The Killer Of Pilgrims: The Sixteenth Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew)

by Gregory, Susanna

  Bartholomew sipped the broth, and was surprised to find it was good, proving that decent victuals could be produced in Michaelhouse on occasion. While he drank, Agatha regaled him with opinions. She covered a wide range of topics, including the stolen pilgrim regalia, the University’s excitement over the Stock Extraordinary Lecture, Emma’s ruthless greed in acquiring property, and Seneschal Welfry’s skill in practical jokes.

  ‘He has become the Colleges’ champion,’ she declared. ‘But unfortunately, he is so determined that no one will be hurt during his pranks that he lets himself be limited. Kendale, on the other hand, does not care about safety. And if a College member is injured, he is delighted.’

  Bartholomew suspected she was right. Her next subject was Celia Drax, and the new widow’s unseemly behaviour since her husband’s death.

  ‘She is out all the time, enjoying herself. Of course, it was all timed perfectly.’

  ‘What was?’ Bartholomew asked, bemused.

  ‘The two deaths – Celia’s husband and Heslarton’s wife. They are free to be together now.’

  ‘They are lovers?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. But then he recalled how Heslarton had looked at Celia during Drax’s funeral, and supposed Agatha might be right.

  ‘Of course they are,’ declared Agatha. ‘And everyone in the town knows it. Except you, it would seem. And Drax and Alice were murdered on successive days, so it is obvious what happened – Heslarton and Celia plotted together to get rid of them.’

  ‘It could be coincidence,’ said Bartholomew. Or could it? What about the pharmacopoeia he had found in Celia’s house, which listed wolfsbane as a herb that could kill? But would they really put poison in wine Heslarton’s beloved daughter might drink? And why would either want Drax’s body left in Michaelhouse?

  ‘Drax had a book,’ Bartholomew began tentatively. ‘One that listed herbs and their uses …’

  Agatha folded her arms, and a look of immense satisfaction settled on her heavy features. ‘Well, there you are, then. Drax could not read, but Celia can.’

  ‘Celia told me it was the other way around: Drax was literate, but she is not.’

  Agatha’s eyes narrowed. ‘Then you had better find out why she lied to you.’

  Although Agatha’s broth had soothed Bartholomew’s headache and settled his stomach, her gossip and theories had left him acutely uneasy. When Michael arrived, he repeated what she had said. The monk listened carefully, rubbing his jowls.

  ‘It is possible that Celia and Heslarton dispatched their spouses. And it would certainly make for a tidy solution. Unfortunately, a pharmacopoeia and an alleged affair do not represent evidence – we need more than that to charge them. Moreover, we know the killer has a penchant for pilgrim badges, but Celia and Heslarton are wealthy – they can buy such items, and have no need to steal.’

  ‘Emma is wealthy,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘But Heslarton may not have disposable income of his own. Meanwhile, Celia is the kind of woman who removes valuables from corpses.’

  ‘True,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘However – and I am reluctant to mention this, because you will be angry – they are not my only suspects for Drax’s murder. I am not ready to exclude Blaston from our enquiries yet. He had the motive and the opportunity.’

  ‘Blaston is not a killer,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘You know he is not, and we will be wasting our time if we pursue him.’

  ‘You are almost certainly right,’ agreed Michael. ‘But the cold application of logic means he must remain a suspect until he can be properly eliminated. Of course, we should not forget what we saw with our own eyes – namely Drax quarrelling with Kendale not long before he died. Kendale had motive and opportunity, too.’

  Bartholomew supposed he did, and Chestre’s lads were certainly belligerent enough to dispatch a landlord who was threatening to raise their rent. ‘I do not feel equal to tackling them today.’

  ‘We could not, even if you did. We do not have sufficient evidence, and they will make trouble if we level accusations without it – trouble we cannot afford.’

  ‘That has never stopped you before.’

  ‘Kendale will whip the hostels into a frenzy of indignation if I do not have a watertight case, and I do not want to see the Colleges in flames.’ Michael grinned suddenly. ‘Incidentally, your students told Langelee that you have been overtaxing yourself in the classroom, and he has ordered me to keep you away from the hall today, lest you find yourself unable to manage the camp-ball later.’

