‘Which proves I am innocent, as I have never been there,’ put in Alice triumphantly.
‘Oh, yes, you have,’ countered Katherine. ‘You visited us in Lyminster a few months ago, delivering letters from your own convent.’
‘Lyminster is not Winchelsea,’ argued Alice. ‘They are more than sixty miles apart. I went to one, but not the other, and you cannot prove otherwise.’
‘Actually, I can.’ Katherine gestured to Alice’s clothes. ‘There is Winchelsea-made lace at your wrists and Winchelsea-made buttons on your habit. Moreover, your Prioress told me that you took far longer to complete the return journey than you should have done, which is indicative that you treated yourself to a major diversion.’
Alice glared malevolently at her. ‘There were floods and other perils, so I had to make my way along the coast instead of plunging straight back inland. It means nothing.’
Katherine regarded her with contempt. ‘I knew you were a liar, a cheat and a whore, but I am shocked to learn you are a killer as well.’
‘I am not!’ cried Alice furiously. ‘So what if I stopped briefly at the port where Joan saw those particular weapons? It does not mean—’
‘Where will you keep her, Brother?’ interrupted Joan. ‘Not near Dusty, I hope.’
Michael hesitated. The proctors’ cells were full of angry young men from the riot, and he could hardly put a nun among those, not even one as unlikeable as Alice.
‘Leave her to us,’ said Katherine, guessing his dilemma. ‘St Radegund’s has cellars.’
Bartholomew was relieved when Alice was marched away, although Michael fretted over what a public announcement of her crimes might do to his Order.
‘Is she the killer?’ the monk asked worriedly. ‘She is vicious and deranged, but only against those she thinks have wronged her. What could she possibly have had against Bruges? Or any of the victims, for that matter?’
‘Question her again later,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘Once she is confined, she may be more willing to cooperate. And even if she is innocent of the murders, she still has the rumours to answer for – rumours that may yet spark more trouble.’
‘True,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘But before we do anything else, we should see what Amphelisa has to say about these weapons being made near Rouen.’
They set off towards the Spital, both acutely aware of the atmosphere of rage and resentment that continued to simmer after the previous night’s skirmish. Townsmen knew they had suffered more casualties than the University, and were keen to redress the balance, while scholars itched to avenge the deaths of four students with promising futures.
The Trumpington road was busy, and Bartholomew noted with alarm that most people were going to or from the Spital – Tulyet was right to predict that it might suffer from the decision to shelter the peregrini. They arrived to find the gates closed and Tangmer’s family standing an uneasy guard atop the walls. Outside was a knot of protestors, who were vocal but not yet physically violent. They were being monitored by Orwel and a gaggle of soldiers from the castle, all of whom bitterly resented being there.
Michael knocked on the gate, which was opened with obvious reluctance by the huge Eudo. He and Bartholomew were pulled inside quickly before it was slammed shut again. This provoked a chorus of accusations from those outside, who jeered that the Senior Proctor and his Corpse Examiner had gone to confer with fellow French-lovers. Inside, any staff not guarding the walls had clustered at the gate, ready to repel anyone who tried to enter by force.
‘My wife is not here,’ said Tangmer, who was pale with worry. ‘She went to tend the wounded in the Franciscan Friary again. I hoped her compassion to the injured would make everyone think more kindly of us, but you all still howl for our blood.’
‘The claim is that we sheltered spies,’ put in Eudo, clenching his ham-sized fists in impotent anger. ‘But all we did was take pity on frightened women and children.’
‘And eleven men,’ his little wife Goda reminded them. She was wearing a new fret in her hair, which had been sewn with silver thread and looked expensive. ‘Six of whom were Jacques. We should not have done it, as it made us enemies in the University and the town.’
‘Look at this dagger,’ said Michael, presenting it. ‘It and the ones that killed Paris, Bonet and the Girard family were made in or near Rouen.’
‘Amphelisa hails from there,’ said Goda at once. ‘So do the peregrini.’
‘Yes,’ said Michael, watching Tangmer shoot her an agonised glance, while Eudo delivered a warning jab to the ribs that almost knocked her over. ‘I know.’
