The meal was soon over, and Michael intoned a final Grace. Usually, Bartholomew went to the conclave to put the finishing touches to his lectures, but that day he went to his room to collect what he would need for examining bodies. Michael joined him there.
‘I cannot stop thinking about yesterday,’ said the monk, and shuddered. ‘Those poor people were inside that burning shed for an age – we did not exactly hurry to the Spital, and even when we did arrive, it was some time before Eudo raised the alarm. Why did no one hear them sooner?’
Bartholomew had wondered that, too. ‘Maybe the firefighters made too much noise.’
‘But they did not, Matt. One of the first things I noticed was that they were labouring in almost complete silence, with none of the yelling and screeching that usually accompanies such incidents. If the victims had shouted, they would have been heard.’
Bartholomew regarded him unhappily – his reflections during the night had led him to much the same conclusion. ‘So either their pleas were deliberately ignored or something happened to keep them quiet until it was too late.’
Michael raised his hands in a shrug. ‘Yet everyone seemed genuinely shocked by the tragedy – I was watching very closely. Of course, the Spital’s patients are insane …’
‘The staff are not. They are all members of Tangmer’s family.’
‘Could it have been a suicide pact – the victims decided to die together, but one opted to spare the girl at the last minute?’
‘Perhaps the bodies will give us answers. But the Spital is a curious place, do you not think? Its patients are like no lunatics that I have ever encountered.’
Michael agreed. ‘There is an air of secrecy about it that is definitely suspicious. However, I think I know why. Not one madman spoke the whole time I was listening, and at one point, Prioress Joan shouted orders in French. I assumed no one would understand her, but most of them did.’
Bartholomew regarded him askance. ‘You think they are French raiders, poised to attack us as they did in Winchelsea? That does not sound very likely!’
‘I think they are French,’ said Michael quietly, ‘but not raiders. Most are women, children and old men, so I suspect they are folk who have been living peacefully in our country, but who suddenly find they are no longer welcome. The Spital is their refuge.’
Bartholomew considered. The monk’s suggestion made sense, as it explained a lot: the peculiar silence, the inmates keeping their distance, the policy of discouraging visitors, and Tulyet, Leger and Norbert being asked to repel spectators.
‘Amphelisa is French,’ he said. ‘Perhaps they are her kin. Moreover, she told me that the child we rescued is called Helene Girard … Hélène Girard.’ He gave it two different pronunciations – the English one Amphelisa had used, followed by the French. Then he did the same for the other name he had heard: Delacroix.
‘Then I am glad I have decided to investigate the matter,’ said Michael, ‘because if we are right, the chances are that the fire was set deliberately with the Girard family inside. Ergo, five people were murdered. It would have been six if you had not saved Hélène.’
Bartholomew frowned. ‘That is a wild leap of logic, Brother! Moreover, the Spital is outside your jurisdiction – you have no authority to meddle.’
‘The Senior Proctor will meddle where he likes,’ declared Michael haughtily. ‘And such a ruthless killer at large most certainly is my business, as I have an obligation to keep our scholars safe. Besides, I have not forgotten Paris the Plagiarist, even if you have.’
Bartholomew blinked. ‘You think that whoever stabbed him also incinerated an entire family? But what evidence can you possibly–’
‘Paris was French, and I am sure we shall shortly confirm that the Girards were French, too. So was Bonet the spicer. It cannot be coincidence, and as Paris was a scholar, it is my duty to find out what is happening. But I cannot sit here bandying words with you. I must visit the castle, and tell our Sheriff what we have reasoned.’
‘What you have reasoned,’ corrected Bartholomew, then pointed out of the window. ‘But you are spared a trek to the castle, because Dick is here to see you.’
The suite allocated to the Master of Michaelhouse was in the newer, less ramshackle south wing, and comprised a bedchamber, an office and a pantry for ‘commons’ – the edible treats scholars bought for their personal use. Needless to say, Michael kept this very well stocked, so Tulyet was not only furnished with a cup of breakfast ale, but a plate of spiced pastries as well. The Sheriff listened without interruption as Michael outlined his theory, although he gaped his astonishment at the claim that the Spital was a haven for displaced Frenchmen.
‘I am right,’ insisted Michael. ‘The King issued his call to arms because of what the Dauphin did in Winchelsea, so, suddenly, the war is not something that is happening in some distant country, but is affecting people here. Even many of our scholars, who should be intelligent enough to know better, are full of anti-French fervour.’
‘While the town is convinced that the Dauphin will appear at any moment to slaughter them all,’ acknowledged Tulyet ruefully. ‘A belief that Sir Leger and Sir Norbert exploit shamelessly to make folk practise at the butts.’
‘Leger and Norbert,’ said Michael in distaste. ‘I have heard them in taverns, ranting that all Frenchmen should be wiped from the face of the Earth. It is a poisonous message to spread among the ignorant, who are incapable of telling the difference between enemy warriors and innocent strangers – as Paris the Plagiarist may have learned to his cost.’
‘And Bonet,’ sighed Tulyet. ‘But Leger and Norbert have been moulded by the army, where they fought French warriors, massacred French peasants and destroyed French crops. I do not offer this as an excuse, but an explanation.’
‘So you believe me?’ asked Michael. ‘About the Spital “lunatics” being French?’
Tulyet nodded slowly. ‘On reflection, yes. I heard some of the children whisper in that language yesterday. Moreover, none of the adults seemed mad, which suggests they are there for some other reason.’
‘So what will you do about it?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily.
‘Speak to them – determine whether they are hapless civilians caught in a strife that is none of their making, or spies intent on mischief.’
‘They cannot be spies,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘Half of them are children.’
‘It would not be the first time babes in arms were used as “cover” by unscrupulous adults,’ said Tulyet soberly. ‘However, I can tell you one thing for certain: something or someone prevented the Girards from escaping the fire, which means they were murdered.’
‘Do you think they were killed because they were French?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘Perhaps, but we will find out for certain when you examine the bodies – or when Michael and I poke around the remains of the shed together.’
Michael smiled. ‘You do not object to joining forces with the University, a foundation stuffed to the gills with enemy soldiers, if the town is to be believed?’
Tulyet raised his eyebrows. ‘Can you blame them? Your scholars strut around whinnying in French, and flaunting the fact that few of them are local. It is deliberately provocative.’
‘It is,’ conceded Michael. ‘And I shall speak to de Wetherset again later, to see if we can devise a way to make them desist.’
‘Good,’ said Tulyet. ‘Because now is not the time to antagonise us – not when so many are being taught how to fight. More than a few itch to put their new skills into practice.’