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

by Gregory, Susanna

  ‘But the Carmelites will be livid,’ cried Michael. ‘The lecture is an important event for them, and they will not want a large chunk of their audience enticed away by sport.’

  ‘The kind of lad who likes camp-ball is unlikely to be interested in theology,’ began Tynkell, but Michael overrode him, blasting on as though he had not spoken.

  ‘Worse, they may assume the Gilbertines are responsible, because they lost the last game, and we shall have a feud between the two Orders into the bargain.’

  ‘There will be no trouble if the event is properly policed,’ argued Tynkell, although with scant conviction. ‘We shall provide plenty of beadles and all the players will be searched, to ensure they have no weapons.’

  ‘You will have to search the spectators, too,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I imagine there will be as much fighting off the field as on it, especially if Kendale aggravates the situation with rumours about martyrs – or worse, with another dangerous joke, like the crated bull.’

  There was a polite knock on the door, and Horneby entered, wearing an enormous woollen scarf to protect his throat.

  ‘I am sorry, Horneby,’ said Michael, before he could speak. ‘I would not have interfered with your sermon for the world, and—’

  ‘It is all right,’ said Horneby, holding up his hand to stop him. ‘Prior Etone is outraged, but I do not want trouble. So I have come to suggest a solution.’

  ‘You have?’ asked Michael hopefully. ‘Then let us hear it.’

  ‘If my sore throat returns, I cannot give my address – it will be postponed regardless of whether or not there is a camp-ball game. No one can take offence at that.’

  ‘But you are better,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The swelling is gone.’

  Horneby smiled. ‘Then you are going to have to tell a small lie, Bartholomew. You must inform anyone who asks that I need another day to recover. I shall keep my end of the bargain by staying in my room. I do not mind – it will give me more time to prepare.’

  ‘That would work,’ said Michael, nodding. ‘The vicious scrimmage between hostels and the Colleges will still continue, but at least we will not have to worry about warlike Carmelite novices starting a fight because they feel they have been slighted. It is a good idea, and very gracious of you, Horneby.’

  ‘Actually, it was Welfry’s idea,’ the friar admitted, ‘He abhors bloodshed.’

  ‘Perhaps he will not make such a bad Seneschal, after all,’ said Michael approvingly.

  CHAPTER 8

  ‘My efforts to prevent the hostels going to war with the Colleges are interfering with my hunt for the killer-thief,’ said Michael the following day, as he and Bartholomew walked home from the church after dawn prayers. It was Sunday, which meant the ceremonies had lasted longer than usual.

  Bartholomew yawned. It had been another dismal night, with the wind whipping through the missing window and water continuing to ooze through the missing roof despite Langelee’s declarations that there would be trouble if they were not mended. As a result, he had slept badly again, and his wits were still sluggish.

  ‘That is unfortunate,’ he said, ‘because Drax’s murder should not be too difficult to solve, when you think about it. A corpse was brought to our College in broad daylight, so someone must have noticed it being toted around. It is almost certainly just a case of locating a witness.’

  ‘You are right,’ said Michael, after a moment of serious reflection. ‘We will talk to Blaston.’

  ‘No,’ said Bartholomew immediately. ‘Not Blaston. Leave him alone.’

  ‘I shall not accuse him of anything, but he was closer to where Drax was left than anyone else. There may be a detail he forgot to mention that will allow us to solve this case. Will he be at home, do you think?’

  ‘No,’ repeated Bartholomew, sure the monk would not confine himself to innocuous questions, and Blaston was a friend. ‘Please, Brother. You hurt his feelings the last time we spoke.’

  ‘I said nothing that was not true, and it is our duty to explore the matter fully – to clear his name of any suspicion, if nothing else.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Bartholomew reluctantly. ‘But take care not to offend him, or you may find yourself with leaking windows in revenge. And it would serve you right.’

  ‘Do not jest about leaks,’ said Michael, following him towards the High Street, where Blaston owned a house that was far too small for his enormous family. ‘You can stay with your sister, should life at Michaelhouse become unbearable, but I have nowhere else to go.’

  ‘You have plenty of refuges,’ said Bartholomew, wondering why he had not thought of Edith the previous night. ‘Your Benedictine brethren at Ely House are always pleased to see you, and you have friends in other Colleges.’