  ‘The sly devils!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, half angry and half amused by their effrontery. ‘They have not enjoyed being grilled these past few days, and see it as a way to earn a respite. It is not me they are protecting, but themselves.’

  Michael laughed. ‘Well, I am grateful to them, because I need your help this morning.’

  They left the College and walked up St Michael’s Lane, then turned left along the High Street, aiming for Celia’s house. They had not gone far before they met Dick Tulyet.

  The man who represented the King’s peace in the county was slightly built with a youthful face that encouraged criminals to underestimate him. None ever did it again, and the people of Cambridge knew they were lucky to have such a dedicated officer to serve them. Tulyet had worked well with Michael in the past, and there were none of the territorial tussles that usually occurred between two ill-defined jurisdictions. That day, however, he was scowling, and did not return the scholars’ friendly greetings.

  ‘I did not provoke Dickon into stabbing me,’ said Bartholomew, immediately defensive.

  ‘I know.’ Tulyet’s expression softened when Dickon was mentioned, and Bartholomew was amazed, yet again, that he should be so astute when dealing with criminals, but so blind towards his hellion son. ‘And he says he is sorry for attacking you.’

  Bartholomew doubted the boy had said any such thing.

  ‘You should not have given him a sword,’ admonished Michael. ‘Matt might have been killed.’

  ‘The hero of Poitiers?’ asked Tulyet dryly. ‘I doubt it! But that is not what is vexing me today. I am peeved with you, Brother. Drax was a townsman. Ergo, as you always say, his murder is mine to investigate. But you have been exploring the case without consulting me.’

  ‘You can work together from now on, then,’ said Bartholomew, thinking his students were going to be in for a shock when he returned. ‘Michael is on his way to speak to Celia.’

  ‘Not so fast,’ said Tulyet, grabbing his sleeve as he turned to leave. ‘I have a bone to pick with you, too. But first, I will hear why the good Brother has been trampling all over my authority.’

  ‘You have never objected to me trampling before,’ said Michael, stung. ‘Besides, it is likely that Drax’s killer is the same villain who has been stealing pilgrim badges, and who poisoned Alice. But we can collaborate now if you like. I am more than happy to share all I have discovered.’

  Tulyet sighed, mollified by Michael’s conciliatory tone. ‘Very well. I am sorry I barked at you. I would hate you to resign, because I doubt another senior proctor would be so reasonable.’

  ‘There is no danger of that,’ said Michael comfortably. ‘I like running the University, and will only give it up when I am made a bishop or an abbot. Of course, it is only a matter of time before the offers roll in, but I shall be selective about what I accept.’

  ‘I see,’ said Tulyet, looking closely at the monk to see whether he was jesting. He frowned, evidently unable to tell, although Bartholomew knew Michael was perfectly serious.

  ‘I know why you want this case,’ the monk went on. ‘You are used to criminals running riot and the University causing trouble. But all the felons have been driven away by Emma, and the University is more interested in squabbling with itself than the town at the moment. You are bored, and yearn for something that will stretch your wits.’

  ‘On the contrary, I have mountains of administration to occupy me,’ said Tulyet indignantly. ‘Running a shire this size is n
ot easy, you know.’ Then he glanced at Michael’s arched eyebrows and shot him a reluctant grin. ‘All right, you have me – I am tired of sitting in an office, and Drax’s death does represent an interesting diversion. We shall do as you suggest, and work together.’

  ‘Then you can buy me an ale in the Brazen George while I brief you,’ said Michael comfortably. ‘It will help lubricate my memory, and ensure I do not leave anything out.’

  ‘Felons want ale when they provide me with information, too,’ said Tulyet, amused. ‘But you had better make it worth my while. Times are hard, even for sheriffs, and ale has become expensive. Life would be a good deal simpler if I accepted some of the bribes that come my way. At least, that is what Dickon tells me.’

  ‘Refuse them,’ advised Bartholomew, thinking Dickon was not a good source for wise counsel. ‘You will find life is a lot more complex once you start breaking the law.’

  Michael ordered a platter of assorted meat as well as ale in the Brazen George, on the grounds that he thought more clearly when his attention was not diverted by his growling stomach.

