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

by Susanna Gregory

  ‘Between you and me, there is something odd about that Spital,’ Aynton went on. ‘I think it harbours nasty secrets.’

  Bartholomew kept his eyes on the poultice lest Aynton should read the truth in them. ‘Well, its patients are insane, so what do you expect? I wish I could help them, but ailments of the mind have always been a mystery to me.’

  The last part was true, at least.

  ‘I would have thought you had enormous experience with lunatics,’ said Aynton caustically. ‘Given that most of our colleagues are around the bend.’

  Bartholomew laughed. ‘A few, perhaps.’

  ‘It is more than a few,’ averred Aynton. ‘It would take until midnight to recite a list of all those who are as mad as bats. Shall I start with Michaelhouse? Clippesby, Father William, Theophilis and Michael. And you, given your peculiar theories about hand-washing. Then, in King’s Hall, there is—’

  ‘Michael is not mad,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘Nor is Theophilis.’

  He did not bother defending Clippesby for obvious reasons, while anyone who had met William would know that he was barely rational. And as for himself, he did not care what people thought about his devotion to hygiene, because the results spoke for themselves – he lost far fewer patients than other medici, and if the price was being considered insane, then so be it.

  ‘Theophilis spends far too much time with Clippesby,’ said Aynton disapprovingly. ‘They are always together, talking and whispering. He should be careful – lunacy is contagious, you know.’

  Bartholomew declined to take issue with such a ridiculous assertion. ‘And Michael? What has he done to win a place on your list?’

  Aynton lowered his voice. ‘He does not like me. I cannot imagine why, as I have given him no cause for animosity. Indeed, I have done my utmost to be nice to him, but he rejects my overtures of friendship.’

  ‘So anyone who does not like you is mad?’

  ‘It demonstrates a warped mind, which means he should not hold a position of such power in the University. De Wetherset is right to clip Michael’s wings.’

  Bartholomew regarded him in surprise, aware that Aynton’s eyes had lost their customary dreaminess, and were hard and cold. ‘I hardly think—’

  ‘Michael’s influence is waning, and unless he wants to be ousted completely, he must learn to accept it. Yes, he has made the University strong, but it is inappropriate for the Senior Proctor to wield more power than the Chancellor, and it is time to put an end to it.’

  Bartholomew felt treacherous even listening to such sentiments, and turned his attention back to medicine, eager to end the discussion.

  ‘Does this hurt when I bend it?’

  ‘Ow! Be gentle, Matthew! I am not one of your dumb beggars, impervious to pain.’

  Bartholomew opened his mouth to retort that his paupers most certainly did feel pain, but decided it was another topic on which he and Aynton were unlikely to agree. He remembered what Michael had asked him to do.

  ‘You say you were practising a lecture on the morning of the Spital fire,’ he began.

  ‘I was,’ replied Aynton curtly. ‘But I have said all I am going to on the subject, so do not press me again. If you do, I shall lodge a complaint for harassment.’

  Bartholomew took his leave, disturbed to have witnessed a side of the amiable academic that he had not known existed. Perhaps Michael was right to be wary of him.

  But once outside, breathing air that was full of the clean scents of spring – new grass, wild flowers and sun-warmed earth – he wondered if he had overreacted. After all, what Aynton said was true: Michael did wield a disproportionate amount of power. Moreover, lots of patients were snappish when they were in pain, so why should Aynton be any different? Bartholomew pushed the matter from his mind and went to his next customer.

  He was just passing King’s Hall when he spotted two figures, one abnormally large, the other abnormally small. Eudo had tried to disguise himself by pulling a hood over his head, although his great size made him distinctive and several people hailed him by name. By contrast, his minuscule wife was clearly delighted with the way she looked and made no effort at all to conceal her identity. She wore a light summer cloak pinned with a jewelled brooch, and the gold hints in her hair were accentuated by a pretty fillet.

  ‘We wanted to stay at home and protect the . . . patients,’ blurted Eudo when Bartholomew stopped to exchange pleasantries. ‘But Hélène is having nightmares, so Amphelisa sent us to buy ingredients for a sleeping potion.’

  He indicated the basket he carried. Bartholomew glanced in it once, then looked again.

