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

by Susanna Gregory

  ‘There is more to her distress about him than she lets on,’ finished Margery. ‘It puzzles me, and if you aim to solve his murder, it should puzzle you, too.’

  To reach St Radegund’s, Bartholomew and Michael had to cross the market square, where there was no sign of the people who had been quarrelling there earlier. There were others, though, using the stalls as an excuse to loiter. The traders were becoming irked by all the looking but no buying, and it would not be long before it caused a spat.

  Scholars prowled in packs, armed to the teeth. Some clustered around the baker’s stall, a business owned by generations of Mortimers. Bartholomew was not sure which Mortimer ran it now, as they all looked alike, but the present incumbent’s face was red with fury.

  ‘They have no right,’ he bellowed. ‘It is illegal and immoral!’

  His angry voice attracted an audience. It included Isnard the bargeman and Verious the ditcher, the latter excused sentry duty at the town gates on the grounds that he was not very good at it.

  ‘What is illegal and immoral?’ asked Michael.

  ‘Cutting the price of bread,’ snarled Mortimer, so enraged that Bartholomew was afraid he would give himself a seizure. ‘We had a deal, and the University cannot suddenly decide only to pay half of it. That will barely cover the cost of the ingredients!’

  Michael was bemused. ‘Our contract fixes the price of bread until next year. Neither of us can change anything until then.’

  ‘So you say, but Heltisle has declared all the agreements you negotiated null and void. He has a new list of prices – ones that favour scholars at our expense.’

  ‘Refuse to sell him anything, then,’ shrugged Isnard. ‘He and his cronies will starve without bread, and he will soon come back with his tail between his legs.’

  ‘No – he will buy it in Ely and I will be ruined,’ said Mortimer bitterly. ‘The bastard! He has me over a barrel.’

  ‘You should not trade with scholars anyway,’ put in Verious. ‘Not when they hid French spies in the Spital – spies who then crept out and murdered Sauvage.’

  ‘Murdered Sauvage?’ echoed Bartholomew uneasily. ‘He is dead?’

  ‘Did you not hear?’ asked Isnard. ‘We found him this morning, not ten paces from here. He was stabbed, and his killer left the dagger sticking out of his back – a challenge for us to identify it and catch him.’

  ‘What?’ cried Michael, shocked. ‘Why did no one tell me?’

  ‘Because it is none of your business,’ spat Mortimer. ‘Sauvage was a townsman and he was murdered by the French. His death has nothing to do with the University, so you can keep your long noses out of it.’

  ‘Poor Sauvage,’ sighed Isnard. ‘He should have told them his name – then they might have thought he was one of them and left him alone.’

  ‘He would not have wanted that,’ averred Verious. ‘He would rather be dead than be thought of as French.’

  ‘Where is his body?’ demanded Michael. ‘Holy Trinity?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Isnard. ‘Although we kept the dagger. Show him, Verious. Brother Michael is good at catching criminals – maybe he will win justice for poor Sauvage.’

  ‘Do not bother, Verious,’ sneered Mortimer contemptuously. ‘Michael will do nothing about Sauvage, because all townsmen are dirt to the University.’

  ‘We are not dirt to Brother Michael,’ declared Isnard stoutly. ‘He would not let us join his choir if we were.’

  Verious produced the dagger from about his grimy person. There was no need to study it closely: it was of an ilk with the ones used on the other victims. Michael took it and slipped it in his scrip, much to Verious’s obvious dismay.

  ‘What makes you think French spies killed Sauvage?’ asked Bartholomew of Verious, although it was Isnard who answered.

  ‘First, because that dagger is the same as the ones used on their other victims, and we know those blades were French, because the Sheriff said so when he showed them to us. And second, because it is an expensive thing, but the killer left it behind. Only spies can afford that sort of extravagance.’

  ‘Because they are paid directly by the dolphin,’ elaborated Verious confidently, ‘who is fabulously rich after plundering Winchelsea.’

  Bartholomew opened his mouth to argue, then closed it again. There was no point when Verious and Isnard had already made up their minds. Michael continued to question them, but when it became clear they had no more to tell, he turned back to the enraged baker.

  ‘I will see you receive a fair price for your bread, Mortimer. You have my word.’

