‘So the daggers may belong to them,’ surmised Michael. ‘Aynton was right to suggest they might have ignited last night’s trouble with an order to shoot. And we were right to consider the possibility of a falling-out among them that saw the Girards murdered.’
‘If so, we can never interrogate them about it, because they have gone. Will you still speak to Alice? I doubt she has connections to Rouen.’
‘Even if she is not the killer, we cannot have nuns from my Order waylaying knights and urging them to kill people. We shall speak to her first, then see what Amphelisa can tell us about daggers made near Rouen.’
‘We have already shown her the one that killed the Girards. She did not recognise it.’
Michael’s expression was sober. ‘That was before Shropham told us where it was made. Perhaps she will recognise it when confronted with the truth. After all, it would not be the first time she has lied to us.’
In the event, Bartholomew and Michael were spared a trek to St Radegund’s, because Sister Alice was walking along the High Street. She was with Prioress Joan and Magistra Katherine, talking animatedly, although neither was listening to what she was saying. Katherine’s distant expression suggested her thoughts were on some lofty theological matter, while Joan was more interested in the fine horse that Shropham had left tethered outside the church.
‘Good,’ said Michael, homing in on them. ‘I want a word with you.’
‘Me?’ asked Joan, alarm suffusing her homely features. ‘Why? Not because of Dusty? What has happened to him? Tell me, Brother!’
‘He is quite well,’ Michael assured her, raising his hands to quell her rising agitation, while Katherine smirked, amused that her Prioress’s first concern should be for an animal. ‘And perfectly content with Cynric.’
Joan sagged in relief. ‘Is it about that dagger then? I have been mulling the matter over, and it occurs to me that I did not see it here, but at home. Obviously, we do not have that sort of thing in the convent, so now I wonder whether I spotted it in Winchelsea …’
‘We went there after it was attacked, if you recall,’ said Katherine. ‘To offer comfort to the survivors and to help them bury their dead.’
‘But I cannot be certain,’ finished Joan unhappily. ‘I am sorry to be such a worthless lump, but my brain refuses to yield its secrets.’
‘Keep trying, if you please,’ said Michael, disappointed. ‘It is important. However, it was not you we wanted to corner – it is Alice.’
‘Me?’ asked Alice, scratching her elbow. ‘Why? I have nothing to say to you. Besides, we are busy. The Carmelite Prior was so impressed by Magistra Katherine’s grasp of nominalism that he offered to show us his collection of books on the subject.’
‘To show me his books,’ corrected Katherine crisply, ‘while Joan is to be given a tour of his stables. You are invited to neither.’
Alice sniffed huffily. ‘I do not want to see smelly old books and horses anyway.’
‘No?’ asked Katherine archly. ‘Then why have you foisted yourself on us?’
‘Because the streets are uneasy after last night’s chaos,’ retorted Alice, ‘and there is safety in numbers. If anyone else had been available, I would have chosen them instead.’
‘Of course you would,’ said Katherine, before glancing around with a shudder. ‘My brother always said this town is like a pustule, waiting to burst. He is right! I heard there are more than a dozen dead and countless injured.’
‘But no horses harmed, thank God,’ said Joan, crossing herself before glaring at Michael. ‘Although I understand Dusty was ridden into the thick of it.’
‘He behaved impeccably,’ Michael informed her, unabashed. ‘You would have been proud. Indeed, it is largely due to him that the death toll was not higher.’
Joan was unappeased. ‘If there is so much as a scratch on him …’
‘There is not, and he enjoyed every moment – he is far more destrier than palfrey. Did I tell you that Bruges the Fleming declared him the finest warhorse that ever lived? Coming from King’s Hall, that was a compliment indeed.’
‘Bruges is from Flanders?’ asked Joan, surprised. ‘I assumed he was French. He spoke to me in that tongue – loudly and arrogantly – the other day, when he told me that he wanted to buy Dusty. It made passers-by glare at us, which was an uncomfortable experience.’
‘He will not do it again,’ said Bartholomew soberly. ‘He was among last night’s dead.’
Joan gaped at him, but then recovered herself and murmured a prayer for his soul. ‘Yet I am astonished to learn he was rioting. I assumed he was more genteel, given that he had such good taste in horses.’
‘I do not know what you see in that ugly nag, Prioress,’ put in Alice unpleasantly. ‘Sometimes, I think you love him more than us, your Benedictine sisters.’
‘I do,’ said Joan baldly. ‘Especially after this conloquium, where I have learned that most are either blithering idiots, greedy opportunists or unrepentant whores.’ She regarded Alice in distaste. ‘And some are all three.’
‘I am none of those things,’ declared Alice angrily. ‘I am the victim of a witch-hunt by Abbess Isabel and the Bishop. I did nothing wrong.’
‘You made bad choices and you were caught,’ said Joan sternly. ‘Now you must either accept your fate with good grace or renounce your vows and follow some other vocation.’
‘As a warlock, perhaps,’ suggested Katherine. ‘Given that you know rather too much about maggoty marchpanes, stinking candles and cursing spells.’
‘You malign me with these vile accusations,’ scowled Alice, although the truth was in her eyes. ‘I am innocent of–’
‘Speaking of vile accusations,’ interrupted Michael, ‘perhaps you will explain why you have been gossiping about spies in the Spital. And do not deny it, because Sir Norbert identified you by your constant scratching.’
Alice had been about to claw her arm again; Michael’s words made her drop her hand hastily. ‘But everyone is talking about the spies in the Spital. Why single me out for censure?’
‘Because you are the originator of the tale,’ said Michael harshly. ‘You discovered the “lunatics” were French – oldsters, women and children fleeing persecution from those they considered to be friends – and you urged Norbert to kill them.’
‘Did you?’ asked Katherine, regarding her in distaste. ‘And what would have happened to us during this slaughter? Or would our deaths have been an added bonus?’
‘I had no idea you were living with French spies until I heard it from Margery Starre last night,’ declared Alice. ‘Those rumours did not start with me.’
‘Look at this dagger,’ ordered Michael, holding it out to her. ‘It was used to kill Bruges. Others like it were employed on Paris, Bonet and the Girard family.’
‘But not by me,’ said Alice, barely glancing at it. ‘Do you really think that I, a weak woman, could plunge blades into the backs of strong and healthy men?’
‘How do you know they were stabbed in the back?’ pounced Bartholomew.
Alice’s eyes glittered. ‘Because someone told me. I forget who.’
‘Margery, probably,’ muttered Katherine. ‘A witch, who is hardly suitable company for nuns. And it takes no great strength to drive a blade into someone from behind anyway, which I know, because the survivors at Winchelsea told me.’
Alice sighed to show she was bored of the conversation. ‘Shall we talk about something more interesting, such as getting me reinstalled as Prioress at Ickleton?’
Suddenly, Michael had had enough of her. ‘You are under arrest for the murders of Paris, Bonet, the Girards and Bruges,’ he said briskly. ‘And for spreading malicious rumours.’