  ‘Mandrake, poppy juice, henbane,’ he breathed, alarmed. ‘These are powerful herbs – too powerful for a child. It is not—’

  ‘Amphelisa knows what she is doing,’ interrupted Goda shortly. ‘And if we want your opinion, we will ask for it.’

  ‘Has she made sleeping potions for Hélène before?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘One strong enough to make her drowse through a fire, perhaps?’

  Rage ignited in Eudo’s eyes. He moved fast, grabbing Bartholomew by the front of his tabard and shoving him against a wall. Bartholomew tried to struggle free, but it was hopeless – Eudo’s fingers were like bands of iron.

  ‘Eudo, stop!’ hissed Goda, glancing around to make sure no one was watching. ‘You will make him think Amphelisa did poison the children. But she did not, so she does not need you to defend her. Let him go.’

  Bartholomew was surprised when Eudo did as he was told.

  ‘Is this what happened to Commissary Aynton?’ he asked curtly, brushing himself down. ‘He put questions that frightened you, so you pushed him? I know it was no accident.’

  ‘Oh, yes, it was,’ countered Goda fiercely. ‘Aynton claimed that some of our patients were playing with swords. We told him he was mistaken, so he began prancing around to demonstrate what he thought he had seen. He bounced into Eudo and lost his balance.’

  ‘Which would never have happened if he had not been jigging about like an ape,’ growled Eudo. ‘It was his own fault.’

  Bartholomew suspected the truth lay somewhere in between – that Eudo had shoved Aynton in an effort to shut him up, but that Aynton had been off balance, so had taken an unintended tumble. Even so, it was unacceptable behaviour on Eudo’s part, and Bartholomew dreaded to imagine what he might do without Goda to keep him in line.

  ‘Does Amphelisa distil oils anywhere other than the chapel?’ he asked, switching to another line of enquiry.

  ‘That is none of your—’ began Eudo in a snarl, although he stopped when Goda raised a tiny hand. There were two silver rings on her fingers that Bartholomew was sure had not been there the last time he had seen her.

  ‘We could tell you,’ she said sweetly. ‘But our tongues will loosen far more readily if you have a coin to spare.’

  Bartholomew raised his eyebrows. ‘You want to be paid for helping me catch the person who murdered five people in your home?’

  Goda shrugged. ‘Why not? You earn three pennies for every corpse you assess, so why should you be the only one to turn a profit from death?’

  Bartholomew had never considered himself as one who ‘turned a profit from death’ before, and the notion made him feel faintly grubby. He floundered around for a response, but Eudo spoke first.

  ‘Your question is stupid! Of course Amphelisa does not work anywhere else. How can she, when all her distilling equipment is in the chapel? It cannot be toted back and forth on a whim, you know. Or do you imagine she produces oils out of thin air?’

  Goda glared at him for providing information that could have been sold, but then her attention was caught by someone who was approaching from the left.

  ‘Smile, husband,’ she said between clenched teeth. ‘Here comes Isnard the bargeman, and if he thinks we are squabbling with his favourite medicus . . .’

  Eudo’s smile was more of a grimace, but it satisfied Isnard, who proceeded to regale them with the latest gossip.

&nbs
p; ‘You need not worry about your Spital being haunted any longer,’ he began importantly. ‘Because Margery Starre just told me she was mistaken about it standing on the site of an ancient pagan temple.’

  Eudo was alarmed. ‘But I have seen ghosts with my own—’

  ‘Tricks,’ interrupted Isnard with authority. ‘Margery went to visit Satan last night, as she and him are on friendly terms, but he was nowhere to be found. What she did find, however, was a piece of fine gauze on twine, which could be jerked to make an illusion.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Eudo uncomfortably. ‘But—’

  ‘Moreover, Margery was paid to tell us that the Devil was taking up residence there,’ Isnard went on, ‘which she did, because she thought it was Satan himself begging the favour.’

  Bartholomew frowned. ‘Why would she think that?’

  ‘Because she was visited by someone huge in a black cloak with horns poking from under his hood. Naturally, she made assumptions. But when she went to see him at the Spital and found evidence of trickery . . . well, she realised the whole thing was a hoax.’

