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

by Gregory, Susanna

  ‘I know you did,’ interrupted Tulyet. ‘You must have dropped your bag at some point, because we found two medicine phials with your writing on them, plus one of the implements you use for surgery. And do not tell me you are too busy for such tricks, because Dickon saw you blowing up pots in Meryfeld’s garden. That suggests you have plenty of free hours for mischief.’

  Bartholomew saw Michael begin to snigger. ‘I did drop my bag,’ he admitted. ‘But it happened in Chestre Hostel, not here.’

  He considered the events of the previous night. Kendale’s injury had not been caused by a door, but might well have occurred while a trebuchet was being dismantled. Kendale and his lads must have stolen the war machine from the castle, returned home to await treatment for Kendale’s damaged hand, then gone to reassemble the device when they were sure the Guildhall would be empty. Bartholomew had seen them set off with his own eyes, from outside Michaelhouse.

  ‘Kendale is the culprit?’ asked Michael, amusement fading when Bartholomew explained what he thought had probably happened. ‘Am I to assume this is a challenge to the Colleges, then? That we must brace ourselves for more mischief in retaliation?’

  ‘I do not care about scholars’ spats,’ said Tulyet resentfully. ‘But I do care about my Guildhall. How am I supposed to hold meetings with this monstrosity in here?’

  ‘Kendale pulled it to pieces and rebuilt it within the space of a few hours,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And he has probably never touched a device like this before. Surely your soldiers, who are familiar with its workings, can reverse the process? Or are you telling me that scholars—’

  ‘No,’ declared Tulyet, grimly determined. ‘Your University will not best the town. Not in this matter and not in any other, either.’

  CHAPTER 6

  Michael scowled as they left the Guildhall, annoyed that he should have to deal with student pranks when he was busy with more important matters. But he began to smirk when Bartholomew described the experiment he had conducted with his fellow physicians in Meryfeld’s garden. And he laughed aloud when he heard how they had all been knocked off their feet, an unrestrained guffaw that was infectious and had people who heard it smiling in their turn.

  ‘I wish I had been there,’ he declared, when he had his mirth under control. ‘Not standing by the pot, obviously, but with Dickon, spying over the wall.’

  ‘The tale will be all over the town soon,’ said Bartholomew gloomily. ‘And it will do nothing to convince people that I do not dabble in sorcery.’

  ‘But you were dabbling in sorcery,’ Michael pointed out, beginning to laugh again. ‘Or alchemy at least, which is much the same thing. And you corrupted your colleagues into doing likewise. What is wrong with just buying a decent lamp?’

  ‘Because there is no such thing. At least, not one that projects a steady light for delicate procedures such as …’

  ‘Such as surgery,’ finished Michael, when Bartholomew faltered. ‘Well, if you do not want this story to be blown out of all proportion, I recommend you keep your motives to yourself. And next time you experiment, make sure Dickon is out.’

  When they reached Celia’s house, a maid informed them that her mistress had gone riding, and was not expected back until the afternoon.

  ‘Riding?’ asked Michael in distaste. ‘Is that any kind of activity for a recent widow?’

  The maid refused to meet his eyes. ‘Come back later,’ she said, closing the door.

  ‘Celia’s behaviour is reckless,’ said Michael, turning to leave. ‘She might as well wear a placard around her neck, claiming she is glad her husband is dead. Does it mean she did have a hand in his murder, as we have speculated?’

  ‘Or does it mean she is innocent?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘If she were guilty, surely she would have put on a convincing show of grief, just to make sure people do not suspect her of foul play?’

  ‘The Lord only knows,’ sighed Michael, as they retraced their steps down Bridge Street. ‘I thought I would enjoy working on this case – an opportunity to tax my wits. But the hostel–College spat means I cannot give it my full attention. Did I tell you I spent half the night on patrol?’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Ensuring York Hostel did not incinerate a College in revenge for the blaze that destroyed their stable yesterday. The fire was almost certainly an accident, but York brays it was an act of arson. It is all very annoying.’

  ‘There is Gyseburne,’ said Bartholomew, nodding to where his grim-faced colleague was striding towards them, long, grey hair flying. ‘Why is he glaring at me?’