  Mortimer scowled at him. ‘Unfortunately, your word is worthless. Heltisle told us that the new Chancellor wants to rule for himself, so you are now irrelevant. You have dealt justly with us in the past, but a new order has arrived, and you are not part of it.’

  Michael’s face went so dark with anger that Bartholomew was alarmed for him.

  ‘Take a deep breath, Brother,’ he advised hastily. ‘It is not worth—’

  ‘What is de Wetherset thinking?’ exploded Michael. ‘Not just to antagonise tradesmen when we are on the verge of serious civil unrest, but to undermine my authority when I most need it? Does he want the University burned to the ground?’

  ‘It was not him – it was Heltisle,’ said Isnard, frightened by the sight of the Senior Proctor trembling with fury. ‘Perhaps de Wetherset knows nothing about it.’

  Michael closed his eyes and took the recommended deep breath, so that when he next spoke, his voice was calmer.

  ‘It will not matter to Heltisle if we are attacked, because his College is surrounded by high walls, but what about the hostels? They have no such means to defend themselves.’

  ‘He does not care about those,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He has always been an elitist.’

  Michael stormed towards St Mary the Great, aiming to have strong words with Heltisle, but before he and Bartholomew could reach it, they saw him walking along the high street with de Wetherset and Aynton. The triumvirate had been to visit the Mayor, and carried documents bearing his seal. Two dozen beadles – the real ones, not the Horde – formed a protective phalanx around them, which was a necessary precaution as they were attracting a lot of hostile attention.

  ‘Why are these men guarding you?’ demanded Michael between gritted teeth. ‘They are supposed to be patrolling the streets to prevent brawls.’

  Heltisle’s eyes narrowed at the disrespectful tone, although de Wetherset had the grace to look sheepish. Meanwhile, Aynton beamed at everyone who glanced in his direction, clearly under the illusion that a friendly smile was all that was needed to heal the rifts that he and his two cronies were opening.

  ‘Would you have us lynched by a mob?’ asked Heltisle archly. ‘An assault on us is an assault on the University, so it is imperative that we do not allow it to happen.’

  ‘You would not need protection if you had an ounce of sense,’ snarled Michael. ‘I negotiated fair trade agreements with the town, and you are fools to meddle with them.’

  ‘They were skewed in the town’s favour,’ argued de Wetherset, although his voice lacked conviction, as if he already doubted the wisdom of what he had done. ‘And I do have the authority to broker new ones. It says so in the statutes.’

  ‘It does,’ put in Aynton timidly. ‘But I am not sure that we went about it in the most diplomatic manner, Chancellor. Peace is—’

  ‘To hell with peace,’ growled Heltisle. ‘The town attacked us at the butts and killed four of our most promising scholars. Such behaviour cannot be tolerated, and harsher trade deals are its reward.’

  ‘The contracts you signed were to our detriment, Brother,’ said de Wetherset, simultaneously uncomfortable and defensive. ‘So we felt obliged to offer the town a choice: sell at more attractive prices, or have us buy supplies in Ely.’

  Michael regarded him furiously. ‘Yes, I agreed to higher premiums, but it bought us much goodwill, which will save us a fortune in the long run, as you should know fro
m the last time you were Chancellor. But did you have to start all this nonsense now, when relations are so strained?’

  ‘Relations are always strained,’ said de Wetherset, not unreasonably. ‘Ergo, there will never be a good time to initiate reform.’

  ‘And if you cannot quell the resulting rumpus, you should resign,’ finished Heltisle, his face a mask of triumph. ‘Theophilis has already offered to take your place.’

  ‘It is tempting,’ said Michael icily, ‘just for the pleasure of watching you destroyed. But I love the University too much to see it harmed, so I shall stay at my post. However, you have created an ugly mood, so I suggest you go home and stay there. Then my beadles can return to their real duties.’

  ‘No, they will continue to guard us,’ countered Heltisle challengingly. ‘Oh, and Meadowman is under arrest, by the way. He refused to obey my orders, so I had to make an example of him. The others fell into line when they saw which way the wind was blowing.’

