The Sanctuary Murders

Book 24: Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew

by Susanna Gregory

Genres: General Fiction; Historical Mysteries

Synopsis

In 1360 Edward III issues a call to arms, as sporadic attacks by the French threaten to turn into a full-blown invasion. In Cambridge, fear of the enemy is magnified by the belief that foreign agents are lurking in the area. Tension runs ever higher as rumours and ignorance fan the flames of suspicion amid preparations for war.

And then the first murder occurs — of a French scholar living in the town.

At Michaelhouse, Brother Michael is now Master, but his reach of power in the University is under threat by the election of a new Chancellor and his cohort of dubious advisors. Soon, the Colleges begin to squabble amongst themselves, as well as with the town that never wanted a University in the first place.

Amidst this atmosphere of swelling distrust, physician Matthew Bartholomew is called upon to investigate mysterious deaths in a nearby hospital. He quickly realises that there is something odd about the inmates and their keepers — something dark and deadly, which seems to be connected to the growing number of murders in the town. Pressure mounts as the University and the town clamour for answers, leading Bartholomew and Michael in a frantic quest for a solution before the powder-keg of animosity in Cambridge is ignited.

Release date: August 1, 2019

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 400

Sample

Robert Arnold, Mayor of Winchelsea, had many flaws, but chief among them was an inappropriate fondness for other men’s wives. His current lover was Herluva Dover, the miller’s woman. She had agreed to meet him at a secluded spot near the sea – on a little hill that afforded excellent views in all directions, thus reducing the chances of them being caught.

Herluva was plump and buck-toothed, so Arnold was not sure why she had caught his fancy. Perhaps it was to spite her husband, Valentine Dover, whom he detested. Or maybe he was just running out of suitable prey and Herluva was the best of those who had not yet succumbed to his silver tongue and roving hands.

Although there was a little hut on the hill, Arnold had chosen to entertain Herluva outside that day. It was a beautiful morning, unseasonably warm, and the scent of approaching spring was in the air. The heather on which they lay was fragrant with new growth, while the sea was calm and almost impossibly blue. A solitary gull cried overhead, but their hideaway was otherwise silent. Arnold sighed contentedly, savouring both the tranquillity and the giddy prospect of what Herluva was about to provide.

Then she spoiled it all by sitting up and blurting, ‘What is that? Look, Rob! A whole host of boats aiming for the river—’

‘The grocers’ ships,’ interrupted Arnold, leaning over to plunge his face into her ample bosom. It smelled of flour and sweat – a not unpleasing combination, he thought serenely. His next words were rather muffled. ‘They are due back any—’

‘I know the grocers’ ships.’ Herluva shoved him away and scrambled to her feet. ‘These are different. Look at them, Rob.’

Frustrated and irked in equal measure, Arnold stood. Then gaped in horror at what he saw: a great fleet aimed directly at Winchelsea. His stomach lurched. It had been more than a year since the French had last come a-raiding, and he had confidently informed his burgesses that it would never happen again – that King Edward’s immediate and ruthless reprisals in France meant the enemy would never dare attempt a repeat performance.

He recalled with sickening clarity what had happened the last time. Then, the invasion had been on a Sunday, when Winchelsea folk had been at their devotions. The raiders had locked the doors and set the church alight, and anyone who managed to escape the inferno was hacked to pieces outside. The slaughter had been terrible.

‘Stop them, Rob,’ gulped Herluva. ‘Please! My children are down there!’

But Arnold was paralysed with fear as memories of the previous attack overwhelmed him – the screams of those roasted alive in the church, the demented howls of the attackers as they tore through the town, killing and looting. He dropped to his knees in the heather, shaking uncontrollably. He had never seen so many boats in one place – there were far more than last time – and he knew every one would be bursting with French marauders, all intent on murder, rape and pillage.

‘Rob!’ screeched Herluva. ‘For God’s sake, do something!’

Arnold pulled himself together. ‘Sound the tocsin bell,’ he ordered shakily. ‘Then take your little ones to the marshes. They will be safe there. Hurry, woman!’

‘What about you?’ she demanded suspiciously. ‘What will you be doing?’

‘I have a plan to send them packing,’ he snapped, looking out to sea so she would not see the lie in his eyes. ‘Now go! Quickly, before it is too late.’