  ‘And let people know Michaelhouse is below par?’ sniffed Michael. ‘That would be disloyal.’

  ‘There is Edith,’ said Bartholomew, when he saw his sister walking towards them with her husband. ‘She was at the camp-ball game yesterday, but I was too busy to talk to her.’

  ‘I was not – she is an observant lady, and I hoped she might be able to tell me who killed Poynton. Unfortunately, she could not. She is carrying a parcel. I wonder if there is any food in it.’ The monk surged forward. ‘Edith! What a pleasant surprise! Is that a pie in your—’

  ‘It is for Matt,’ said Edith, jerking the package away from his questing fingers.

  ‘We are worried about him,’ explained Stanmore. ‘He is always thin and pale these days – a combination of too much teaching, too many patients, and the slop your College claims is food.’

  ‘There is nothing wrong with me,’ said Bartholomew tiredly, wishing they would not fuss so.

  ‘You will take this pie, and eat it all yourself,’ instructed Edith, pressing it into his hand. ‘No sharing with greedy Benedictines. Do you promise? And there is something else, too. You know Oswald and I went on a pilgrimage to Walsingham last year?’

  ‘To see what the Blessed Virgin could do about the fact that your son seduced the Earl of Suffolk’s daughter,’ said Bartholomew, wondering what was coming next.

  Edith’s expression hardened. ‘She was the one who did the seducing, but that is beside the point. Which is that my badge has been stolen. I only left my cloak – the nice dark red one – unattended for an instant, but when I turned around, it had gone. And the token was gone with it.’

  ‘We believe the culprit is a scholar,’ Stanmore went on. ‘That is why we were coming to see you. At first, in the interests of town–University relations, we decided to overlook the matter, but then we heard that others have fallen victim to his light fingers, so we thought we had better mention it.’

  Michael blanched. ‘I sincerely hope you are wrong! What led you to this conclusion?’

  ‘Because the theft took place in the Gilbertines’ chapel,’ explained Edith. ‘The only townsfolk present, other than us, were Emma, Gyseburne and Meryfeld. None of them are likely to steal a cloak, so the thief had to have been a member of the University – a student or a cleric.’

  ‘We said nothing to Prior Leccheworth, of course,’ added Stanmore. ‘We did not want to offend him by denouncing one of his guests as a scoundrel. But it was distressing to fall victim to a crime that took place on holy ground – a betrayal of trust.’

  ‘Can you remember who else was there?’ asked Michael unhappily.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Edith. ‘All the Gilbertines and all the Carmelites, the scholars from Chestre … although I cannot imagine why they were invited, because they are a surly crowd.’

  ‘They were included because the Gilbertines have taken the hostels’ side in the University’s latest quarrel,’ explained Stanmore. ‘And Chestre is very vocal against the Colleges.’

  ‘Those four pilgrims were present, too,’ Edith went on. She frowned. ‘Of course, they are not members of the University, so perhaps we are wrong to accuse a scholar of the crime …’

  ‘You mean Fen?’ pounced Michael eagerly. ‘The
pardoner?’

  Edith nodded. ‘And finally, Thelnetham had invited Ayera. And that was all – there was no one else. But the most important fact is yet to come. Tell them, Oswald.’

  ‘We saw a man with yellow hair,’ announced Stanmore. ‘We thought nothing of it at the time, but then we heard the description of the villain who robbed Emma, the Mayor, Welfry, Celia Drax, Poynton and God knows who else.’

  ‘It was definitely a wig,’ added Edith. ‘And we suspect one of the guests shoved it on his head to disguise himself while he stole my badge. He may have pilfered other things, too, then reverted to his normal appearance to shake hands and smile at his hosts as he left with his ill-gotten gains.’

  Michael groaned. ‘A scholar stealing signacula and murdering townsfolk! We shall have a riot for certain, and the University is already in turmoil with the hostels at the Colleges’ throats.’

  ‘We shall say nothing, Brother,’ said Stanmore quietly. ‘You see, we have just been to visit Emma, and we do not want to be responsible for her making war on scholars for stealing her box.’

  ‘We did not want to go,’ added Edith. ‘But she summoned us, and we did not dare refuse.’