  Bartholomew glanced at the beadles who guarded the triumvirate. None were happy with the situation in which they found themselves, and he was sure that if Michael asked, they would abandon the triumvirate and follow him in a heartbeat. But the monk had too much affection for his men to put them in such an invidious position.

  ‘I understand you have continued to investigate the murders,’ said de Wetherset, turning to another matter, ‘even though we told you to leave them to Aynton.’ He raised a hand when Michael opened his mouth to reply. ‘I do not aim to scold you, Brother, but to ask if you have made any progress.’

  ‘Because I have not,’ said Aynton ruefully. ‘I tried, but then I gave up, lest I inadvertently made matters worse.’

  ‘You are wise, Commissary,’ said Michael tightly. ‘If only others had the intelligence to follow your example.’ He did not look at Heltisle. ‘And to answer your question, Chancellor, we shall have answers after we have been to St Radegund’s.’

  ‘St Radegund’s?’ echoed de Wetherset, puzzled. ‘Why there?’

  ‘Abbess Isabel was in the vicinity when Orwel was brained, and can identify the culprit,’ replied Michael with rather more confidence than was warranted, especially given that Isabel might be the killer herself.

  ‘Orwel?’ asked Heltisle. ‘Who is he?’

  ‘A man who had information about Wyse’s murder,’ said Michael, continuing to address de Wetherset. ‘Unfortunately, he was killed before he could share it.’

  ‘I have never liked the Benedictines,’ said Heltisle with a moue of distaste. ‘Perhaps this abbess dispatched Paris and the others. I would not put such wickedness past a member of that unsavoury Order.’

  ‘Then you have to admire her courage,’ mused Aynton. ‘The plagiarist was weak and old, but her other victims cannot have been easy meat.’

  ‘Go, then, Brother,’ said de Wetherset with an amiable smile. ‘But visit the Jewry first, because a spat was brewing there when we walked past, and you should stamp it out before it erupts. Meanwhile, I shall heed your advice and return to St Mary the Great, where I will remain until all the fuss dies down. What about you, Aynton?’

  ‘Oh, I shall be here and there,’ replied the Commissary airily, ‘healing rifts and urging everyone to be nice to each other. Or would you rather I stayed with you, Chancellor?’

  ‘No, keeping the peace is more important,’ replied de Wetherset. ‘Heltisle?’

  ‘I shall go home,’ said Heltisle grimly. ‘If there is to be a battle, I want Bene’t ready to defend its rights and privileges.’

  ‘Preparing for a skirmish is hardly the example our Vice-Chancellor should be setting,’ began Michael sharply. ‘It is not—’

  ‘Oh, yes, it is!’ interrupted Heltisle. ‘And if Michaelhouse does not do the same, it will reveal you to be cowards and traitors.’

  ‘Michaelhouse will do what is right,’ countered Michael. ‘And that does not include indulging in unseemly acts of violence against the town.’

  Although Bartholomew itched to race to St Radegund’s at once, events conspired against him. First, there was the quarrel in the Jewry to defuse, then Michael insisted on freeing Meadowman. Bartholomew fretted at the lost time, feeling the crisis loom closer with every lost moment.

  When they arrived at the gaol, Michael was appalled to discover that all the rioters he had arrested had been released without charge. Their places had been taken not just by Meadowman, but by half a dozen other beadles who had also refused to obey Heltisle.

  ‘He wanted us to guard his College rather than patrol the streets,’ said Meadowman indignantly as Michael let him out. ‘He thinks it will be targeted in the event of trouble, because it houses one of the University’s top officials. I pointed out that Bene’t has high walls, stout gates and warrior-students, so can look after itself.’

  ‘Whereas the hostels have no protection at all,’ growled another man. ‘Other than us.’

  ‘He should not have released the prisoners either,’ Meadowman went on angrily, ‘although half were Bene’t lads, so what do you expect? Now they will hare off to foment more unrest, while Heltisle’s Horde looks on like the useless rabble they are.’

  ‘You cannot return to normal duties now,’ said Michael. ‘Heltisle will just rearrest you. So don everyday clothes, monitor what is happening, and report back to me.’

  ‘We can report to you now,’ said Meadowman grimly. ‘The town believes the University aims to crush it into penury; the University thinks the town intends to destroy it once and for all; and everyone is convinced the Dauphin is poised to do to us what he did to Winchelsea – with the connivance of either the town or the University, depending on which side you are on.’