  ‘Tell me what you have learned,’ ordered Tulyet, once the landlord had served the victuals and had left them in peace. He already looked more cheerful, and his expression was positively eager as he leaned across the table to be sure he missed nothing.

  ‘Drax was stabbed early on Monday morning,’ obliged Michael, as he began to eat.

  ‘But he was not taken to Michaelhouse until mid-afternoon,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We know, because of Physwick’s testimony, and the blood in their dairy, where he died.’

  ‘My first suspects were Yffi and his apprentices,’ Michael went on. ‘But they were on the roof all day, with the exception of the occasional foray downwards for supplies. One may have dashed out to kill Drax. However, I do not believe any of them brought his body to our College.’

  ‘Do you not?’ asked Tulyet doubtfully. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because toting corpses around necessitates some degree of caution – waiting for a point when the lane was empty, watching for possible witnesses, and so on. It would have taken time, and the others would have noticed a more prolonged absence.’

  ‘So they might,’ agreed Tulyet. ‘But why would they betray one of their own to you?’

  ‘I doubt they would,’ said Michael. ‘But they are not clever, and I would have caught them out by now. However, I remain unhappy with their role in the affair – it is odd that they saw nothing suspicious, while their lewd discussion almost certainly provided the diversion the killer needed to enter Michaelhouse – and I plan to interrogate them again today.’

  ‘I will do it,’ said Tulyet keenly. ‘In the castle. It is astonishing how a spell inside my walls can loosen tongues. Leave Yffi and his apprentices to me.’

  ‘Very well, but please do not keep them long. It looks like rain, and my room is currently without a roof.’

  ‘I cannot imagine why your College accepted free repairs from Emma de Colvyll,’ said Tulyet disapprovingly. ‘There is something about her that I distrust intensely. Moreover, I do not like the way she earns her money – by taking advantage of the grief-stricken and the desperate.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Michael soberly. ‘Unfortunately, Langelee does not.’

  ‘What about Blaston as the culprit?’ asked Tulyet, turning his mind back to murder. ‘He is a decent, hard-working man, but he has been very vocal about the high price of ale in Drax’s taverns.’

  ‘He left the College for nails, so has no alibi for the murder,’ replied Michael, before Bartholomew could stop him. ‘He is no killer, but I am keeping an open mind anyway.’

  ‘And I shall do the same,’ said Tulyet. ‘Do you have any other suspects?’

  ‘Fen the pardoner,’ replied Michael immediately. ‘He was seen – by Blaston – poking his head around our College gates not long before Drax’s corpse was so callously left there.’

  ‘Poynton and the two nuns also looked inside Michaelhouse,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘So did Prior Etone. But none of them – including Fen – has a motive for killing Drax.’

  ‘I can make a few enquiries about them,’ offered Tulyet, when Michael glared at Bartholomew. ‘I know the pilgrims stayed at one of Drax’s inns – the Griffin – the night before they arrived at the Carmelite Friary, and Poynton in particular seems easily provoked. Are these your only suspects, or are there more?’

  ‘Chestre Hostel argued with Drax about an increase in rent,’ replied Michael. ‘And there was a quarrel between them on the morning of the murder. Chestre is not far from Michaelhouse – they may have dumped the body there as some bizarre form of attack on the Colleges.’

  ‘They might,’ agreed Tulyet. ‘But I shall leave Chestre to you. Kendale is extremely devious, and I doubt a mere secular will catch him out in lies or contradictions. But be careful. I detect something dangerous about him – he is not a man to cross lightly.’

  Bartholomew regarded Tulyet uneasily, not liking the notion that Kendale had unsettled a hard, practical, courageous man like the Sheriff. Michael did not seem to share his concerns, though, and went on to outline the case against the last of his suspects: Celia and Heslarton. Tulyet looked thoughtful when informed of the rumour that they were enjoying an amour.

  ‘That is an interesting hypothesis, but can you be sure that Alice was the intended victim?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Bartholomew.

  ‘Emma is unpopular in the town, and Heslarton is her henchman. Perhaps the poison struck the wrong victims.’