  ‘Is it true, Bartholomew?’ Gyseburne asked without preamble. ‘You stole a great war machine from the castle and used some form of sorcery to spirit it through the Guildhall’s door?’

  Bartholomew groaned, and it was Michael who answered. ‘A student prank, but there was no magic involved, just simple ingenuity. There was no Matt involved, either.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Gyseburne asked. ‘Because I heard he dropped various identifiable belongings.’

  ‘That was part of the deception,’ interrupted Michael. ‘No doubt Chestre Hostel thinks it highly amusing to have a senior member of a College blamed for their mischief.’

  Gyseburne made an expression that might have been a smile. ‘I suppose it is the sort of thing students might do. I was one once, and masterminded all manner of hilarious tricks.’

  ‘Did you?’ asked Bartholomew, trying to imagine the dour Gyseburne as a young and carefree prankster. The image would not come.

  ‘I do not like Chestre Hostel,’ Gyseburne confided. ‘They summoned me last night, but I refused to oblige. It goes against the grain to ignore pleas for help, especially from men who can pay, but they unnerve me, so I decided to have nothing to do with them.’

  Bartholomew wished he had done the same. But Gyseburne was right: it was a physician’s duty to help those in need, and he had sworn sacred oaths to say he would always do so.

  ‘I heard about the jape in the Dominican Priory too,’ said Gyseburne, ranging off on another matter. ‘But Seneschal Welfry is better now, and came to inspect the Guildhall first thing this morning. He professed himself very impressed by your … by the trick.’

  ‘Oh no!’ moaned Michael. ‘He is going to devise some other prank to answer the challenge.’

  ‘He might, but his motive will be fun, not malice,’ said Gyseburne. ‘Like me, he is a God-fearing, peaceful man who has been on a pilgrimage, although his was only to some shrine where the Devil was trapped in a shoe. Mine was to Canterbury. I walked all the way, and felt I had done a great thing when the towers of the cathedral came into sight. I was unwell at the time, and the journey went a long way to curing me.’

  ‘Yet you do not wear a badge to proclaim what you have done,’ observed Michael.

  Gyseburne’s expression was pained. ‘You have touched on a sore point, Brother, because it has been stolen from me. I am distressed, because it was a pretty thing, and cost me a fortune.’

  ‘Did you see the thief?’ asked Michael eagerly. ‘Or have any idea who he might be?’

  ‘He broke into my house when I was asleep. I have been racking my brains to think of suspects, and while I do not like to cast aspersions …’

  ‘Who?’ demanded Michael, when Gyseburne faltered.

  Gyseburne looked away when he spoke, uncomfortable telling tales. ‘Well, Alice Heslarton remarked on it, and pointed it out to her family. Then those horrible Chestre men asked if it was authentic, and so did Yffi the builder. Horneby and Etone of the Carmelites eyed it covetously, and so, I am sorry to say, did Michaelhouse’s Thelnetham. And then there was Seneschal Welfry …’

  ‘None of them have yellow hair,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And the thief was—’

  ‘Have you ever heard of wigs?’ asked Gyseburne acidly. ‘The presence or absence of yellow hair means nothing, as far as I am concerned.’

  Michael watched him go, his expression perturbed. ‘He has a point about the wig. However, I th
ink we can cross Etone, Horneby, Welfry and Thelnetham off his list.’

  ‘Can we?’ Michael’s startled glance made Bartholomew feel treacherous, but he pressed on anyway. ‘I do not know Thelnetham well, despite us living in the same College for six months.’

  Michael started to object, but then looked thoughtful. ‘I have not gained his measure, either, and he has been behaving very oddly of late. But even so, I do not see him as a relic-thief.’

  ‘Perhaps not,’ said Bartholomew, although he remained unconvinced.

  ‘Do you think Gyseburne is telling the truth about his pilgrimage?’ asked Michael, after a short and rather uncomfortable silence. ‘I mean, do you think he actually went?’

  Bartholomew regarded him in surprise. ‘Of course he went! Why would he lie about that?’

  ‘To make us think him a pious man.’ Michael shot a furtive glance behind him before Bartholomew could counter the accusation. ‘Come this way, Matt. We are going to Michaelhouse to interview Yffi and his cronies.’

