‘Where will you go?’ asked Tulyet, obviously hoping it would be soon.
Bartholomew understood why the Sheriff wanted them gone. First, he had his hands full keeping the peace between University and town, and did not have the time or the resources to protect strangers as well. But second and more importantly, there was a radical minority – Cynric among them – who thought the Jacquerie had been a very good idea, and who would love to hear what Delacroix had to say about social justice and insurrection.
‘Delacroix is right,’ said Michael gently, when there was no reply to Tulyet’s question. ‘You cannot stay here – it is too dangerous.’
‘You have been dissuading folk from visiting this place with rumours of hauntings and pagan sacrifices,’ put in Bartholomew, ‘and the “ghostly manifestation” you staged for us was clever, too. But it will not work for much longer. Curiosity will win out over fear, and people will come to see these things for themselves.’
‘Especially if Margery Starre sells them protective charms,’ added Michael. ‘And they feel themselves to be invulnerable.’
Meanwhile, Tulyet was regarding Delacroix appraisingly. ‘The Girard men sold themselves as proxies when our King issued his call to arms. Why? It was a needless risk.’
Delacroix shrugged. ‘We needed the money – we are running out, and we cannot expect Tangmer to feed us all for nothing.’
‘No,’ agreed Tangmer fervently; Amphelisa shot him a reproachful glance.
‘But they would never have gone to the butts,’ continued Delacroix. ‘It would have been suicide. They were going to get Tangmer to declare them too mad to venture out.’
Michael drew Bartholomew aside while Tulyet continued to question the two peregrini. ‘Perhaps you were right – de Wetherset and Heltisle did guess that the Girards aimed to cheat them, and killed them for revenge.’
But Bartholomew was no longer sure. ‘I do not see the Chancellor and his deputy scrambling over walls with a tinderbox. Also, de Wetherset told us to give the money to Hélène. If he had been angry enough to kill her kin, he would have demanded it back.’
‘Maybe he was salving his guilty conscience,’ shrugged Michael. ‘He is not entirely without scruples, although I cannot say the same about Heltisle. I say we put them both on our list. Of course, Delacroix is an angry man, so perhaps these murders can be laid at his feet. Look at the bodies now, Matt, and see what they can tell you.’
Unwilling to perform in front of an audience, Bartholomew ordered everyone out. They went reluctantly and stood by the side door, where Tulyet demanded to know what had prompted Delacroix to join the Jacquerie, and Delacroix snarled answers that did nothing to secure his removal from a list of murder suspects.
Bartholomew took a deep breath and began. Four victims were burned beyond recognition, although one was relatively undamaged. He began with him, and immediately made a startling discovery. He considered calling Tulyet and Michael at once, but decided to spare them the sight of what needed to be done next. He worked quickly, and when he had finished, put everything back as he had found it.
He went outside to wash his hands. Even after a vigorous scrub, they still stank of charred flesh, so he splashed them with some of Amphelisa’s cedarwood oil. Then he went to where Michael and Tulyet were waiting for him.
‘The fire did not kill them,’ he began. ‘Or rather, it did not kill the adults – the lad died from inhaling smoke. The other four were stabbed.’
‘Stabbed?’ echoed Michael, startled.
‘Death was caused by one or more wounds from a double-edged blade, inflicted from behind,’ Bartholomew went on. ‘A dagger. If you find the weapon, I may be able to match it to the wounds.’
‘But the boy died from the smoke?’ asked Tulyet. ‘How do you know?’ His expression was one of dismay and disgust. ‘Please do not tell me that you looked inside him!’
‘It was the only way to be sure,’ said Bartholomew defensively.
He had long believed that dissection would be a godsend in cases such as this, where answers would otherwise remain elusive, and for years he had itched to put his skills to the test. But now he had formal permission from the University to do it, he found it made him acutely uncomfortable. He was nearly always assailed by the notion that the dead knew what he was doing in the name of justice and did not like it.
‘So you found smoke in his innards,’ surmised Michael, speaking quickly before Tulyet could further express his disquiet. He was not keen on the dark art of anatomy either, but he certainly appreciated the answers it provided.
Bartholomew nodded. ‘There are no other marks on him, so I suspect he was dosed with a soporific – that he went to sleep and never woke up. The same must have happened to Hélène, who is also wound-free. There was smoke in the lungs of one of the women, too – almost certainly the one who passed Hélène to safety.’
‘So her injury was superficial?’ asked Tulyet.
‘No, it was fatal – it punctured her lung. It just did not kill her instantly.’
‘Probably Hélène’s mother,’ mused Tulyet, ‘using her dying strength to save her child. It is a pity you failed to rescue her – she could have told us who did this terrible thing before she breathed her last.’
‘Does Hélène know?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Has anyone spoken to her?’
‘I did, and so did Amphelisa, but with no success. I have asked Amphelisa to persist, but do not expect answers – if you are right about the soporific, Hélène may have slept through the entire thing.’
‘Matt’s findings explain a good deal,’ said Michael. ‘Such as why the family did not leave when the shed began to burn. They were either dead, wounded or asleep. The killer must have left the bodies where they would not be spotted by the casual observer.’
At that point, the Spital folk began to edge towards them, keen to learn what had been discovered. Amphelisa was holding Hélène, who drowsed against her shoulder, making Bartholomew suspect that whatever she had been fed the previous day was still working. It meant the dose had been very powerful.
Delacroix’s face darkened in anger when Tulyet told them what Bartholomew had found, while Father Julien’s hands flew to his mouth in horror. Amphelisa held Hélène a little more tightly, and Tangmer closed his eyes, swaying, so that Eudo and Goda hastened to take his arms lest he swooned.
‘Hélène refused to drink her milk today,’ whispered Amphelisa, stroking the child’s hair, ‘because she said yesterday’s was sour. So she was right – someone put something in it that changed the taste.’
‘Did she say anything else?’ asked Tulyet keenly.
‘That she did not finish it, so her brother had it instead.’ Amphelisa looked away. ‘All I hope is that it rendered him unconscious before …’
‘Does she remember who gave it to her?’
‘She collected it from the kitchen, which is never locked, so anyone could have sneaked in to …’ Tangmer was ashen-faced. ‘How could anyone … to poison a child’s milk!’
‘Hélène had a daily routine,’ said Julien wretchedly. ‘After church, she fetched the milk from the kitchen for herself and her brother, which she took to the shed to drink. Her family liked that shed. They called it their house and treated it as such.’
‘Who else knew all this?’ asked Michael.
Amphelisa raised her hands in a Gallic shrug. ‘Everyone here. However, none of us is responsible for this terrible deed. The staff are all Henry’s kin, while the peregrini would never hurt each other.’
‘There were visitors yesterday,’ said Delacroix in a strained voice. His fists were clenched at his sides and he looked dangerous. ‘Tell them, Tangmer.’