He watched her scamper away, but made no move to follow. By the time either of them reached the town, it would be far too late to organise any kind of defence. Besides, he knew what happened to those who challenged raiders, so why squander his life for no purpose? It would be better to hide until the attack was over, then take command once the enemy had gone. It was then that a man with good organisational skills would be most useful – arranging for the dead to be buried, the wounded tended, and damaged properties repaired.

He crouched in the heather and watched the ugly, high-prowed vessels reach the mouth of the river, where they furled their sails and rowed towards the town. On a gentle breeze, he heard the first frantic clang of bells, followed by distant howls of alarm as the residents of Winchelsea realised what was about to happen. He could picture the scene – people racing in all directions, rushing to barricade themselves inside their houses, rounding up missing children, loading carts in the wild hope of escape.

Like the last time, the French could not have picked a better occasion to attack. It was market day, so wares would be laid out for the taking, while half the town was in church, listening to a special Lenten sermon by the priest. Arnold’s eyes narrowed. Was it possible that they had been told when to come by spies?

France was not only at war with England, but with herself, and two years before, a small group of displaced Frenchmen had taken up residence in Winchelsea. They were tolerated because they were generous to local charities, never did anything to offend, and regularly professed a love of all things English. But were they decent, honest folk eager to adapt to their new lives, or were they vipers in the nest? Perhaps they had sent messages home, saying when Winchelsea would be most vulnerable. Arnold had suggested as much after the last raid, but the miller, Val Dover, had dismissed the accusation as false and mean-spirited.

Arnold allowed himself a small, grim smile of satisfaction. But who had been right? He had, and the current raid was the price of Dover’s reckless support of strangers. He decided that as soon as the crisis was over, he would announce his suspicions again, and this time the foreigners would pay for their treachery with their lives.

He watched the first enemy ship reach the pier. Armed figures swarmed off it. A few brave townsmen raced to repel them – two invaders went down under a hail of kicks and punches – but a second boat joined the first, then a third, a fourth, a fifth, until the tide was impossible to stem. Then it was the defenders who were overwhelmed by sheer force of numbers. In the river, ships jostled and collided as their captains struggled to find a place to land their howling, blood-crazed passengers. Then came the first wisps of smoke.

Unable to watch more, Arnold went inside the little hut and closed the door.

Hours later, when the sun had set and the shadows faded into darkness, Arnold started to walk home. He arrived to sights even worse than he had feared. The dead littered the streets, and the dying wept, cursed and begged for help as he picked his way through them. He coughed as smoke billowed from the inferno that was the guildhall, and its heat seared his face. Then someone grabbed his arm. He yelped in terror, then recognised the soot-stained, bloodied face of his old rival Val Dover.

‘You told us we were safe,’ the miller rasped accusingly. ‘We believed you. It was—’

‘It is not my fault,’ snapped Arnold, wrenching free. ‘Blame the spies who told the French that I was in Rye today, thus leaving no one to mount a proper defence. They are the ones responsible for this outrage, not me. I was appalled when I came home to find—’

‘You? Mount a defence?’ sneered Dover. ‘And what is this about spies? I hope you do not aim to accuse our settlers again. They are our friends.’

At that moment, a gaggle of invaders swaggered past – stragglers, drunk on stolen wine, who were in no hurry to follow their compatriots back to France while there was still plunder to be had. Yelling for Arnold to follow, Dover plunged among them, cudgel flailing furiously. Two stalwart defenders could have defeated them with ease, but Arnold was too frightened to help, and only watched uselessly from the shadows.

When Dover was dead and his killers had lurched away, Arnold hid, vowing not to emerge again until the last enemy ship had sailed away. While he waited, he became increasingly convinced that someone had sent word to the French, telling them when to come. He scowled into the darkness. It was the settlers – their gratitude for Winchelsea’s friendship was a ruse, and they had betrayed their hosts at the first opportunity. Well, he would not sit back while they profited from their treachery – he would round them up and hang them all.

But what if Dover was right, and they were innocent? His heart hardened. Then that was too bad. He needed a way to deflect the accusations of cowardice he knew would be coming his way, and the settlers would provide it. His mind made up, he hunkered down until it was safe enough to show his face.

‘The French are coming!’

Isnard the bargeman’s frantic howl attracted a sizeable audience, and folk listened agog as he gasped out his report. Then they hurried away to tell their friends and families, adding their own embellishments to the story as they did so. By the time the news reached the castle, Sheriff Tulyet was startled to hear that a vast enemy horde was marching along the Trumpington road, and would be sacking Cambridge within the hour.

