Michael nodded, although he hated providing Isnard with information that would almost certainly be repeated in garbled form. There was no point in begging discretion, as this would only lead to even wilder flights of imagination.
‘What were they saying?’ he asked.
‘I could not hear,’ came the disappointing reply.
‘I could,’ growled Orwel. ‘Because I saw them talking together, too. But I could not tell what lies the lunatics were spinning to our two good knights, because they were speaking French, and I have never befouled my brain by learning that vile tongue.’
‘French?’ asked Michael, alarmed.
It would be the knights’ first language, given that they were part of the ruling elite, but he was appalled that the Girards should have used it with strangers. Had Leger and Norbert guessed the truth and acted on it? If so, it would put Tulyet in an invidious position – he could hardly hang the King’s favourites, yet nor could he overlook their crime.
‘Here comes Cynric,’ said Isnard, glancing up. ‘Driven away from the butts again by your interfering Junior Proctor, no doubt. That Theophilis cannot keep his opinions to himself, even though he knows less about archery than a snail.’
‘I have something to tell you about the Spital, Brother,’ announced Cynric grandly. ‘We need not worry about the French attacking it again.’
‘No?’ asked Michael warily. ‘Why not?’
‘Because I have just been to see Margery Starre, and she says it is now Satan’s domain,’ explained Cynric. ‘And he has put it under his personal protection. Anyone assaulting it can expect to be sucked straight down to Hell.’
‘Well, then,’ said Michael, hoping that would be enough to protect the peregrini until they could slip away. ‘We had all better keep our distance.’
CHAPTER 7
By the following morning, everyone knew that Satan had moved into the Spital, and would not welcome uninvited guests. However, while the news encouraged superstitious townsfolk to stay away, it had the opposite effect on those in holy orders.
‘The Devil will not tell me what I can and cannot do in my own town,’ declared Father William indignantly, as he and the other Fellows sat in the conclave after breakfast. ‘Who does he think he is?’
‘That tale is a lot of nonsense started by Cynric,’ said Theophilis in the sinister whisper that Bartholomew was coming to detest. ‘I shall be glad when you leave the University and take that heretic with you, Bartholomew. I dislike the fact that he – and you, for that matter – has befriended a witch.’
‘Cynric is not a heretic,’ objected Bartholomew, although he was aware that the book-bearer was not exactly a true son of the Church either. ‘And I am no friend of Margery Starre.’
‘Really?’ asked Aungel guilelessly. ‘Because she always speaks very highly of you. When I collect the cure she makes for my spots, she always says—’
He stopped abruptly, aware that he had not only dropped his former teacher in the mire, but had done himself no favours either. Theophilis was quick to pounce.
‘You will not buy her wares again, Aungel,’ he ordered sharply. ‘And I shall put Bartholomew’s association with that woman in my weekly report to the Chancellor.’
‘Come to the Spital with me, Theophilis,’ said William, eyes blazing fanatically. ‘You and I will send Lucifer packing together.’
‘Good idea,’ said Theophilis, and turned to Michael. ‘And while we are there, I shall investigate the murdered lunatics. I am your Junior Proctor, so if anyone helps you solve the mystery, it should be me.’ He glared pointedly at Bartholomew.
‘It is kind of you to offer,’ said Michael. ‘But I need you to monitor the triumvirate. I say this not for my benefit, but for your own – you will never rise in the University hierarchy if the Chancellor regains too much power, as he will prevent me from promoting you.’
‘Of course,’ said Theophilis, paling at the awful prospect of political stagnation. ‘I shall go to St Mary the Great at once. Meadowman told me that a letter arrived for de Wetherset at dawn, so I should find out who sent it.’
‘You should,’ agreed Michael. ‘It is the time of year when nominations for lucrative sinecures arrive, and it would be a shame if you lose out to someone less deserving.’
Theophilis made for the door at such a lick that he startled the hens that Clippesby was feeding under the table. They scattered in alarm.
‘Keep those things away from me,’ he snarled, flapping his hands at them. ‘They should not be in here anyway – unless they are roasted in butter.’
