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 instantly 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.’