‘It is not Amphelisa’s,’ said Tangmer quickly. ‘She does not own weapons. She is a gentle soul, dedicated to helping those in need, regardless of their colour or creed.’
‘Then what about you?’ asked Michael. ‘Is this a gift from those grateful “lunatics”? We have reason to believe that daggers like these were seen in Winchelsea, which is where your peregrini settled after fleeing France.’
‘They gave us a little money,’ said Tangmer. ‘They had to – we could not have fed them otherwise. But they never offered us gifts.’
‘Delacroix and his friends carried plenty of knives,’ said Eudo, ‘but I paid them no heed. If you want to know if this blade is theirs, you will have to ask them. Unfortunately, they left us last night, as I am sure you have heard.’
‘Without leaving the money for the food they ate last week,’ put in Goda sourly. ‘So if you go after them, perhaps you will collect it for us.’
Bartholomew and Michael stayed a while longer, quizzing every member of staff about the dagger, but no one admitted to recognising it. Eventually, they took their leave.
‘Well?’ asked Bartholomew, once they had run the gauntlet of the taunting, jeering throng outside and were heading back towards the town. ‘What do you think? I have no idea whether any of them were telling the truth.’
‘Nor do I,’ admitted Michael. ‘I doubt we will have it from Amphelisa either, but you had better go to the friary and try. Take the dagger with you. I will find Dick, and tell him we have arrested Alice. I imagine he will want to be there when I question her again.’
Bartholomew was glad to reach the Franciscans’ domain, which was an oasis of peace after the uneasy streets. Yet not even it was immune to the festering atmosphere outside, and Prior Pechem had made arrangements similar to those at the Spital – guards on the gate and archers on the walls.
Bartholomew arrived at the guesthouse to find all his students there, ranging from the boys who had only recently started their studies, to Islaye and Mallett who would graduate at the end of term. There were so many that the wounded had been allocated two apiece. The reason soon became clear: tending the sick was a lot easier than the punishing schedule he expected them to follow at Michaelhouse, and they were eager for a respite. He was tempted to send them all home, but then decided that there was nothing wrong with some practical experience. Moreover, it would keep them too busy to join in any brawls.
Amphelisa was there, too, moving between the beds and talking softly to patients and students alike. She wore a very old burgundy cloak that day, because changing soiled dressings was messy work. It was one she used while distilling oils, so the scent of lavender and pine pervaded the room. Bartholomew waited until she was free, then cornered her by a sink, where he was pleased to see her washing her hands before tending the next customer.
‘I would not know if Rouen produced beautiful weapons or not,’ she informed him when he showed her the one that had killed Bruges. ‘I have no interest in things that harm – only in things that heal. I have told you this before.’
‘Then perhaps you noticed if Delacroix or one of his friends had one,’ he pressed.
‘I did not – I was more concerned about their well-being than their belongings.’
Bartholomew opened his mouth to ask more, but there was a minor crisis with a patient, and by the time it was over, Amphelisa was nowhere to be seen. He was inst
antly suspicious, but Mallett informed him that she had been helping out for hours, and had expressed a perfectly understandable wish to go home and change her clothes.
‘Although I like the smell of the cloak she was wearing,’ he confided. ‘So do our clients – it calms them. It must be the soporific oils that have soaked into it.’
Bartholomew remained in the friary for the rest of the day, taking the opportunity to do some impromptu teaching. He did not notice his students’ exasperated glances when they saw their plan to escape him had misfired – he was working them harder than ever. He might have gone on all evening, but at dusk he was summoned by Isnard, who was complaining of a sore throat. The relief when he left was palpable.
He arrived at the bargeman’s cosy riverside cottage to find him in despair. It was difficult to fight on crutches, so his contribution to the brawl had been to howl abuse at the enemy. He had done it with such gusto that he was now hoarse.
‘And tomorrow is Sunday,’ he croaked, ‘when the Marian Singers will perform at High Mass. It would break my heart to miss it.’
