‘Because Satan told me,’ replied Margery grandly. ‘He dropped in yesterday morning, and said he plans to take up residence there. I imagine it was him who started that fire – not deliberately, of course, but because his fiery hoofs touched dry wood.’
‘You are right,’ said Bartholomew sombrely. ‘The Devil was involved in starting the blaze, because only a very evil being could want people roasted alive.’
Margery sniffed. ‘Satan is not evil – just misunderstood. He–’
‘You mentioned a nun,’ interrupted Michael, unwilling to listen to such liberal views about the Prince of Darkness. He was a monk, after all. ‘She came to you with “a peculiar request”.’
‘It was Alice, the short, spiteful one who was deposed from Ickleton,’ replied Margery. ‘She asked me to make her some candles that reek of manure.’
Michael frowned his bemusement. ‘Why would she want something like that?’
‘To send to folk she does not like. The recipients will light them in all innocence, then spend days trying to dislodge the stink from their clothes.’
‘I see,’ said Michael. ‘And Alice told you all this willingly?’
Margery nodded. ‘She was reluctant at first, but hate burns hot inside her, and once she started, she could not stop. One of her targets is that elegant, arrogant nun, who thinks she is better than everyone else because her brother is the Bishop …’
‘Magistra Katherine,’ supplied Bartholomew.
‘Yes, so if she dies in suspicious circumstances, you will know who to question first. Another enemy is Prioress Joan, who called her a spiteful little harpy. And a third is Abbess Isabel, whose report to the Bishop saw her disgraced.’
‘Did Alice buy spells that would kill or hurt them?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily. He did not believe in the efficacy of such things, but if Alice was attempting to purchase some, then her intended victims should be warned to be on their guard.
‘I do not deal in those,’ replied Margery loftily, although his relief evaporated when she added, ‘other than for very special customers.’
‘I assume you refused to make these smelly candles, too,’ said Bartholomew.
‘Of course not! She paid me a fortune to invent them, and I like a challenge. If I succeed, I can sell them to others who want to annoy their foes. You may have one – free of charge – for that nasty old Heltisle if you like.’
Bartholomew laughed. ‘It is tempting, but I do not think Matilde would approve.’
‘She would! She cannot abide him either. Mind you, that villain Theophilis is worse. He sniffs around poor Master Clippesby like a dog on heat, and I do not like it.’
‘We should go,’ said Tulyet, tired of listening to her. ‘Time is passing.’
He set a cracking pace, and no one spoke again until they reached the Spital. When they arrived, he glanced up at the towering walls.
‘God’s blood!’ he blurted. ‘What is that?’
Bartholomew and Michael looked to where he pointed, and saw something pale rise from the ground and ascend the wall. There was an approximate head and body, with two trailing wisps that might have been legs. It floated upwards, then disappeared over the top.
‘It is someone playing a trick,’ determined Michael. ‘Go and look in the undergrowth, Matt. You are better at these things than me.’
Bartholomew took a stick and thrashed around in the weeds at the foot of the wall, but there was nothing to see – no tell-tale footsteps or hidden pieces of twine.
‘If it is a prank, then it is a very clever one,’ he told Michael eventually. ‘I have no idea how it was managed. Perhaps it really was a ghost.’
‘Do not be ridiculous,’ said Michael firmly. ‘There is no such thing as ghosts. Well, other than the Holy Ghost, of course, but that is different.’
Chapter 5
There was a bell rope outside the Spital’s main entrance so that visitors could announce their arrival. Michael gave it a tug, and when nothing happened, pulled harder. Then he exchanged a look of astonishment with Bartholomew and Tulyet when, instead of the usual cheery jangle that characterised such arrangements, a bell of considerable size boomed out. It echoed mournfully around them, stilling the merry chatter of sparrows in the nearby bushes.
‘Goodness!’ murmured Bartholomew, when the deep hum had died away. ‘How very sinister! It feels as though we are about to ask for admittance to the Devil’s lair.’
‘Do not jest about such matters,’ admonished Tulyet uneasily. ‘There is something distinctly odd about this place. Perhaps Margery is right about Satan making it his own – and the thing we just watched shimmer over the wall was one of his familiars.’
‘It was a trick,’ said Michael firmly, ‘even if we did find no evidence to prove it. However, we shall use it to our advantage, because if folk believe this place is infested by evil sprites, they will keep their distance. Then if the lunatics do transpire to be French, they are less likely to be discovered.’
‘Alternatively,’ cautioned Bartholomew, ‘local folk may object to such a place on their doorstep, and will raze it to the ground. Then we shall have dozens of victims, not five.’
They were still debating when the massive Eudo opened the gate. He peered out warily, standing so that his bulk prevented them from seeing inside.
‘You cannot come in,’ he stated in a tone designed to brook no argument.
‘Oh, yes, we can,’ countered Tulyet. ‘People died here yesterday, and it is our duty to investigate. So either let us in now or we shall return with soldiers.’
His stern face convinced Eudo to do as he was told. The moment they were inside, the big man closed the gate and secured it with a thick bar.
‘People do not like lunatics,’ he explained. ‘Ergo, we have to protect ours.’
‘So I see,’ remarked Tulyet, looking to where several men were stationed on the walls, clearly standing guard. They were not armed, but sack-covered mounds revealed where weapons were stashed.
The Spital was a very different place than it had been the previous day. The inmates no longer stood in a frightened cluster, but joined the staff in a variety of humdrum activities – sweeping, gardening, laundry. There was not a child in sight. Two inmates moved as though they were not in complete control of their limbs, while three others jabbered self-consciously.
‘Not even madmen do dirty household chores without aprons to protect their clothes,’ Michael murmured as they followed Eudo to the hall. ‘That bell is not to announce visitors, but to warn the inmates to take up pre-agreed roles and positions. All this quiet industry is an act, although not a very convincing one.’
‘I agree,’ whispered Tulyet. ‘But let us go along with the charade, and see what we can learn before we reveal that we know they are Frenchmen in disguise – wealthy Frenchmen, as hiring an entire hospital cannot be cheap.’
‘I suspect they are middling folk – craftsmen and traders,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The one beating rugs has burns like a blacksmith, while the woman weaving baskets is so dexterous that it must be her profession.’
They turned at a shout, and saw the portly Warden Tangmer waddling towards them, red-faced and breathless in his haste. Eudo’s tiny wife Goda was with him, wearing an elaborately embroidered kirtle that made her look like an exotic doll. Bartholomew wondered if her everyday one had been spoiled fighting the fire.
Tulyet opened his mouth to explain why they were there, but the Warden spoke first.
‘We shall bury our dead behind the chapel,’ he announced. ‘We are digging their graves now, so please leave us to do it in peace.’
‘Not until we have ascertained why a whole family was trapped inside a burning shed,’ said Tulyet sharply.