‘They landed on the coast and headed straight for us, sir,’ declared Sergeant Orwel, delighted by the prospect of a skirmish; he had fought at Poitiers and hated Frenchmen with a passion. ‘They heard about the great riches held by the University, see, and aim to carry it all home with them. We must prepare for battle at once.’

Although small in stature, with elfin features and a boyish beard, Tulyet was one of the strongest, ablest and most astute royal officials in the country. Unlike his sergeant, he understood how quickly rumours blossomed beyond all truth, and was disinclined to fly into action over a tale that was patently absurd – particularly as he knew exactly how Isnard had reached the conclusions he was currently bawling around the town.

‘I had a letter from the King this morning,’ he explained. ‘Rashly, I left it on the table while I went to Mass, and I came home to find my clerk reading it out to the servants. Unfortunately, Isnard happened to hear – he was there delivering firewood – and he seems to have interpreted His Majesty’s words rather liberally.’

Orwel frowned his mystification. ‘What do you mean, sir?’

‘The first part of the letter described how several thousand Frenchmen attacked Winchelsea last month,’ began Tulyet.

Orwel nodded. ‘And slaughtered every single citizen. It was an outrage!’

‘It was an outrage,’ agreed Tulyet soberly. ‘And although many people were killed, far more survived. In the next part of the letter, the King wrote that the marauders went home so loaded with plunder that it may encourage them to come back for more. Somehow, Isnard took this to mean that they will return and that Cambridge is the target.’

‘And it is not?’ asked Orwel, disappointed to learn he was to be cheated of a battle that day. ‘Why did the King write to you then?’

‘As part of a country-wide call to arms. We are to gather every able-bodied man aged between sixteen and sixty, and train them in hand-to-hand combat and archery. Then if the French do mount a major invasion, he will have competent troops ready to fight them off.’

‘A major invasion?’ echoed Orwel eagerly. ‘So we might see the French at our gates yet? We are easy to reach from the sea – you just sail a boat up the river.’

‘Yes,’ acknowledged Tulyet, ‘but the enemy will opt for easier targets first, and if they do, we shall march there to fight them. Personally, I cannot see it happening, but the King is wise to take precautions.’

Orwel was dismayed by the Sheriff’s predictions, but tried to look on the bright side. ‘I suppose training new troops might be fun. Does the order apply to the University as well? Most of them are between sixteen and sixty.’

Tulyet nodded. ‘Which means we shall have a lot of armed scholars and armed townsfolk in close proximity to each other, which is never a good thing. Let us hope Brother Michael and I will be able to keep the peace.’

‘Why bother?’ asked Orwel, scowling. ‘Most of them University bastards are French – I hear them blathering in that foul tongue all the time. Fighting them would be a good way to hone our battle skills and deal a blow to the enemy at the same time.’

‘Most scholars are English,’ countered Tulyet sharply. ‘They speak French because . . . it is the language they use at home.’

It was actually the language of the ruling elite, while those of lower birth tended to stick to the vernacular. Tulyet just managed to stop himself from saying so, unwilling for Orwel to repeat his words to the garrison. Soldiers already resented scholars’ assumed superiority, and reminding them of it would not be a good idea.

Orwel continued to glower. ‘They live in England, so they should learn English. I do not hold with talking foreign.’

‘No,’ said Tulyet drily. ‘I can see that.’

Orwel regarded him rather challengingly. ‘Will you tell Brother Michael to stop them from strutting around in packs, pretending they are better than us? Because they are not. And if the French do invade and the University rushes to fight at their side, we shall beat them soundly. No scholar is a match for me and the lads.’

‘Underestimate them at your peril,’ warned Tulyet. ‘Some trained as knights, while others are skilled swordsmen. They are a formidable force, which is why the King has included them in his call to arms.’

‘We have knights,’ Orwel pointed out stoutly. ‘And all of them are better warriors than any French-babbling scholar.’

Tulyet saw he was wasting his time trying to reason with such rigidly held convictions, and only hoped the belligerent sergeant could be trusted not to provoke a fight. Relations between the University and the town were uneasy at best, and it took very little to spark a brawl. A taunting insult from a soldier to a student would certainly ignite trouble.