  Bartholomew was secretly gratified to learn that the self-important witch had been so easily duped. Perhaps it would shake her followers’ faith in her, which would be no bad thing, especially where Cynric was concerned.

  ‘You say she was tricked by someone huge?’ he asked, looking hard at Eudo.

  ‘Yes – someone pretending to be Satan,’ said Isnard, lest his listeners had not deduced this for themselves. ‘Well, two someones actually, as the deceiver had a minion with him, who did all the talking.’

  ‘Is that so?’ said Bartholomew, aware that neither Goda nor Eudo would meet his eyes.

  ‘Margery is none too pleased about it,’ said Isnard, ‘so you Spital folk might want to stay out of her way for a while. She says it is heresy to take the Devil’s name in vain.’

  The warning delivered, Isnard went on his way, swinging along on his crutches as he looked for someone else to gossip with. Bartholomew watched him go, aware of a rising sense of unease as it occurred to him that there would now be repercussions.

  ‘Go home and inform Tangmer that his ruse has failed,’ he told Goda and Eudo. ‘And that some folk may resent being deceived and might want revenge.’

  ‘Let them try,’ snarled Eudo. ‘We will teach them to mind their own business.’

  ‘The Lyminster nuns saw through the peregrini’s disguises,’ Bartholomew went on, ‘which means that others will, too. They must leave at once.’

  Goda softened. ‘They plan to go at dusk.’

  ‘I hope they find somewhere safe,’ said Bartholomew sincerely. ‘But when did you pretend to be Satan, exactly, Eudo? I was under the impression from Margery that it was on Wednesday morning, more or less at the time when the fire started.’

  Eudo opened his mouth to deny it, but then shrugged. ‘It was. So what?’

  ‘It means you have an alibi,’ explained Bartholomew. ‘Who was the minion? It was not Goda – she was baking all morning, in full view of Prioress Joan. Was it Tangmer?’

  Eudo sagged in defeat. ‘He is better at that sort of thing than me, so we decided to do it together. But we could hardly tell you, the Sheriff and Brother Michael that we were off bribing witches when the Girards were murdered, could we? So he invented the tale about Amphelisa not being very good at brewing . . .’

  Which explained why Tangmer and Eudo had been so furtive when asked to give an account of their where-abouts, thought Bartholomew. But they were definitely in the clear for the murders, as it would have taken time to dress appropriately and then convince Margery to do what ‘Satan’ wanted. The list of suspects was now two people shorter.

  Bartholomew returned to College, where he dashed off messages telling Michael and Tulyet what he had learned. He sent Cynric to deliver them, then went to the hall and interrogated his students on the work he had set them to do. Unimpressed with their progress, he lectured them on what would be expected of the medical profession if the plague returned, aiming to frighten them into working harder. Islaye, the gentle one, looked as though he might be sick; the callous, self-interested Mallett was dismissive.

  ‘It will not return, sir,’ he declared confidently. ‘God has made His point, and He has no reason to punish us a second time.’

  ‘Actually, He does,’ said Theophilis, who had been listening. His soft voice sent an involuntary shiver down Bartholomew’s spine. ‘It has only been ten years, but we are already slipping back into evil ways. For example, there is a rumour that someone has been dressing up as Satan. That is heresy, and if I catch the culprit, I will burn him in the market square.’

  Unwilling to discuss that, Bartholomew returned to his original theme. ‘There are reports of plague around the Mediterranean, and local physicians predict that it will spread north within a year. Ergo, you must work hard now, to be ready for it.’

  ‘Just like physicians were ready last time,’ scoffed Theophilis. ‘No wonder poor Suttone upped and left in the middle of term – he did not trust you lot to save him.’

  At that point, Theophilis’s students, deprived of supervision, grew rowdy enough to disturb Father William. Irritably, the Franciscan ordered him back to work, and there was an unseemly spat as one took exception to being bossed around by the other.

  ‘Master Suttone was terrified of the plague,’ said Mallett to Bartholomew, while everyone else watched the spectacle of two Fellows bickering. ‘But that is not why he left.’

  Heltisle had claimed much the same, and Bartholomew hoped the malicious Vice-Chancellor had not been spreading nasty untruths.

  ‘Then what was?’ he asked coolly, a warning in his voice.