Bartholomew prescribed a cordial of honey and blackcurrant, and told him to rest his voice. Unfortunately, Isnard had things to say, so there followed an exasperating interlude in which the bargeman mouthed the words and Bartholomew struggled to understand them.
‘You arrested a nun,’ Isnard began. ‘But she did not kill Wyse. That was a scholar. We all saw him sitting in the Griffin, watching us with crafty eyes.’
‘You saw him?’ demanded Bartholomew. ‘What did he look like?’
‘We never saw his face, as he was careful to keep in the shadow. But I can tell you that he was fat.’
As a great many scholars were portly, this description was not very helpful. Bartholomew ordered Isnard to stay indoors and keep warm – it would make no difference to his voice, but would stop him from fighting scholars – and trudged back to Michaelhouse. As he was passing St Mary the Great, a door opened and Orwel slipped out. The sergeant looked around furtively before slinking away. Bartholomew frowned. Why was he in the church when he was supposed to be guarding the Spital?
He started to follow, aiming to ask, but lost him in the shadows of the graveyard.
Back in Michaelhouse, Bartholomew had done no more than drop his bag and look to see if his students had left any food lying around when Michael appeared. The monk turned his nose up at the slice of stale cake that Bartholomew offered to share, and invited him to the Master’s suite for something better instead.
‘Did you interview Alice?’ asked Bartholomew, aware that his slice of beef pie was considerably smaller than the lump the monk had cut for himself.
‘Dick and I decided to leave it until tomorrow, to give her time to reflect on the situation and hopefully come to her senses. Did you speak to Amphelisa?’
‘Yes, but she had nothing to say. I did see Orwel sneaking out of St Mary the Great just now, though. I thought he was supposed to be guarding the Spital.’
‘Perhaps Dick relieved him,’ shrugged Michael. ‘However, he may have been looking for me. He claims to have information about Wyse’s murder, so I agreed to meet him behind the Brazen George at midnight. It is possible that he wanted to make sure I would be there – along with the money I agreed to pay.’
‘Midnight?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily. ‘That is an odd time. Will it be safe? His intention may be to coax you to a dark place where you can be dispatched.’
‘It might, which is why Dick will be there, too. However, I am fairly sure Orwel’s motives are purely pecuniary.’
‘What else did you do after we parted company?’
‘I went to King’s Hall and ordered them to stay indoors tonight. Unfortunately, Warden Shropham had already told them that the weapon used to dispatch Bruges was French, so now they think the town is sheltering a lot of enemy soldiers.’
‘I have been thinking about these daggers,’ said Bartholomew, handing back the one he had shown Amphelisa. ‘They are well-made and expensive, yet the killer is happy to leave them in or near his victims. One of the reasons Alice was deposed was greed – she lined her own pockets at her priory’s expense . . .’
‘So you believe she is unlikely to be the culprit, because she is too mean to abandon a costly item,’ surmised Michael. ‘She would have taken it with her.’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘The same is true of most townsfolk and scholars. Ergo, the culprit is wealthy – someone who can afford to lose them.’
‘A rich scholar or a rich townsman,’ mused Michael.
‘Or a Jacques – a man who looted the houses of aristocrats in France and who may think he can do the same here when he runs low on funds. Of course, we must not forget de Wetherset, Heltisle and Theophilis – none of them are poor.’
‘Nor is Aynton,’ added Michael, and grimaced. ‘The culprit is using these daggers to taunt us – daring us to link them to him.’
Bartholomew agreed, and wished he knew how to prompt Joan’s memory, as he was sure the mystery would be solved once she remembered where – and with whom – she had seen the weapon before. ‘Regardless, I do not think Alice stabbed anyone.’
‘I am inclined to agree, although we shall keep her under lock and key anyway. She still started vicious rumours, and she is a divisive force at the conloquium. It is best she stays where she can do no more harm.’
‘Is there any news about who gave the order to shoot last night?’ asked Bartholomew hopefully. ‘Or about Wyse’s murder?’