  ‘Dick said he was going to do that.’

  ‘I know, but I would sooner ask my own questions. Hurry up! We do not want him to catch us.’

  With grave misgivings about going against the wishes of the Sheriff, Bartholomew followed him home. But when they arrived, it was to find Walter standing in the street, howling a litany of vile curses. It took a moment for Bartholomew to see the reason for his curious behaviour, but when he did, he stared in astonishment. Michaelhouse’s front gates were missing.

  ‘I went to the latrines, and when I came back they were gone,’ wailed Walter, addressing a furious Master. All the Fellows and a large number of students had gathered, and were standing in the yard.

  ‘It is not your fault,’ said Clippesby, resting a calming hand on his shoulder. ‘But if you did not see anything suspicious, then what about your peacock? He would have been here, even if you—’

  ‘We do not have time for this nonsense,’ snapped Thelnetham, pushing the Dominican roughly out of the way. ‘Let me question Walter.’

  ‘Hey!’ objected Bartholomew angrily, seeing Clippesby stagger. ‘There is no need for that.’

  Thelnetham rounded on him with such vigour that he took a step back. ‘Do not tell me what to do, you damned heretic! Your College is under attack, and this is no time to pander to lunatics.’

  William interposed his unsavoury bulk between them. ‘Do not call Matthew a heretic,’ he snarled. ‘I am the only one allowed to do that, and only then because he knows I do not mean it.’

  Bartholomew knew nothing of the sort. ‘Stealing our gates must be one of these practical jokes,’ he said to Langelee. ‘It is not as clever as assembling a trebuchet in the Guildhall, but it still took ingenuity and planning. They are heavy, and it would not have been easy to spirit them away in broad daylight with no one seeing.’

  ‘Did they do it with no one seeing?’ asked Langelee, looking around at his assembled scholars. ‘Did any of you notice anything that might be construed as suspicious?’

  ‘It was Chestre,’ said Valence resentfully. ‘They live nearby, and must have waited until Walter was in the latrines and the rest of us were listening to Master Thelnetham’s lecture on whores.’

  ‘On what?’ blurted Bartholomew, thinking he must have misheard.

  ‘On prostitutes in the Bible,’ elaborated Langelee. ‘It was very interesting and had us transfixed.’

  ‘It did,’ agreed Clippesby ruefully. ‘Even I was fascinated, and I keep my vows of chastity.’

  The less said on that subject the better, given that he tended to be in a minority, even among those Fellows who were in holy orders, and Michael stepped forward hastily.

  ‘I doubt Kendale did this,’ he said, seeing some of the students were keen to march on Chestre and demand answers with their fists. ‘Not so soon after manhandling that trebuchet all around town. We must look elsewhere for the culprits.’

  ‘I will help you find them,’ said William grimly, and there was an immediate clamour of identical offers from everyone else.

  Michael raised an imperious hand. ‘I can manage alone, thank you. And none of you will attempt your own investigations. Do I make myself clear? You may cause Michaelhouse irreparable harm if you go about making wild accusations, and we do not want other parts of our home disappearing.’

  He glared until he had reluctant nods from the students, then turned to the Fellows. William was apt to be bloody-minded in such situations, but this time it was Thelnetham causing trouble.

  ‘I shall do as I feel fit,’ the Gilbertine declared. ‘This is an outrage, and—’

  ‘You will do as the Senior Proctor suggests,’ said Langelee in a voice that held considerable menace. ‘I may not possess the authority to dismiss Fellows, but there are other ways of making nuisances disappear.’

  Bartholomew listened to the exchange nervously, not exactly sure what Langelee was saying but acutely aware that Thelnetham would be wise to do as he was told. Without a word, the Gilbertine stalked away, habit billowing behind him. Langelee watched him go, then turned to Michael.

  ‘Get the gates back, Brother,’ he ordered. ‘We are vulnerable without them.’

  ‘Where are the builders?’ asked Michael. ‘Can they not run us up a temporary pair?’

  ‘Yffi and his boys failed to arrive again this morning,’ supplied William. ‘Blaston is here, making new window shutters, but I doubt he can produce gates on his own. At least, not quickly.’

