‘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 whereabouts, 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.’