Michael shook his head. ‘Although every townsman blames us, and every scholar accuses the town. Dick and I have imposed another curfew until dawn, although a lot of hotheads have elected to ignore it. I fear for our foreign scholars, Matt – all of them, not just the French ones. I hope they have the sense to stay indoors.’
‘So we know nothing new,’ surmised Bartholomew despondently.
‘Dick heard a rumour that the peregrini have taken up residence near the Austin Priory,’ said Michael, referring to the foundation located a mile or so outside the town. ‘So we rode out there to investigate.’
‘I assume you did not find them.’
‘Of course not. I decided to take Dusty, and as Prioress Joan was visiting him when I went to saddle up, she came, too, for the sheer joy of a canter along an empty road. She let me have Dusty, while she rode Theophilis’s mean old brute. You should have seen how she handled him – he was a different horse.’
‘Was he?’ asked Bartholomew without much interest.
‘The excursion allowed me to quiz her in depth about Alice. Apparently, Alice visited the Spital seven or eight times before the murders, so she probably did guess the “lunatics” were nothing of the kind. Ergo, I am sure it was her who told Norbert, no matter how vigorously she denies it.’
‘Probably.’
‘She also sent Magistra Katherine some very dangerous gifts – candles that leaked poisonous fumes, a lamp that burst into flames, a book impregnated with a potion to burn the reader’s fingers, blankets infested with fleas . . .’
‘Fleas?’
Michael grinned. ‘And in a twist of irony, she is the one who crawls with them. We should not forget the comb she stole from Joan either. That is still missing, and I am sure she intends it to be a part of some mischief yet to unfold. Shall we go to meet Orwel now?’
‘Now?’ asked Bartholomew, startled by the abrupt change of subject. ‘It is too early.’
‘I know, but Lister makes a lovely roasted pork on a Saturday night and I am ravenous.’
‘You cannot be! You have just devoured most of a pie.’
‘To line my stomach, Matt – to prepare it for the proper meal to come.’
It was not only Michael who liked Lister’s roasted pork, and the tavern was full of muttering townsmen when they arrived. Bartholomew was glad of the private room at the back. Tulyet appeared much later, footsore and weary from asking questions of witnesses.
‘The town is now certain that scholars killed Wyse,
hid French spies in the Spital and engineered last night’s riot,’ he reported. ‘A riot in which four of you died, but ten of us. I have done my best to quell the gossip, but folk believe what they want to believe.’
‘Then let us hope Orwel knows who killed Wyse,’ said Michael. ‘They may be appeased if that culprit is brought to justice. I imagine he will name Aynton – the gently smiling spider in the web.’
‘Or Theophilis,’ countered Bartholomew.
‘Theophilis would never betray me,’ said Michael. ‘Why would he, when I gave him his Fellowship, his post as Junior Proctor, a lucrative benefice—’
‘No man likes to be beholden to another,’ interrupted Tulyet. ‘However, Theophilis does not have the courage for murder, so my money is on de Wetherset or Heltisle. It was a bad day for the University and the town when they took power.’
Bartholomew told him that he and Michael now thought the dagger belonged to someone wealthy. Tulyet scrubbed his face with his hands.
‘Then I will interview burgesses tomorrow. You can do the same with rich scholars. However, the culprit cannot be a Jacques – they fled before Bruges was killed.’
‘If they left,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps one lingered long enough to avenge himself on the place that killed his friends and forced him out of his cosy refuge.’
‘Twenty-six dead,’ sighed Michael. ‘Paris, Bonet, five members of the Girard family, Wyse, the fourteen from the riot, plus the three who were hanged for murder and their victim. And more will follow unless we stop the contagion.’
Lister arrived at that point to collect the empty platters, and Bartholomew noticed that the landlord was careful to keep the door closed – he did not want his other customers to know that he welcomed scholars in his fine establishment.
‘Did I tell you that the Chancellor came here earlier, Brother?’ Lister asked. ‘He and his henchman Heltisle. They wanted to hire this room for their sole use, so that you would have to find somewhere else.’
The Sanctuary Murders: The Twenty Fourth Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew Book 24) Page 26