Bartholomew had no desire to visit Emma. He was chilled through from an afternoon of kneeling in frost-encrusted grass to tend wounds, and he was still fragile from Chestre’s hospitality the night before. He felt like going home, to sit by the conclave fire and enjoy the comforting, familiar conversation of his colleagues.
‘You had better go – your conscience will plague you all night if you do not,’ said Michael. ‘And while you are there, see if you can learn two things. First, the status of Heslarton’s enquiry into the yellow-headed thief. And second, whether it was Heslarton’s knife that killed Poynton.’
‘How am I supposed to do that?’ objected Bartholomew, not very happy about probing such delicate matters when the sinister Emma was likely to be present.
‘I am sure you will find a way,’ said Michael.
They parted company on the High Street. Bartholomew knocked on Emma’s door, which was opened by the chubby-faced maid. She conducted him to the solar where her mistress spent most of her time. Emma was sitting by the hearth, black eyes glittering in the firelight. Celia Drax, elegant and laconic, was sewing in the window, while Heslarton sat opposite her, honing his sword. Their knees were touching, and Bartholomew recalled Agatha’s contention that they were lovers. There was no sign of Meryfeld.
‘Did you enjoy the camp-ball, Doctor?’ asked Heslarton, looking up from his whetting to grin. He seemed to have fewer teeth than when Bartholomew had last seen him. ‘Everyone says my two goals were the best of the day.’
‘I am sure they were,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Where is Meryfeld?’
‘It was entertaining to see that pilgrim die,’ declared Emma, ignoring his question. ‘There is nothing like a death to liven up a game.’
Bartholomew had heard her make insensitive remarks before, but never one that was quite so brazenly callous. ‘Did you see what happened to him?’ he asked, struggling to mask his distaste.
Emma nodded smugly. ‘He caught the ball and went down under a wall of men. How did he die, Doctor? Was it crushing or a broken neck? Thomas and I have a small wager on it, you see, and I would like the matter resolved tonight, so I can gloat over him when he is proven wrong.’
‘I forgot he was on my side, and ran to grab the ball,’ said Heslarton, either uncaring of or oblivious to Bartholomew’s grimace of distaste at Emma’s confession. ‘By the time I realised my mistake, Langelee, Yffi and Neyll were looming, and then everything happened very fast. There was a huge scrum, and it took ages to unravel it. Unfortunately, Poynton was at the bottom. Some players are heavy, so my money is on crushing.’
‘No – necks are easily broken,’ countered Emma. Bartholomew did not like to imagine how she knew. She flicked imperious fingers at him. ‘Well? Who is right?’
‘It is not something I am free to discuss,’ he replied coolly. ‘You are neither his friends nor his next of kin.’
‘Give him some wine,’ suggested Celia. ‘It may loosen his tongue.’
‘No, thank you,’ said Bartholomew, recalling what had happened to Alice and Odelina.
‘It is quite safe,’ said Emma, seeming to read his mind. ‘The servants threw away all the old stock, and everything is tasted before it comes to us now.’
‘Tasted by whom?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily.
Emma smiled slyly. ‘Rats. Thomas keeps a ready supply of them in the cellar. And that yellow-headed thief will join them there when he is caught.’
Bartholomew stared at her, taking in the beady eyes and thin lips, devoid of humour and kindness, and was hard pressed to suppress a shudder. She appeared especially malevolent that evening, because her head was swathed in a curious back turban and it, combined with her round body and short, thin limbs, served to make her look more like a predatory insect than ever.
‘You are still hunting him, then?’ he forced himself to ask, although instinct urged him to race away as fast as his legs would carry him, and have nothing to do with her or her household.
‘Of course,’ said Heslarton. ‘He murdered my wife, hurt my daughter, and made off with my mother-in-law’s most treasured possessions. And he jostled Celia and stole her badge.’
‘You think the thief is the poisoner,’ said Bartholomew, aiming to make him think twice before doing anything rash. ‘You do not know it, not for certain.’
‘Of course it was him,’ countered Celia. ‘He was the only stranger to enter this house that day. Other than you, of course – the physician who dabbles in sorcery.’
