‘You would have ejected frightened women, old men and small children, whose only “crime” was to flee persecution?’ asked Bartholomew in distaste.
‘Why not?’ shrugged William. ‘We did it when I was with the Inquisition. And evil takes many different forms, Matthew, so do not be too readily fooled by “harmless” oldsters or “innocent” brats.’
‘I am offended by this nasty gossip about Master Suttone,’ said Aungel, before Bartholomew could inform William that he was not with the Inquisition now, and such vile opinions were hardly commensurate with a man in holy orders. ‘I know he enjoyed ladies on occasion, but he would never have run off to marry one.’
At that moment, the gate opened and Cynric cantered in on Dusty, having just given the horse a morning gallop along the Trumpington road.
‘Come quick,’ he gasped. ‘There is trouble at the Spital. When Orwel was killed, Sauvage was given the job of keeping it safe, but he abandoned it to sing in St Mary the Great. Now the Spital is surrounded by hostile scholars and townsfolk.’
‘They have united against a common enemy?’ asked William.
‘Not united, no,’ replied Cynric. ‘They each have their own ideas about what should be done, and spats are set to break out. The Sheriff has the town element under control, but he begs you to come and deal with the scholars. He said to hurry.’
The monk was not about to run to the Spital – it was too far, and he did not want to arrive winded and sweaty. He rode Dusty, shouting for Bartholomew to follow. It was not difficult for the physician to keep up with him at first, as no one could ride very fast along Cambridge’s narrow, crowded streets, but it was a different matter once they were through the town gate. Then all Bartholomew could see was dust as Michael thundered ahead.
By the time Bartholomew arrived, the crisis had been averted, largely due to the fact that the troublemakers remembered Dusty from the riot – some were still nursing crushed toes and bruised ribs from when the horse had bulled through their ranks, and they were unwilling to risk it again. Many scholars began to slink home, and townsmen followed suit when Leger galloped up in full battle gear. Eventually, only two clots of people remained: a motley collection of students who always preferred brawling to studying; and some patrons from the King’s Head, who were never happy unless they had something to protest about.
‘I can manage now, Sheriff,’ said Sauvage. He was pale – the near loss of control had given him a serious fright. ‘These few will be no problem, especially if Brother Michael leaves me some beadles to keep the scholars in line.’
Unfortunately, the only beadles available were Heltisle’s Horde, who had no more idea about controlling crowds than Sauvage. Michael gave them instructions, but was far from certain they could be trusted to carry them out. Tulyet finished briefing Sauvage and came to stand with Michael and Bartholomew. So did Sir Leger, whose sour expression showed he was disappointed that a skirmish had been averted.
‘The situation will not stay calm for long,’ he predicted with more hope than was appropriate for a man who was supposed to be dedicated to keeping the King’s peace. ‘Tangmer was stupid to take the enemy under his roof. He brought this on himself.’
‘The peregrini were not “the enemy”,’ said Bartholomew sharply. ‘They were civilians, who left France to avoid being slaughtered.’
‘They were Jacques,’ growled Leger. ‘And spies, who told the Dauphin when to attack Winchelsea. It was a pity they escaped that town before its Mayor could hang them.’
‘The Mayor lied,’ argued Bartholomew, more inclined to believe Julien’s version of events than the one given by a politician who was alleged to be a coward.
‘He did not,’ countered Leger. ‘But we will have our revenge, because the truth is that they have not vanished, but are still in the area. Sauvage spotted Delacroix behind Peterhouse last night, while I saw that priest near St Bene’t’s Church.’
‘Are you sure it was Julien?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering what reason the group could possibly have for lingering somewhere so dangerous.
‘No,’ admitted Leger. ‘I gave chase, but lost him in the undergrowth – my armour is too bulky for slithering through bushes like a snake. However, I am sure that he and his friends mean us harm.’ He gestured to the Spital. ‘It would not surprise me if they were still in there.’
‘Then let us go and see,’ said Tulyet. ‘If they are, we shall take them to the castle – for their own protection as much as ours. If they are not, we will make sure that everyone knows the Spital is empty. Agreed?’
The moment Bartholomew, Michael, Tulyet and Leger stepped into the Spital, it was clear that something was wrong. As before, the staff guarded the gates and patrolled the walls, but there was no sign of Tangmer, Eudo or their wives. Moreover, there was a sense of distress among them that seemed to have nothing to do with the situation outside.
The cousin who had opened the gate led the visitors to the chapel without a word, where all four recoiled at the stench emanating from Amphelisa’s workshop. It was far more pungent than the last time they had been, and they saw that one workbench had been knocked over, spilling oils all across the floor. Amphelisa was mopping up the mess with a cloth, and her old burgundy cloak was soaked in it.
‘The fumes may be toxic in so confined an area,’ warned Bartholomew, covering his nose with his sleeve. ‘Open the windows and both doors.’
‘Come upstairs first,’ rasped Amphelisa; her eyes were bloodshot. ‘The balcony.’
She led the way to the room above, with its curious wooden screen. Tangmer was there with Eudo, who was sobbing uncontrollably. Goda lay on the floor like a discarded doll.
Bartholomew glanced at Amphelisa. ‘Is she …’
‘Dead,’ whispered Amphelisa. ‘She was supposed to be baking today, and when she failed to appear, Eudo went to look for her. He found her here.’
Bartholomew crouched next to the little woman. She had been stabbed, and the weapon was still in her chest. He could not bring himself to yank it out while her distraught husband was watching, but Leger had no such qualms. He grabbed it and hauled until it came free.
‘Not French,’ he said. ‘Just a kitchen knife. What happened?’
As Eudo was incapable of speech – he retreated to a corner, where he rocked back and forth, weeping all the while – Tangmer replied. The Warden’s face was ashen.
‘She must have come to the chapel to pray, but encountered the killer instead. There was a struggle – I assume you saw the mess downstairs? At some point, she managed to escape up here, but he got her anyway.’
The floor was covered in oily footprints, which suggested that Goda and her assailant had done a lot of running about before the fatal blow was struck. There were two distinctive sets: the tiny ones made by the victim, and the much larger ones of her attacker.
‘I thought you kept this room locked,’ said Bartholomew, bending to inspect them. ‘Amphelisa told us that she carries the only key around her neck. So how did they get in?’
Amphelisa glanced uncomfortably at her husband.
‘Tell them the truth,’ said Tangmer wearily. ‘Lies will help no one now.’
‘I sometimes gave Goda my key when I needed something fetching from here,’ replied Amphelisa unhappily. ‘Unbeknownst to me, she made herself a copy. It is in her hand.’
The dead woman’s fingers were indeed curled around a piece of metal. Bartholomew removed it and knew at once that it had been cut illicitly, as it was suspiciously plain and had no proper head. Then he looked at Goda’s fine new kirtle, and answers came thick and fast.
‘Was she stealing your oils and selling them on her own account?’