‘We shall have two more knights by the end of the week,’ he said, to change the subject. ‘The King is sending them to help us drill our new recruits. Sir Leger and Sir Norbert, both veterans of the French wars.’

Orwel was delighted by the news, although Tulyet was full of trepidation. He knew exactly what the newcomers would be like – vicious, hard-bitten warriors whose experiences on the battlefield would have left them with a deep and unbending hatred of all things French. The townsfolk would follow their example, and friction would follow for certain. He heartily wished the King had sent them to some other town.

At that moment, there was a commotion by the gate – Isnard was trying to force his way past the guards. As the felonious bargeman never entered the castle willingly, Tulyet knew there must be a very good reason as to why he was keen to do it now. He indicated that Isnard should be allowed inside.

‘I came out of the goodness of my heart,’ declared Isnard, all bristling indignation as he brushed himself down. ‘But if you do not want to hear my news, I shall go home.’

‘My apologies, Isnard,’ said Tulyet mildly. ‘Now, what did you want to tell me?’

‘That there has been a murder,’ reported Isnard gleefully. ‘Of a French scholar named Baldwin de Paris. He was a member of King’s Hall, a place that is well known for harbouring foreigners, traitors and spies.’

‘And so it begins,’ sighed Tulyet wearily.

It was noon, and the bell had just rung to tell the scholars of Michaelhouse that it was time for their midday meal. The masters drew their discourses to a close, and the servants came to turn the hall from lecture room to refectory, carrying trestle tables from the stack near the hearth and setting benches next to them.

Most Fellows were only too happy to stop mid-sentence and rub their hands in gluttonous anticipation, but one always needed a nudge to make him finish. This was Doctor Matthew Bartholomew, who felt there was never enough time in the day to teach his budding physicians all they needed to know. He was regarded as something of a slave driver by his pupils, although he genuinely failed to understand why.

‘Enough, Matt!’ snapped Brother Michael, tapping his friend sharply on the shoulder when the first two more polite warnings went unheeded.

Michael was a portly Benedictine and a theologian of some repute. He was also the University’s Senior Proctor, and had recently been elected Master of Michaelhouse – although what had actually happened was that he had announced he was taking over and none of the other Fellows had liked to argue.

Under Michael’s auspices, College meals had improved dramatically. Gone was the miserable fare of his predecessors, and in its place was good red meat, plenty of bread and imported treats like raisins. He considered food a divine blessing, and was not about to deprive himself or the scholars under his care of God’s gracious bounty.

As he dragged his mind away from teaching, Bartholomew was astonished that it was midday already. He had been explaining a particularly complicated passage in Galen’s De semine, and as semen held a special fascination for most of the young lads under his tutelage, they had not minded running over time for once.

‘Are you sure it is noon, Brother?’ he asked, startled. ‘I only started an hour ago.’

‘Four hours ago,’ corrected Michael. ‘I appreciate that you have much to cover before you leave us for a life of wedded bliss in ten weeks, but you should remember that even your lively lads have their limits. They look dazed to me.’

‘Transfixed,’ corrected Bartholomew, although it occurred to him that while De semine might have captured their prurient imaginations, he was less sure that his analysis of purgative medicines, which had taken up the earlier part of the morning, had held their attention quite so securely. Indeed, he was fairly sure a couple had dozed off.

‘Well, you can continue to dazzle them this afternoon,’ said Michael, drawing him to one side of the hall, out of the servants’ way. ‘But make the most of it, because tomorrow morning will be wasted.’

Bartholomew frowned. ‘Will it? Why?’

Michael scowled. ‘Because William is scheduled to preach on the nominalism–realism debate. You know this, Matt – we have been discussing ways to prevent it for weeks. But my predecessor agreed to let him do it, and William refuses to let me cancel.’

Father William was the College’s Franciscan friar. He was bigoted, stupid, fanatical and a disgrace to the University in more ways than his colleagues could count. Unfortunately, he had been a Fellow for so long that it was impossible to get rid of him, as the statutes did not list dogmatism and unintelligence among the crimes for which an offender could be sent packing.

‘You should have tried harder,’ grumbled Bartholomew, hating the thought of losing an entire morning to the ramblings of a man who knew even less about the subject than he did.

The dispute between nominalists and realists was deeply contentious, although Bartholomew failed to understand why it evinced such fierce passions. It was a metaphysical matter, revolving around the question of whether properties – called universals – exist in reality or just in the mind or speech. Even those who did not really understand it felt compelled to make a stand, with the result that a lot of rubbish was being spouted. William was a worse offender than most.