‘I have no objection to sorcery,’ said Emma, before Bartholomew could defend himself. ‘I employ it myself on occasion, and find it very useful. But Doctor Bartholomew did not contaminate the wine, Celia. I was with him the whole time he was here, and I would have noticed.’
‘I suppose you would,’ said Celia, rather ambiguously.
‘Where is Meryfeld?’ Bartholomew asked again, this time more firmly. He had better things to do than stand around and be insulted by Celia. ‘The messenger said he needed a second opinion.’
‘He does,’ said Emma. ‘He just does not know it yet. He calculated my horoscope, you see, but I am not very happy with it. I want you to make me another.’
Bartholomew regarded her with dislike, supposing the servant had been told to lie about Meryfeld’s complicity. He was annoyed by the deception, and determined not to oblige her.
‘You do not want a horoscope from me,’ he said frostily. ‘I make mistakes.’
‘You will not make mistakes in mine,’ said Emma, in the kind of voice that implied there would be trouble if he did. ‘No, do not edge towards the door, man! I want another one done, because Meryfeld’s said I had to go on a pilgrimage in order to get well. And I am not going anywhere.’
‘I cannot interfere,’ said Bartholomew curtly. ‘You are Meryfeld’s patient now, and I do not poach my colleagues’ clients.’
‘Why not? They poach from you,’ interjected Celia slyly. ‘They have stolen nearly all your rich customers, leaving you with just the poor ones. Here is your chance to pay them back.’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘And a pilgrimage will not cure you, Mistress Emma. Your tooth will continue to ache until it is pulled out.’
Emma shook her head in disbelief. ‘You earned my regard by saving Odelina – and I do not bestow my good opinion on many people. So why do you not strive to keep it? Most people would love to be in your position.’
Bartholomew was not sure how to reply, but rescue came in the form of Heslarton, who had tired of the discussion and suddenly stood up. Bartholomew tensed, anticipating violence, but the burly henchman merely indicated the stairs with a flick of his bald head.
‘Odelina took a chill this afternoon, and is asking for you. If you will not help my mother or settle our wager, then perhaps you will see to her instead. I will take you to her.’
‘Meryfeld will—’ began Bartholomew.
‘She does not want Meryfeld,’ said Heslarton. ‘She dislikes the way he keeps rubbing his filthy hands together, and I confess I see her point. The man gives me the shivers!’
Bartholomew did not want to visit Odelina, but decided a consultation was likely to be quicker than the argument that was going to arise from a refusal. It would not take him a moment to deal with a chill, after all. He followed Heslarton up the stairs to a fine chamber on the upper floor, where Odelina was reclining on a bed, clad in a tight, cream-coloured gown that put him in mind of a grub.
‘There you are, Doctor,’ she cooed, when her father had gone. ‘I thought you were not coming. Have you brought me a gift?’
‘A gift?’ asked Bartholomew, bemused.
‘That is the custom, is it not, when visiting the sick? To take a little something to make them feel better? A piece of jewellery, perhaps. Or some dried fruit.’
‘It is not the custom for physicians,’ remarked Bartholomew. ‘It would hardly be practical!’
Odelina’s smile faded. ‘But surely, I am different from your other patients?’
> While he struggled for a tactful response, Bartholomew’s eye fell on a book. It was one his sister had made him read to her many years before, and concerned a heroine with a tragic disease who was miraculously cured by a gift from a suitor. He glanced at Odelina’s clothes and posture, and was suddenly certain that she saw herself as the protagonist. With a sigh of irritation – she was surely too old for such games? – he resolved not to go along with the charade.
‘I am not well,’ she said feebly. Then her voice strengthened. ‘But I might feel better if you were to give me a talisman. You saved my life, thus forging a unique bond between us.’
‘It is not unique,’ stated Bartholomew firmly. ‘All my patients are—’
‘I was almost at Heaven’s gates when you snatched me back,’ countered Odelina. ‘And that makes me special to you. I cannot imagine you rescue many patients from impending death?’
‘Well, no,’ admitted Bartholomew, cornered. ‘Not many. But—’
‘Well, then.’ Odelina beamed, and she held out a plump hand. ‘Give me something of yours. Anything will do. A thread from your tabard, a scrap of your cloak.’