  Mallett was uncharacteristically tentative. ‘I happened to be passing St Mary the Great one night, when I overheard a conversation between Suttone and Heltisle . . .’

  ‘And?’ demanded Bartholomew, when the student trailed off uncomfortably.

  ‘And I did not catch the whole thing, but I did hear Heltisle tell Suttone that there would be repercussions unless he did as he was told. The next day, Suttone resigned. You will not repeat this to Heltisle, will you, sir? I do not want to make an enemy of him – he has connections at Court, and I want a post with a noble family when I graduate.’

  Bartholomew frowned. ‘Are you saying that Suttone was coerced into leaving? How? Did he have some dark secret that he wanted kept quiet?’

  ‘I got the impression that he did,’ replied Mallett. ‘But I have no idea what it was.’

  Bartholomew was exasperated. ‘Why have you waited so long before mentioning it? If your tale is true, then it means Heltisle may have the means to hurt Michaelhouse. You must know how much he hates us.’

  Mallett shrugged. ‘I do, but I have to think of myself first. I was going to tell you at the end of term, once my future is settled, but . . . well, I suppose I owe this place some loyalty.’

  ‘You do,’ said Bartholomew angrily, and indicated the other students, whose attention had snapped away from William and Theophilis at the sound of their teacher’s sharp voice. ‘And to your friends, who will still be here after you leave.’

  ‘Yes,’ acknowledged Mallett sheepishly. ‘But there is another reason why I was reluctant to speak out. You see, I overheard this discussion very late at night . . .’

  ‘After the curfew bell had sounded and you should have been at home,’ surmised Bartholomew, unimpressed.

  ‘What were you doing?’ asked Islaye coolly. ‘Visiting that sister you have been seeing – the one who was billeted at the Spital, and who you insist on meeting at the witching hour?’

  Mallett shook his head. ‘She only arrived a couple of weeks ago. The confrontation between Heltisle and Suttone was back in March, when Suttone was still here.’

  ‘Just tell me what was said,’ ordered Bartholomew tersely. ‘I do not want to know about your dalliances with nuns.’

  Mallett gaped at him. ‘Dalliances? No, you misunderstand! I went to the Spital to meet my
sister. She is one of the Benedictines who lodged there before Brother Michael moved them to St Radegund’s. I had to visit her on the sly, because Tangmer refused to let me in. He said I might upset his lunatics.’

  ‘Well, you might,’ muttered Islaye sourly. ‘You are not very nice.’

  ‘I even offered to cure his madmen free of charge,’ Mallett went on, ignoring him, ‘but Tangmer remained adamant. He is an ass – my sister says that founding the Spital broke him and he has no money left. Ergo, he should have accepted my generous offer.’

  ‘How does she know about his finances?’ asked Bartholomew, although he was aware that they were ranging away from what Heltisle had said to Suttone.

  ‘She overheard him telling his cousins. Everyone thinks he is rich, but his fortune is gone, and he will only win it back when he has some rich lunatics to look after. She says the current batch – who are not as mad as you think – only pay a fraction of what they should. Amphelisa does not mind, but Tangmer does.’

  ‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, wondering if he had been precipitous to declare Tangmer and Eudo innocent of murder. Perhaps killing the Girards had been a way to oust guests who prevented them from recouping their losses. ‘But never mind the Spital. Tell me about the quarrel between Heltisle and Suttone.’

  ‘There is no more to tell,’ said Mallett apologetically. ‘Other than that Suttone was on the verge of tears, while Heltisle was gloatingly triumphant. It should not surprise you: Heltisle has been dabbling in University politics for years, and is as crafty as they come, whereas Suttone was an innocent in that respect.’

  ‘He was,’ agreed Islaye. ‘However, if Heltisle did harm him, he will answer to Brother Michael. He will not let that slippery rogue get away with anything untoward.’

  Bartholomew was sure Islaye was right.

  Mallett’s story had infuriated Bartholomew, because he was sure that Heltisle had done something unkind to Suttone, especially since it had happened when Michael was away and thus not in a position to intervene. As a consequence, he did not want to spend his evening at the butts, where he was likely to run into the Vice-Chancellor, afraid his antipathy towards the man would lead to an unseemly confrontation.