Tulyet led Bartholomew across the river, then a short way along the Chesterton road, to where the unfortunately named Pierre Sauvage stood guard over Wyse’s body. Sauvage handed Bartholomew a lamp, and the physician saw that Wyse had apparently stumbled, so that his head had ended up in the ditch at the side of the road. The rest of the body was dry. Bartholomew knelt to examine it more closely.
‘An accident?’ asked Tulyet, watching him. ‘A fall while he was in his cups?’
‘He was murdered,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘You see that blood on the back of his head? It is where someone hit him from behind. The blow only stunned him, but his assailant dragged him here, dropped him so his face was in the water, and left him to drown.’
Tulyet gaped at him. ‘Murdered? But who would want to kill Wyse?’
‘Someone who wanted his money,’ predicted Sauvage. ‘Everyone knows he had some on a Wednesday, and that he always staggered home along this road after the Griffin.’
‘But his purse is still on his belt,’ countered Tulyet.
‘Perhaps the culprit was also drunk,’ shrugged Sauvage, ‘but sobered up fast and ran away when he realised what he had done.’
Tulyet shook his head in disgust. ‘Carry the body to St Giles’s, then go to the Griffin and see what his friends can tell you. Perhaps there was a drunken spat. Take Sergeant Orwel – he is good at prising answers from reluctant witnesses.’
‘He is at choir practice,’ said Sauvage. ‘But he should be finished by the time I have taken Wyse to the church. Of course, no townsman did this. We would never risk the wrath of the Franciscans – they were fond of Wyse and will be furious when they find out what has happened to him. It will be the work of a University man.’
Bartholomew blinked. ‘What evidence do you have to say such a thing?’
‘First, Wyse was old and frail, so posed no threat to a puny book-man,’ began Sauvage, suggesting he had given the matter some serious thought while he had been guarding the body. ‘Second, the culprit was clever, like all you lot, so he killed his victim in a place where no one would see. And third, scholars hate the sight of blood, which is why Wyse was drowned rather than stabbed.’
‘That is not evidence,’ said Bartholomew impatiently. ‘It is conjecture. There is nothing to suggest that a scholar did this. Indeed, I would say the Sheriff has the right of it, and Wyse died as a result of a disagreement with his friends.’
‘Well, you are wrong,’ stated Sauvage resolutely. ‘You wait and see.’
While Bartholomew visited patients, Michael organised an escort for the nuns, then went to St Mary the Great, his mind full of the music he would teach that evening. There was a Jubilate by Tunstede, followed by a Gloria he had composed himself, and finally some motets for the next matriculation ceremony. De Wetherset had vetoed the Marian Singers taking part in such an auspicious occasion, but Michael was not about to let a mere Chancellor interfere with his plans, and continued to rehearse so as to be ready for it.
He entered the nave and looked around in astonishment, sure half the town had turned out to sing. He experienced a stab of alarm that there would not be enough post-practice food. As it was, they were obliged to share cups – one between three.
Of course, it was his own fault that the choir had grown so huge. He had always known that some of its members were women, and had never been deceived by the horsehair beards and charcoal moustaches. However, he had recently been rash enough to say there was no reason why a choir should consist solely of men, at which point the disguises were abandoned and women arrived in droves. Feeding everyone was an ever-increasing challenge.
He looked fondly at the many familiar faces. There were a host of beadles, Isnard the bargeman and Verious the ditcher, although Michael was less pleased to see Sergeant Orwel among the throng. Orwel was a hard-bitten, vicious, bad-tempered veteran of Poitiers, who had been the cause of several spats between scholars and townsfolk. Michael had never understood why Tulyet continued to employ him, unless it was for his ability to intimidate.
However, the moment Orwel began to sing, Michael forgot his antipathy: the sergeant transpired to be an unexpectedly pure, clear alto. Outside, passers-by were astounded to hear a haunting quartet, sung by Michael, Orwel, Isnard and Verious.
Afterwards, over the free bread and ale, Michael cornered the witnesses he hoped would have insights into the fire. Unfortunately, the miller had been hurrying to unload his wares lest close proximity to lunatics turned him insane himself, so had noticed nothing useful. Disappointed, Michael went in search of Verious, who he found sitting with Isnard and Orwel.
‘Terrible business about the Spital,’ said Isnard conversationally. ‘We heard forty lunatics were roasted alive.’
Michael marvelled at the power of rumour. ‘There were not–’
‘It was that dolphin and his rabble,’ growled Verious. ‘They did it.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Michael worriedly. Had the ditcher guessed the truth when he had been at the Spital and shared the secret with his dubious friends? If so, the peregrini would have to leave at once, before hotheads from the town and the University organised an assault.
‘The dolphin came up the river from the coast,’ explained the ditcher darkly. ‘Looting and burning as he went. Our soldiers guard the gates, so he dared not invade the town, but the Spital is isolated. The Frenchies saw it and seized their chance. Poor lunatics!’
‘I think the Sheriff would have noticed an enemy army rampaging about the countryside,’ said Michael drily. ‘However, someone burned a shed with six people inside it, and I intend to find the culprit. You were in the Spital yesterday, Verious – did you notice anything unusual?’
The ditcher swelled with importance as everyone looked expectantly at him. ‘I saw the lunatics doing what lunatics do – swaying and gibbering.’
‘But did you see anyone near the shed?’ pressed Michael. ‘Or go near it yourself?’
Verious grimaced. ‘No, because them Tangmer cousins would not leave me alone. Every time I tried to slip away to have a nose around, one would stop me. It meant I saw nothing very interesting.’
‘I spotted two of Tangmer’s madmen in the town the day before the fire,’ put in Isnard helpfully. ‘They were chatting to Sir Leger and Sir Norbert, who addressed one as Master Girard. Was he among the dead?’
Michael nodded, although he hated providing Isnard with information that would almost certainly be repeated in garbled form. There was no point in begging discretion, as this would only lead to even wilder flights of imagination.
‘What were they saying?’ he asked.
‘I could not hear,’ came the disappointing reply.
‘I could,’ growled Orwel. ‘Because I saw them talking together, too. But I could not tell what lies the lunatics were spinning to our two good knights, because they were speaking French, and I have never befouled my brain by learning that vile tongue.’
‘French?’ asked Michael, alarmed.
It would be the knights’ first language, given that they were part of the ruling elite, but he was appalled that the Girards should have used it with strangers. Had Leger and Norbert guessed the truth and acted on it? If so, it would put Tulyet in an invidious position – he could hardly hang the King’s favourites, yet nor could he overlook their crime.
‘Here comes Cynric,’ said Isnard, glancing up. ‘Driven away from the butts again by your interfering Junior Proctor, no doubt. That Theophilis cannot keep his opinions to himself, even though he knows less about archery than a snail.’