‘You would eat Gertrude?’ breathed Clippesby, shocked. ‘The nominalist?’
Theophilis forced a smile. ‘Of course I would not eat her, Clippesby. I am too fervent an admirer of her philosophy. Forgive me, Gertrude. I spoke out of turn.’
He bowed to the bird and left, leaving Clippesby to smooth ruffled feathers. William watched him go, then went to recruit Aungel for a holy assault on the Spital.
‘I do not understand why you trust Theophilis,’ said Bartholomew, once he and Michael were alone. ‘He is only interested in furthering his own career, and cares nothing for yours.’
‘Almost certainly. However, he also knows that the only way he will succeed is with my support, so he will do anything to keep my approval.’ Michael stood and stretched. ‘We should go to meet Dick. We have a lot to do today.’
‘Have we?’ asked Bartholomew without enthusiasm.
Michael nodded. ‘Once we have discussed our findings with him, we must speak to Leger and Norbert about their conversation with the Girards. I want to know why they kept an encounter with two murder victims to themselves.’
‘It might be wiser to let Dick do that,’ said Bartholomew, thinking that while the ruffianly pair might not assault a monk, the same could not be said about a physician. He was no coward, but there was no point in deliberately courting danger.
‘You may be right. Next, we shall go to St Mary the Great, where I will show you the blade that killed Paris the Plagiarist. You never saw it, because it got kicked under a stone and Theophilis did not find it until the following day.’
‘Theophilis found it? And it was missed during the initial search?’
‘Yes, but when he showed me where it had fallen, I was not surprised that no one had spotted it sooner. I want you to compare it to the weapon that killed the Girards.’
‘The wounds on them and Paris were not the same size,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I told you that yesterday. Theirs were more akin to Bonet’s, but he is buried, so we will never know if he was killed with the weapon we found at the Spital. Incidentally, have you asked where Theophilis was when the fire started?’
Michael’s eyes were round with disbelief. ‘Lord, Matt! What is it about my poor Junior Proctor that you so dislike? He never says anything nasty about you.’
‘Spying is distasteful, but he happily rushed to do it, which says nothing good about him. He spends a lot of time with de Wetherset and Heltisle, and he is ambitious. If they offer him a better deal, he will take it – then it will be you who is the subject of his snooping.’
‘I shall bear it in mind, although I am sure you are wrong.’
‘So did you ask where he was when the fire started?’
Michael was growing exasperated. ‘Why would Theophilis, a Fellow of Michaelhouse, renowned canon lawyer and possible future Chancellor, stab a few frightened Frenchmen? I have discussed the war with him in the past, and he is of the same opinion as you and me – that the leaders of both sides should bring about a truce before any more blood is spilled.’
‘So you have not asked him,’ surmised Bartholomew in disgust.
‘You know where he was – here, in the hall, keeping the peace while William revealed his ignorance of the nominalism–realism dispute.’
Bartholomew raised a triumphant finger. ‘No, he was not! Aungel said he left shortly after it started, and did not return for some time – which is why my students were able
to savage William so ruthlessly. Theophilis was not here to keep them in line.’
‘I forgot – he did mention going out,’ said Michael. ‘Heltisle had a meeting, and refused to reveal who with, so Theophilis followed him. Unfortunately, he lost him by King’s Hall, so he returned to his duties here.’
‘It is not a very convincing alibi, is it?’ said Bartholomew, unimpressed. ‘No one can really verify what he was doing.’
‘I suspect that is true for half the town, which is why this case will not be easy to solve. But solve it we must, because we cannot rest until this killer is caught. So if you are ready . . .’
Bartholomew nodded to where William was still badgering Aungel to join him in a righteous assault on Satan. ‘What about him? We cannot let him go anywhere near the Spital, because if he learns who is inside . . .’
‘I shall ask him to visit his fellow Franciscans and find out what they know about Wyse. He will enjoy that, as he is always clamouring to be a proctor. By the time he has finished, he will have forgotten all about his holy mission against the Devil.’
Bartholomew hoped Michael was right.