  ‘Then identify the ringleaders and shut them up,’ ordered Michael. ‘You may lock them in their cellars, hand them to the Sheriff, or threaten them in any way you please. Perhaps the trouble will fizzle out if they are muzzled.’

  The beadles did not look hopeful, but sped away to do his bidding. Their disquiet and Michael’s grim expression combined to make Bartholomew’s stomach churn more than ever.

  ‘Dusk,’ predicted the monk hoarsely. ‘That is when the crisis will come. Tempers will fester all day, and as soon as darkness cloaks everyone with anonymity, we will go to war.’

  ‘There must be a way to stop it. We have averted catastrophes before.’

  ‘But that was when I was in charge,’ Michael pointed out bitterly. ‘Now we have the triumvirate, who undermine all my efforts to restore calm. Heltisle accuses me of wielding too much power, but what about him? He seems to have gone mad with it.’

  They resumed their journey to St Radegund’s, but met Tulyet by the Barnwell Gate. The Sheriff was astride his massive warhorse, and had donned full armour. The men who rode with him were similarly attired.

  ‘I have done my best to quash the rumours about French spies in the Spital,’ he said, reining in. ‘But it is only a matter of time before the whispers start again and folk march out there to besiege it. I have ordered Leger to spirit the Tangmers and their guests away the moment it is dark.’

  ‘Perhaps he should do it now,’ said Bartholomew worriedly.

  Tulyet shot him a scornful glance. ‘Then there will be a massacre for certain, because they will be seen by the mob already outside. He needs the cover of night to succeed.’

  ‘Can you trust him to do it?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘He agreed to protect the buildings, not the people inside.’

  ‘He will do it or answer to the King,’ replied Tulyet savagely. ‘Besides, once the Spital folk are safe, I hope our warring factions will converge on the place, as I would sooner that bore the brunt of their destructive fury than the town.’

  ‘You seem to think a clash is inevitable, but we still hope to avert one. Michael and I are going to see Abbess Isabel, who may have killed Orwel and perhaps the others, too. An arrest may appease—’

  ‘It is far too late for that,’ interrupted Tulyet harshly. ‘Any hope of a peaceful resolution disappeared when t
he University chose to renege on its trade deals. So, yes, there will be a clash, and you brought it about.’

  ‘Not us,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘The triumvirate.’

  Tulyet shook his head in disgust. ‘I thought we had cast aside our differences and were moving towards a lasting peace, but it was all based on the sense and goodwill of one man. Now others are in charge . . .’

  One of his knights – a rough, hard-bitten warrior who had never approved of Tulyet’s efforts to befriend the University – spat. ‘We will never have peace with scholars, and unless we take a firm stand against them today, they will crush us for ever.’

  ‘He is right,’ said Tulyet sourly, watching him wheel away to bear down on a group of tanners who were preparing to lob stones at someone’s windows. ‘I have signed away rights in exchange for amity, and so have you, Brother. Perhaps we should not have done.’

  ‘Of course you should,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Neither of us is going anywhere, so we have no choice but to work together, and if that means making compromises, then so be it.’

  ‘What about the Jacques?’ asked Michael. ‘Have they been found yet?’

  Tulyet shook his head. ‘But if they are here, whispering poisonous messages in susceptible ears, I will hang them. Now, go to St Radegund’s if you must, but do not be long. You will be more useful here than chasing killers who no longer matter.’

  Bartholomew glanced up at the sky as they hurried on, wishing it would rain. No one liked getting wet, and inclement weather would drive most would-be rioters indoors. Unfortunately, the clouds were breaking up and it promised to be another fine day.

  ‘It is about noon,’ said Michael, wrongly thinking he was estimating the time. ‘Which means we have just a few hours before the trouble begins in earnest. We must hurry.’

  They passed through the Barnwell Gate unchallenged, as the sentries were patrolling the streets instead. This allowed folk to pour in from the outlying villages. Few carried goods to sell, and Bartholomew realised that word had spread about the brewing unrest, so they were coming to stand with the townsfolk. Tulyet was right: a clash was now inevitable.