  Michael nodded slowly. ‘Emma is more than unpopular – she is feared and hated.’

  Tulyet agreed. ‘She is involved in a number of unpleasant disputes, but the worst is the one with the Gilbertine Priory over Edmund House. She bought it for a pittance, when they were in desperate need of ready cash, but she leaves it empty and rotting, despite the fact that they have offered to pay well above the odds to have it back.’

  ‘Do you know why she has taken such a stance?’ asked Michael.

  Tulyet shook his head. ‘I asked her, but she fobbed me off with some tale about Heslarton being fond of the place.’

  ‘Are you suggesting a Gilbertine might be our culprit?’ asked Bartholomew unhappily. Two canons came immediately to mind: the enigmatic Thelnetham, who had been behaving oddly of late, and Brother Jude, who was enough of a ruffian to enjoy camp-ball.

  ‘I am suggesting nothing, just telling you what I know of Emma’s dealings.’ Tulyet turned to Michael. ‘Now what about these pilgrim badges? I understand you believe the thief and the killer is one and the same?’

  ‘The first crime was against Poynton in the Carmelite Friary,’ obliged Michael. ‘But since then, the villain has also targeted the Mayor, Meryfeld, a wealthy burgess named Frevill, two Franciscans and Drax.’

  ‘I heard he picked on Celia, too,’ said Tulyet. ‘And if that is the case, she cannot be the killer – not if the culprit is also our thief.’

  ‘We only have her word that it happened,’ said Michael. ‘And in my experience, criminals lie.’

  ‘You can add Welfry to your list of victims, too,’ said Tulyet. ‘He has not made a formal complaint, but Prior Morden mentioned it. Apparently, it was a badge of which he was very fond.’

  ‘John Schorne’s boot?’ asked Bartholomew. Its loss would be a blow to Welfry, and the pity was that the thief would probably throw it away once he realised it was from an unofficial shrine and thus was essentially worthless.

  ‘What have you learned, Dick?’ asked Michael. ‘So far, we have provided more information than we have been given.’

  ‘That is because you have been more successful than me,’ replied Tulyet gloomily. ‘I questioned Emma’s entire household about the theft of her box and the poisoning, but learned nothing. They are terrified of her, so prising information from them was like drawing teeth.’

  ‘How is Emma’s tooth?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I do not suppose you noticed?’

  Tuly
et regarded him askance. ‘I cannot say I did, no.’

  ‘You mentioned a bone to pick with Matt?’ said Michael. ‘What was it?’

  Tulyet’s scowl returned, and Bartholomew wished Michael had not reminded him of it. ‘I shall have to show you. Come with me.’

  Exchanging bemused glances, Bartholomew and Michael followed the Sheriff along the High Street to the Guildhall. Scholars were normally barred from it, because it was where town matters were discussed, and the University was not welcome. Bartholomew had only ever been inside it once, when he was a boy and his brother-in-law had taken him. It was a fine place, unashamedly brazen about the fact that a lot of money had been spent on it. That day, its front entrance was ringed with spectators, and Tulyet was forced to shoulder his way through them to reach it.

  But when he opened the door and ushered Bartholomew and Michael inside, it was not the extravagance of the interior furnishings that caught their eye – it was the massive war machine that sat in it. The device was a trebuchet, which was used for hurling missiles at the walls of enemy fortresses, and it usually stood in the castle grounds. Its mighty throwing arm grazed the ceiling of the lofty chamber, while its wheels only just fitted between the tiers of benches that were permanently afixed to the walls. Bartholomew glanced at the average-sized door through which they had just walked, then back to the contraption.

  ‘How in God’s name did you get that in here?’

  ‘You tell me,’ said Tulyet coolly.

  Bartholomew frowned. ‘I suppose you must have dismantled it, then reassembled the pieces once they were all inside. But why would you do such a thing?’

  ‘I assure you, I did not,’ said Tulyet stiffly. ‘And do not play the innocent with me, Matt. This prank is not amusing.’

  Bartholomew disagreed, and was all admiration for whoever had devised it. Then he turned to the Sheriff and saw he was being regarded in a way that was not at all friendly. He felt his jaw drop. ‘Surely, you cannot think I —’