Taverns were off limits to scholars, on the grounds that they tended to be full of ale-sodden townsfolk. In times of peace, Michael turned a blind eye to the occasional infraction, but Paris’s murder meant the stricture had to be enforced much more rigidly. Unfortunately, several hostels had flouted the rule the previous night, and there had been drunken fights.
‘We have seen trouble in the past,’ muttered Michael as he and Bartholomew hurried to their meeting with Tulyet, ‘but it is worse this time because everyone is armed.’
He and Bartholomew entered the Brazen George via the back door, where they were less likely to be spotted. The room the landlord always kept ready for him was a pleasant chamber overlooking a yard where hens scratched happily. They reminded Bartholomew of Clippesby’s treatise.
‘How many copies has Heltisle sold?’ he asked. ‘Do you know?’
‘Enough to build the dogs a veritable palace and pay for the conclave windows to be glazed.’ Michael shook his head admiringly. ‘Clippesby has been stunningly clever – he also added a clause that obliges Heltisle to bear the cost of all these new copies himself. Unless he builds a kennel in the next few days, our Vice-Chancellor will be seriously out of pocket.’
‘Then let us hope no one warns him,’ said Bartholomew pointedly.
‘Theophilis would never betray us. Stop worrying about him, Matt.’
There was no point in arguing. Landlord Lister arrived, so Bartholomew sat at the table and listened as Michael began to order himself some food.
‘Bring lots of meat with bread. But no chicken. I am disinclined to eat those these days, lest one transpires to be a nominalist and thus a friend to my Order.’
‘You cannot be hungry, Brother,’ said Bartholomew disapprovingly. ‘You have just devoured a huge meal at College—’
‘Unfortunately, I did not,’ interrupted Michael stiffly. ‘You stuck that dish of peas next to me, which meant I could not reach anything decent. Besides, I was up half the night, and I need sustenance. After choir practice, there were the brawls to quell and I had to make sure the nuns from the Spital and the Gilbertine Priory were safely rehoused in St Radegund’s.’
‘Was there room for them all?’
‘Not really, and the conloquium is a nuisance, getting in the way of preventing civil unrest, solving Paris’s murder and controlling de Wetherset. Or rather, controlling Heltisle and Aynton, as they are where the real problem lies. They have never liked me, and de Wetherset is far too willing to listen to their advice.’
‘Heltisle is a menace, but Aynton—’
‘Did I tell you that most spats last night were about Wyse?’ interrupted Michael, unwilling to hear yet again that the Commissary was harmless. ‘You said he was murdered.’
‘He was murdered. I hope Dick catches the culprit soon, because he was an inoffensive old sot who would have put up no kind of defence. It was a cowardly attack.’
‘The town cries that a scholar killed him, and the University responds with angry denials. Wyse’s death may not come under my jurisdiction, but we shall have no peace until the suspect is caught, so I will have to look into the matter. And you will help. Do not look irked, Matt – your town and your University needs you.’
Tulyet arrived a few moments later, looking tired – keeping the King’s peace in the rebellious little Fen-edge town was grinding him down, too. He immediately began to complain about de Wetherset, who was in the habit of obsessing over minute details in any agreements the town tried to make with him. Thus negotiations took far longer than when the Senior Proctor had been in charge.
‘He never used to be this unreasonable,’ he grumbled. ‘What is wrong with the man?’
‘He just needs a few weeks to assert himself, after which he will be much more amenable,’ said Michael soothingly. ‘The situation will ease even further once I persuade him to dismiss Heltisle and Aynton.’
Tulyet brightened. ‘Will you? Good! I am sure Heltisle encourages de Wetherset to be awkward, although Aynton is a bumbling nonentity whom you should ignore. But you are sensible and accommodating, and I have grown complacent. This new regime is an unpleasant reminder that your University contains some very difficult men.’
‘Here is Lister,’ said Michael, more interested in what was on the landlord’s tray. ‘You two may discuss the murders while I eat.’