  ‘Yffi is missing yet another day of work?’ demanded Michael. He gestured up at the sky. ‘But it looks like rain, and we have no roof!’

  Langelee grimaced. ‘If it is not one thing it is another with this place. And what ails Thelnetham? He has always been prickly, but he has never indulged in open rebellion before.’

  ‘He is probably worried about the camp-ball this afternoon,’ said William. ‘His Order’s honour is at stake, and I happen to know he takes that sort of thing very seriously.’

  ‘He should,’ said Langelee. He flexed the bulging muscles in his arm, and grinned rather diabolically. ‘But he need not fear. I shall ensure the Gilbertines emerge victorious.’

  ‘Never mind that,’ said Michael irritably. ‘What are we going to do about the fact that we have no roof, and that great grey clouds are gathering?’

  ‘I saw Yffi earlier, carrying a lot of equipment to the Carmelite Friary,’ said Langelee. ‘I was going to find out what thinks he is doing the moment Thelnetham finished pontificating on harlots.’

  ‘I do not want my students learning about harlots, not even the ones in the Bible,’ said Bartholomew, starting to walk across the yard. ‘They are supposed to be studying medicine.’

  Langelee darted after him, swinging him around by the arm to peer into his face. He was very strong, and Bartholomew staggered.

  ‘You are still too pale for my liking, and I do not want you teaching until after the camp-ball,’ the Master decreed in the kind of voice that said objections would be futile. ‘Stroll about the town with Michael if you will, but do not exhaust yourself with students. Besides, Thelnetham is a priest, so they are not going to hear anything too outrageous.’

  Bartholomew was not so sure about that, given the rapt attention the Gilbertine seemed to have engendered in his audience. But he could see Langelee meant what he said, and so with great reluctance, he followed the monk across the yard to talk to Blaston about the gates.

  The carpenter was in a world of his own as he assembled his shutters, working with deft, confident movements. He jumped when he became aware of Bartholomew and Michael beside him.

  ‘I was concentrating,’ he said sheepishly. ‘The wood Emma bought is warped, so I need to think about which piece goes where, or you will end up with gaps. And we do not want those.’

  ‘I wish it was you working on the roof,’ said Michael fervently. ‘Could you not run up a ladder and nail a few tiles down? Yffi does not seem very interested in doing it.’

  Blaston
laughed. ‘Tiling is a skilled task, Brother, and I will not undertake anything I cannot do well. Of course, I could probably do a better job than Yffi – I have no respect for his workmanship.’

  ‘You are not the only one,’ muttered Michael. ‘Did you see anyone tampering with our gates?’

  ‘Unfortunately not,’ said Blaston ruefully. ‘Or I would have stopped them. But my work absorbs me, as you have just seen, and I notice very little once I start.’

  ‘When we spoke before, you mentioned your unhappiness with the high prices Drax charged for ale. Will you tell me exactly what—’

  Blaston’s eyes opened wide with alarm. ‘You think I killed him because his ale was too expensive! But I was here, in Michaelhouse, when he was murdered.’

  ‘Actually, you were not,’ countered Michael. ‘Drax died when you told us you left to buy nails.’

  ‘The smith will tell you I went to his forge and left him money,’ objected Blaston. ‘Ask him.’

  ‘I have, and he did. I am not accusing you, Blaston. I am merely pointing out a fact – namely that no one can vouch for you at the time of Drax’s death.’

  ‘Then what about Yffi?’ demanded Blaston angrily. ‘His alibi is those vile lads, who would think nothing of lying to protect him – or rather, to protect their jobs. Moreover, he disliked Drax’s high prices, too, and was always complaining about them. Ask him these questions, not me!’

  Bartholomew was dismayed to see tears glitter as Blaston turned back to his work. He grabbed Michael’s arm and tugged him away, determined that the carpenter should be distressed no further.

  ‘You hurt his feelings with your “facts”, Brother,’ he said reproachfully, when they were out of earshot. ‘We both know he is innocent, so why torment him?’

  Michael glared. ‘Because it would be remiss not to explore all the lines of enquiry available to us. Blaston probably is innocent, but you think so because he is a friend and you like him, whereas I would rather eliminate him with solid evidence. Dick Tulyet will not be sentimental about what he learns, and neither should we.’