‘“Tried harder”?’ asked Michael crossly. ‘How, when William threatened to sue me for breach of contract if I stood in his way? Yet I shall be glad of a morning away from the lecture hall. I have a lot to do now that I am Master of Michaelhouse and Senior Proctor.’

‘You mean like hunting whoever murdered Paris the Plagiarist?’

Paris, an elderly French priest, had caused a major scandal the previous term, when he had stolen another scholar’s work and passed it off as his own. In academic circles, this was considered the most heinous of crimes, and had brought great shame to King’s Hall, where Paris had been a Fellow. Someone had stabbed him ten days before, but Michael was no nearer to finding the killer now than he had been when it had first happened.

‘I suspect the culprit acted in a drunken rage,’ the monk confided. ‘He was no doubt sorry afterwards, and aims to get away with his crime by keeping his head down. I shall not give up, of course, but the trail is stone cold.’

‘You have no leads at all?’

‘There are no clues and no witnesses. It was a random act of violence.’

‘Not random,’ said Bartholomew, who had been particularly repelled by what Paris had done. Academic integrity was important to him, and he thought Paris had committed an unpardonable offence. ‘I imagine he was killed for being a fraud, a liar and a cheat.’

‘His killer may be someone who feels like you,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘But I think he was struck down because he was French.’

Bartholomew blinked. ‘You consider being French worse than stealing ideas?’

‘Most townsmen do. The Winchelsea massacre ignited much anti-French fervour, as you know. The last few days have seen the rise of a ridiculous but popular belief that anyone with even remote connections to France will applaud what happened in Sussex.’

Bartholomew grimaced, aware of how quickly decent people could turn into a mob with unpalatable opinions. ‘Of course, our own army is no better. I saw them run amok in Normandy once, and it was an ugly sight.’

‘Hush!’ warned Michael sharply. ‘Say nothing that might be considered pro-French, not even here among friends. Emotions run too high, and folk are eager to roust out anyone they deem to be a traitor.’

‘No one can accuse me of being unpatriotic,’ grumbled Bartholomew. ‘Not when I shall squander an entire evening practising archery tonight – time that would have been much better spent teaching.’

‘It would,’ agreed Michael. ‘But shooting a few arrows will not save you from the prejudices of the ignorant.’

Reluctantly, Bartholomew conceded that the monk was right. ‘Townsfolk glare at me when I go out, even ones I have known for years. I am glad Matilde and Edith are away.’

Matilde, the woman he was going to marry, had gone to fetch an elderly aunt to their wedding, and had taken his sister with her for company.

‘I wish I was with them,’ sighed Michael. ‘Of course, that would leave Chancellor de Wetherset unsupervised. I like the man, but he should let me decide what is best for the University, and it is a wretched nuisance when he tries to govern for himself.’

Bartholomew smothered a smile. Over the years, Michael had manipulated the post of Senior Proctor to the point where he, not the Chancellor, wielded the real power in the University. The last two incumbents had been his puppets, implementing the policies he devised and following his edicts. But the current holder, Richard de Wetherset, bucked under Michael’s heavy hand.

‘He ran the University well enough when he was Chancellor before,’ Bartholomew said, not surprised that de Wetherset had his own ideas about what the office entailed.

‘Yes, but times have changed since then, and I do not want him undoing all the good I have done. For example, he disapproves of me compromising when dealing with the town – he thinks we should best them every time, to show them who is in charge. He believes the only way forward is to fight until we are the undisputed rulers.’

‘And have sawdust in our flour, spit in our beer, and candles that smoke?’

‘Quite! Of course, none of it would be a problem if Suttone was still in post. Why did he not talk to me before resigning as Chancellor? I would have convinced him to stay, and then there would be no great rift opening between us and the town.’

‘Depose de Wetherset,’ shrugged Bartholomew. ‘You have dismissed awkward officials in the past, so I am sure you can do it again.’

‘It is tempting, but no,’ said Michael. ‘Not least because it would mean another election, and I am tired of fixing those. De Wetherset is not a bad man or a stupid one. We worked well together in the past, and I am sure we can do it again. He just needs a few weeks to adjust to my way of doing things.’