‘I believe we have one killer and seven French victims,’ began Bartholomew. ‘We may know for certain once we have compared the dagger that killed Paris to the one used on the Girard family. It is a pity Bonet’s was stolen, and that he is already buried.’
Tulyet helped himself to a piece of Michael’s bread. ‘So we have a French-hating killer and a rogue who drowns helpless old drunks. Two culprits, not one.’
‘Did Sauvage learn anything useful in the Griffin last night?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘Yes, but only after Sergeant Orwel arrived to help him,’ said Tulyet. ‘Orwel knows how to get the truth from recalcitrant witnesses. Sauvage does not.’
‘And?’ asked Michael, his mouth full of cold beef.
‘The other patrons did see someone watching Wyse with suspicious interest – someone who then followed him outside. Unfortunately, the bastard kept his face hidden. However, his cloak was of good quality, and his boots were better still.’
‘Really?’ asked Michael. ‘The Griffin does not usually attract well-dressed patrons.’
‘These witnesses also saw this man take a book out of his scrip, and they noticed his inky fingers,’ Tulyet went on. ‘Two things that “prove” the culprit is a scholar. It is what ignited the trouble between us and your students last night.’
‘Did he read and have inky fingers?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Or did these so-called witnesses make it up?’
‘I suspect he did, as too many of them gave identical testimony for it to be fiction. Of course, some townsmen can read . . .’
‘And are clever enough to know who will be blamed if books and inky hands are flashed around,’ finished Michael. ‘It could be a ruse to lead us astray. Now, what about the Spital deaths? Summarise what we know about those while I nibble at this pork.’
‘The Girard family considered the shed to be theirs,’ began Tulyet, ‘which I suspect created friction, as petty things matter to folk under strain.’
‘We saw for ourselves that there are two distinct factions among the peregrini,’ added Bartholomew. ‘The majority side with Father Julien, but the Jacques follow Delacroix.’
‘The Jacques,’ muttered Tulyet. ‘Members of a violent uprising that destabilised an entire country. I am not happy with such men near my town.’
‘No,’ agreed Michael, dabbing his greasy lips with a piece of linen. ‘But take comfort from the fact that there are only four of them – hopefully too few to be a problem.’
Tulyet looked as if he disagreed, but did not ar
gue, and only returned to analysing the murders. ‘Hélène collected milk from the kitchen, then joined her family in the shed. There, she found the milk had a peculiar taste and refused to drink most of it, which saved her life. Shortly afterwards, the adults had been stabbed and the fire started.’
‘Has Hélène recalled anything new?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘Unfortunately not,’ replied Tulyet. ‘She just remembers feeling sleepy.’
Bartholomew thought about the milk. ‘The soporific must have been added in the kitchen. Does that mean the culprit is a member of staff? No one else can get in there.’
Tulyet grimaced. ‘If only that were true! Last night, I broke in with ease. Then I entered the kitchen, refectory and dormitory without being challenged once. I was obliged to teach the Tangmers how to implement some basic security measures.’
‘But the Girards were killed in broad daylight,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘It is one thing to sneak in under cover of darkness, but another altogether to do it during the day.’
‘Unfortunately, the layout of the Spital offers plenty of cover for a competent invader,’ countered Tulyet. ‘Ergo, the culprit might well hail from outside.’
‘Suspects,’ said Michael briskly. ‘First, the peregrini.’
‘They are high on my list, too,’ said Tulyet. ‘Especially as I have learned that they arrived in the area two days before Paris was stabbed. Now, the Girards were no angels – they were territorial over the shed, they took money with no intention of honouring agreements, and two were Jacques. Meanwhile, Delacroix is angry, bitter and violent – perhaps the Girards quarrelled with him.’
‘Or Father Julien did,’ said Michael. ‘I like the man, but perhaps he decided that dispatching one awkward, divisive family was the best way to save the rest.’
‘What about the Spital staff?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Little Goda is in the clear, because Prioress Joan saw her in the kitchen when the fire was set. The two of them can have no more than a passing acquaintance, so there is no reason to think they are lying for each other.’
The Sanctuary Murders: The Twenty Fourth Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew Book 24) Page 15