at the bodies, because I find it very strange that an entire family would rather roast alive than meet a nun.’
‘Do you?’ Tangmer exchanged an agitated glance with Eudo. ‘Well, I suppose there is no harm in it, but I have a condition – that none of you speak to our patients. They are in a very fragile state after yesterday, and we cannot have them distressed further.’
‘Where are the bodies?’ asked Tulyet briskly. ‘Still in the shed?’
‘We retrieved them and put them in the chapel,’ replied Tangmer. ‘Poor souls.’
The Spital’s chapel was a pretty place adjoining the central hall. There were two ways in – a small priests’ door in the north side and a larger entrance from the hall itself. Tangmer opted to use the former, clearly to prevent his visitors from seeing more of his domain than absolutely necessary. As soon as they were inside, he dismissed Eudo and Goda, obviously afraid one would inadvertently say something else to arouse suspicion.
Inside, the first thing that struck Bartholomew was the smell – not the scent of damp plaster, incense and dead flowers that characterised most places of worship, and not the stench of charred corpses either. Instead, there was a powerful aroma of herbs, so strong that he wondered if it was safe.
‘Amphelisa distils plant oils in here,’ explained Tangmer, seeing his reaction. ‘Under the balcony at the back. Well, why not? It uses space that would be redundant otherwise. Come. Allow me to show you.’
The chapel comprised a nave and a chancel. The balcony was suspended over the back half of the nave, reached by a flight of steps with a lockable door at the top. A knee-high wall ran across the front of the balcony, topped by a wooden trellis screen that reached the roof.
‘We installed that so lepers can watch the holy offices without infecting the priest,’ explained Tangmer, as Bartholomew, Michael and Tulyet stopped to stare up at it.
‘But lepers are rare these days,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘So why bother with something that is never likely to be used?’
Tangmer looked pained. ‘We had no idea they were scarce here until after we opened our doors, because there are plenty of them in Fra—’ He stopped abruptly, alarm in his eyes.
‘In France?’ finished Bartholomew. ‘You may be right.’
‘In Framlingham, where Amphelisa comes from,’ blurted Tangmer unconvincingly, and hastened on before anyone could press him on the matter. ‘So it was a shock to find our charitable efforts might be wasted. Then Amphelisa suggested taking lunatics instead, on the grounds that they are also shunned by society through no fault of their own.’
The area below the balcony was low and dark. The left side was stacked with unseasoned firewood, while the remainder served as Amphelisa’s workshop – two long benches loaded with equipment, and shelves for her raw ingredients. She was there when they arrived, bent over a cauldron, wearing another burgundy-coloured robe. Bartholomew recalled the reek of powerful herbs around her the previous day, strong enough to mask the reek of burning shed.
‘As we have no lepers, we use the balcony to store her finished oils,’ gabbled Tangmer, obviously aiming to distract his visitors in the hope of preventing them from asking more awkward questions. ‘It locks, which is helpful, as most are expensive to produce. And some are toxic. Would you like to see them?’
He indicated that Amphelisa was to lead the way before they could decline. She nodded briskly and hurried up the steps to unlock the door with a key she kept around her neck, calling for them to follow. Bartholomew was willing, although Michael and Tulyet were less enthusiastic, neither liking the aroma of the highly concentrated oils.
The balcony was a large, plain room, lit only by the light that filtered through the screen at the front. Peering through the trellis afforded a fine view down the nave and into the chancel beyond. Opposite the screen was a stack of crates. Amphelisa opened the nearest to reveal a mass of tiny pots, each one carefully labelled – Bartholomew read lavender, rosewood, pine and yarrow before she closed it again.
‘We send them to London,’ she said. ‘And as we spent nearly all our money on building this Spital, every extra penny is welcome. Would you like a free pot of cedar-wood oil, Doctor? There is nothing quite like it for killing fleas and other pestilential creatures.’
‘I might try some on my students then,’ drawled Michael, while Bartholomew wished she had offered him some pine oil instead, as it was useful for skin diseases.
‘This is not the best place for a distillery,’ he said, pocketing the phial before following her back down the stairs. ‘It is poorly ventilated and the fumes may be toxic. Moreover, you work with naked flames and there is firewood nearby. It is asking for trouble.’
Amphelisa waved a hand in a gesture that was unmistakably Gallic. ‘The wood is still damp – it will smoke, but will take an age to ignite. But you are not here to discuss oil with me – you want to see the dead. They are in the chancel. F
ollow me.’
‘And then you can leave,’ said Tangmer, although with more hope than conviction.
The bodies had been placed in front of the altar. Two men knelt beside them. One was the dark-featured ‘lunatic’ who had said his name was Delacroix. The other was an elderly man with a shock of white hair, who was praying aloud in Latin – Latin that had the distinctive inflection of northern France. Both men leapt up when they realised they were not alone.
‘Go, go!’ cried Tangmer in English, flapping his hands at them. ‘This is no place for madmen. Amphelisa – take them out. They cannot be in here unsupervised.’
‘No, wait,’ countered Michael in French. The two men stopped dead in their tracks, causing Tangmer and Amphelisa to exchange an agitated glance. ‘Are you priests?’
Tangmer frantically shook his head, warning them against engaging in conversation. The pair edged towards the door, clearly aiming to bolt, but Tulyet barred their way. The two inmates regarded each other uncertainly.
‘I am Father Julien,’ replied the old one eventually. He had a sallow, lined face, although wary grey eyes suggested that his mind was sharp. ‘I am ill. I came here to recover.’
‘We aim to find out what happened to your friends,’ said Michael, aware that the clipped English sentences were designed to give nothing of the speaker’s origins away. ‘So Matt will look at their bodies, to see how they died.’
‘Why bother?’ snarled Delacroix in French. He was in shirtsleeves that day, which revealed his neck; a scar around it that suggested someone had once tried to hang him. ‘No one wants us here, and now you have five less to worry about. But we are not—’
‘Hush, Delacroix!’ barked Tangmer, while Amphelisa and Julien paled in horror. ‘Do not use that heathen language in this holy place. You know what we agreed.’
‘Enough of this charade,’ said Tulyet, tiring of the game they were playing. ‘We are not fools. We know there are no lunatics here – just Frenchmen in hiding.’
The Sanctuary Murders: The Twenty Fourth Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew Book 24) Page 10