‘How about a remedy to make you sleep? I can tell your maid how to make it.’
Her face fell. ‘You are cruel! You know I do not want one of those!’
‘I know nothing of the kind,’ snapped Bartholomew. ‘And I cannot start yanking my clothes apart for threads and scraps, anyway. They are old, and likely to fall off.’
The expression on her face made him wonder whether she found this notion as disagreeable as he thought she should have done.
‘Sing to me, then,’ she ordered. ‘I have heard that music helps the sick become well again, so it will be like dispensing medicine.’
‘I rarely sing.’ Bartholomew had had enough of her. ‘And loud noises are dangerous after catching chills at camp-ball games. So are long visits from physicians. Sleep now. Goodnight.’
Bartholomew returned to Michaelhouse as fast as he could, hurrying through the wet streets and grateful to be away from Emma’s stronghold. He stepped through the great gap where the gates had hung, nodding to the student-guards, and walked across the yard to his room. He found Valence there, working on yet another exercise that should have been completed the previous day.
‘There has been quite a commotion here tonight, sir,’ the student said, seeing where his teacher was looking and hastening to distract him. ‘Rain seeped through the sheet in Brother Michael’s room, and it is no longer habitable. And look at our walls!’
Bartholomew was dismayed to see rivulets coursing down them. His students were going to be in for a damp and miserable night. The medicines room, where he slept himself, was equally dismal, with water pooling on the floor and oozing through the ceiling.
‘Brother Michael and his theologians have been moved to the servants’ quarters,’ Valence went on. ‘And the servants are relegated to the kitchen. Fortunately, none of them objected.’
Bartholomew was sure they had not, because the kitchen was by far the warmest room in the College, and he would not have minded sleeping there himself.
‘I will organise a watch,’ said Valence. He saw his master’s blank look. ‘To protect your supplies. Neither this chamber nor the storeroom have window shutters any more, and our front gates have gone. In other words, anyone can slip into the College and help himself. The guards are doing their best, but …’
‘There is not much to steal, Valence. I cannot recall a time when I have been so low on remedies.’
‘All the more reason to defend what is left, then,’ said Valence practically.
Bartholomew thanked him and went to the hall, where he learned that supper had been served, eaten and cleared away. Fortunately, Suttone had provided cakes and wine in the conclave for the Fellows, to celebrate his Order’s victory over the Gilbertines. Bartholomew glanced uneasily at Thelnetham, not sure he would take kindly to what was effectively gloating, but the canon was sitting impassively by the fire, and it was impossible to gauge what he was thinking.
Not surprisingly, Langelee was holding forth about the game, delighting in the opportunity to analyse every move and skirmish. Clippesby was listening, although Ayera’s eyes were glazed. William and Suttone were discussing a theological text together, and Michael was out.
‘Essex Hostel had a lot of dead rats delivered to it this evening,’ Ayera explained, when Bartholomew asked where the monk had gone. ‘So he is trying to prevent Essex from marching on Trinity Hall and tossing the lot back through their windows.’
Bartholomew sat at the table, and helped himself to a Lombard slice. It was sweet, rich and cloying. He poured some wine to help it down, but when he raised the cup to his lips he found he could not bring himself to swallow anything else, so he set it back on the table untouched. Langelee abandoned his monologue, and came to sit next to him, lowering his voice so the others would not hear.
‘Michael told me – in confidence – that Poynton was stabbed, and wanted my opinion as to how it might have happened. I have been pondering the matter. Obviously, some players must have kept their weapons after you ordered us to disarm.’
‘I know they did,’ said Bartholomew dryly. ‘And you were one of them.’
Langelee grinned sheepishly. ‘Well, I did not want to be at a disadvantage. I knew damn well that Heslarton had a dagger, while Neyll and Gib are louts, who would never play camp-ball without a blade. Then Brother Jude is fond of knives, and so is Yffi.’
The list continued for some time, and Bartholomew saw his efforts to make the game safer had been a sham. He might have eliminated the more obvious weapons, but every competitor had still been armed to the teeth.
‘So what have you concluded from all this?’ he asked. ‘Who killed Poynton?’