While the servants toted steaming pots and platters from the kitchens, Bartholomew looked around the place that had been his home for so many years – something he had taken to doing a lot since Matilde had agreed to be his wife. Scholars were not permitted to marry, so he would have to resign his Fellowship when he wed her at the end of term. He loved her, but even so, he was dreading the day when he would walk out of Michaelhouse for the last time.

The College comprised a quadrangle of buildings around a muddy courtyard, with the hall and the Fellows’ room – called the conclave – at one end, and two accommodation blocks jutting from them at right angles. The square was completed by a high wall abutting the lane, along which stood a gate, stables, sheds and storerooms. It had grounds that ran down to the river, and included an orchard, vegetable plots and a private pier.

Michaelhouse had never been wealthy, and bad luck and a series of unfortunate investments had resulted in it teetering on the verge of collapse more times than Bartholomew could remember. However, now Michael was Master, things had changed. New benefactors were eager to support a foundation with him at its helm, and his ‘election’ had attracted not just generous donations, but powerful supporters at Court, which combined to ensure the College a much more stable and prosperous future.

He had also appointed two new Fellows. The first was Bartholomew’s student John Aungel – young, energetic and eager to step into his master’s shoes. The second was Will Theophilis, a canon lawyer who had compiled a popular timetable of scripture readings entitled Calendarium cum tribus cyclis. Theophilis was ambitious, so Michael had also made him his Junior Proctor, which he promised would lead to even loftier posts in the future.

Michael had raised the College’s academic standing as well. He had written several sermons that were very well regarded in theological circles, while Bartholomew had finally published the massive treatise on fevers that he had been compiling for the past decade – a work that would spark considerable controversy if anyone ever read it. No one had attempted it yet, and the only comments he had received so far pertained to how much space it took up on a bookshelf.

But these were eclipsed by a stunning theosophical work produced by John Clippesby, a gentle Dominican who talked to animals and claimed they answered back. Michael had wasted no time in promoting it, and the College now basked in its reflected glory.

Clippesby’s thesis took the form of a conversation between two hens – one a nominalist, the other a realist. Although an eccentric way of presenting an argument, his logic was impeccable and the philosophy groundbreaking without being heretical. The whole University was gripped by the ‘Chicken Debate’, which was considered to be the most significant work to have emerged from Cambridge since the plague.

The two new Fellows filled the seats at the high table once occupied by Master Langelee and Chancellor Suttone. Master Langelee had gone to fight in France, where he was far more comfortable with a sword in his hand than he had ever been with a pen; Suttone had resigned the Chancellorship and disappeared to his native Lincolnshire. Bartholomew missed them both, and had liked the College more when they were there. Or was he just getting old and resistant to change?

‘Do you think Michael will excuse me tomorrow, Matt?’

The voice that broke into his thoughts belonged to Clippesby, who cradled a sleeping duck in his arms. The Dominican was slightly built with dark, spiky hair and a sweet, if somewhat other-worldly, smile.

‘Tomorrow?’ asked Bartholomew blankly.

‘Father William’s lecture,’ explained Clippesby. ‘He will attempt to explain why he thinks realism is better than nominalism, and I do not think I can bear it.’

One of William’s many unattractive traits was his passionate dislike of anyone from a rival Order. He particularly detested Dominicans, and was deeply jealous of Clippesby’s recent academic success. His determination to ridicule the Chicken Debate was why he had refused to let Michael cancel his lecture – he believed he could demolish Clippesby’s ideas, although he was wholly incapable of succeeding, and would likely be intellectually savaged in the process. Bartholomew was not surprised the kindly Clippesby was loath to watch.

‘I am sure Michael will understand if you slip away,’ he said. ‘I hope to miss it, too – with any luck, a patient will summon me.’

Clippesby wagged a cautionary finger. ‘Be careful what you wish for. It might come true.’

‘What might come true?’ asked Theophilis, coming to join them.

The new Junior Proctor had long black hair parted in the middle, and a soft voice that had a distinctly sinister timbre. Bartholomew had disliked him on sight, which was unusual, as he tended to find something to admire in the most deplorable of rogues. He considered Theophilis sly, smug and untrustworthy, although Michael often remarked how glad he was that the canon lawyer had agreed to be his deputy.

‘We were discussing wishes,’ explained Clippesby, laying an affectionate hand on the duck’s back. ‘Ada here expressed a desire for a large dish of grain, but when one appeared, greed