‘It must have been one of the three men who reached him first,’ replied Langelee. ‘Because he was directly beneath them and they acted as a shield, separating him from the second wave of players. Ergo, your suspects are Heslarton, Yffi and Neyll.’
‘Neyll claims you are the culprit,’ said Bartholomew, feeling Langelee’s analysis told him nothing he had not already found out for himself. ‘Probably because you belong to a College.’
Langelee waved a dismissive hand. ‘He is always trying to cause trouble between us and the hostels, but the dispute is ridiculous, and I refuse to let Michaelhouse become embroiled.’
‘Good,’ said Bartholomew. ‘So which of these three do you think is the killer?’
‘Heslarton,’ replied Langelee, without hesitation. ‘It is not always easy to remember who is on one’s own team, but Poynton was distinctive. I would not have forgotten a fellow like him, and I cannot imagine Heslarton would have done, either.’
Bartholomew was thoughtful. Langelee knew a great deal about camp-ball, so his opinion was worth considering. But why should Heslarton kill an ailing pilgrim? Was it for his remaining signacula? Or, rather more sinisterly, had Heslarton uncovered evidence to suggest Poynton was somehow involved with the yellow-headed thief?
‘Speaking of Heslarton, I visited his home earlier,’ said Langelee, when Bartholomew made no reply. ‘I went to beg Emma’s help – to see whether she would order Yffi back to work on our roof. Odelina was there, and she made some remarks.’ He winked and touched the side of his nose.
‘What kind of remarks?’ Bartholomew had no idea what the gesture was supposed to convey.
‘Ones that say she has developed a hankering for you,’ replied Langelee, a little impatiently. ‘So I am afraid you will have to bed her.’
Bartholomew blinked. ‘I am sorry?’
‘Yes, I imagine you will be, because she is an unattractive lass. But it cannot be helped.’
Bartholomew gaped at him. ‘You want me to lie with our benefactress’s granddaughter?’
Langelee nodded, as if such a discussion between Master and Fellow were the most natural thing in the world. ‘It will almost certainly result in more gifts, because Emma do
tes on her. In other words, if Odelina asks Emma to build us a new accommodation wing, I am sure she will oblige. I know it will be unpleasant for you, but you can always keep your eyes closed.’
‘Christ!’ muttered Bartholomew, feeling rather weak at the knees.
Langelee slapped a manly arm around his shoulders. ‘Come to my chambers later and I shall give you advice on how to go about it.’
‘I do not need advice. I know how to manage these matters myself. But—’
Langelee’s next slap was hard enough to hurt, and he guffawed conspiratorially. ‘Good! Then do your duty, and we shall say no more about it.’
‘I am not doing it,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘Not with Odelina. She is a patient, for God’s sake.’
‘Even better. No one will raise any eyebrows when you visit her. Do not be a fool, Bartholomew. We need the generosity of people like Emma de Colvyll, and the occasional frolic with Odelina might make all the difference. Would you really condemn us, your friends, to live in poverty, just because you cannot bring yourself to pleasure a young woman?’
‘Emma is far too shrewd a businesswoman to be influenced by Odelina. Besides, you may have misread the situation. She might object to her granddaughter’s seduction, and withdraw her support altogether – perhaps demanding a refund from us into the bargain.’
Langelee was thoughtful. ‘True. Perhaps I had better make a few discreet enquiries before you undertake this mission. You are right: it would not do to get it wrong.’
When Langelee wandered away to resume his commentary on the game to Clippesby and Ayera, Bartholomew worked on his lectures for the following day. One by one, the other Fellows retired to their beds, until he was the only one remaining. He laboured on a little while longer, but the lantern’s dim light and oily fumes were giving him a headache. With a sigh, he closed his books and left the conclave, to walk slowly across the yard. He jumped violently when a shadow stepped out of a doorway to accost him.
‘Easy!’ said Thelnetham, starting in his turn. ‘It is only me.’
‘What are you doing?’ demanded Bartholomew, more curtly than he had intended. He glanced at the missing gates and wished the pranksters had thought of another way to express their cleverness, because he did not feel safe as long as they were gone.
The Killer Of Pilgrims: The Sixteenth Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 22