  ‘Really?’ asked Michael, still dazed from what he had been told. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because she is powerful,’ explained Stanmore. ‘I am happy to ignore the orders of others I find objectionable, but there is something about her that makes me want to stay on her good side.’

  ‘Actually, I meant why did she summon you,’ said Michael. ‘You do not need to justify your reluctance to annoy her, because I feel the same way.’

  ‘She wanted to talk to us about Matt,’ said Edith. ‘Because he saved her granddaughter from poison, and she was eager for his family to know his efforts were appreciated.’

  ‘I did very little,’ said Bartholomew, startled. ‘Gyseburne and Meryfeld were there, and—’

  ‘And stood by while you did all the work,’ interrupted Stanmore. ‘We had the tale from her own lips. But this is bad news! It is risky to offend her, but it is equally risky to earn her affection. She intends to dismiss Meryfeld and rehire you, because she thinks you are more likely to cure her.’

  ‘The only way that will happen is if a tooth is removed,’ said Bartholomew.

  ‘Do not extract her fangs!’ cried Stanmore in horror. ‘First, tooth-pulling is the domain of surgeons, and you should not perform such lowly tasks. And second, if anything goes wrong, I doubt she will be very forgiving.’

  ‘But it must come out,’ said Bartholomew, tired of explaining the obvious. ‘It is rotting, which means it will release bad vapours into her blood. I have seen such cases turn fatal.’

  Stanmore glanced behind him, to ensure he could not be overheard, then lowered his voice. ‘Would that be such a terrible thing? The woman is evil – I feel it with every bone in my body. Perhaps you should let nature take its course.’

  The Blaston home was a chaos of noise when Bartholomew and Michael arrived. At least four children were crying, several were enjoying a game that involved slamming pots against a table, and the rest were engaged in a furious argument about whose turn it was to go for water. It was colder inside the house than out, and there was no evidence that a fire would be lit for dinner. One child was sobbing more from distress than demands for attention, so Bartholomew picked it up.

  ‘There is something wrong with him,’ said Yolande, watching. Her usually hard face was tender. ‘He will not stop grizzling.’

  ‘He is hungry,’ said Bartholomew, noting the bloated belly and overly large eyes.

  ‘Poor mite,’ murmured Michael, not liking the sound of that.

  ‘But he vomits up the stew I feed him,’ said Yolande in frustration. ‘He will not keep it down.’

  ‘Because he needs milk sops,’ explained Bartholomew. ‘Valence will bring him some later.’

  ‘We do not accept charity,’ said Blaston stiffly.

  ‘It is not charity,’ countered Bartholomew shortly. ‘It is medicine.’

  Blaston sat at the table and put his head in his hands. Yolande went to stand next to him, resting her hand on his shoulder. Suddenly, the older children stopped arguing, the middle ones ended their assault on the table, and the babies ceased bawling. The silence was eerie.

  ‘I do not know how we will survive,’ said the carpenter brokenly. ‘Summer is a long way off still, and work is scarce.’

  ‘Not for me,’ said Yolande comfortingly. ‘I can get plenty of new clients. Do not fret, Rob. Doctor Rougham is giving me an extra shilling tonight, and Alfred earned three pence by running errands for Master Walkot at King’s Hall yesterday.’

  ‘And I will pay you for information,’ added Michael. ‘I need you to think really carefully about what happened when Drax died. You said you were in the stable, but did not see anything.’

  ‘Not again, Brother!’ whispered Blaston, fixing him with haunted eyes. ‘How many more times must I tell you that it had nothing to do with me?’

  ‘We know,’ said Bartholomew soothingly. A rather dangerous expression was creeping across Yolande’s face; she would not stand by quietly while her husband was harassed. ‘But you are our best hope for a clue as to the killer’s identity. You were closer to where Drax was dumped than anyone else.’

  Blaston scrubbed at his cheeks. ‘The business has plagued my thoughts ever since, and I have replayed it again and again in my mind.’

  ‘And?’ prompted Michael, when the carpenter hesitated.

  ‘And I may be wrong, but I think I heard Drax being dragged into the College.’

  Michael laid several coins on the table, although the information was hardly worth them. ‘I knew you would remember something.’

  ‘There is more. I am fairly sure I heard footsteps, too. Two sets. In other words, two men came, carrying Drax between them. They could have left him out in plain sight, but instead they hid him behind the tiles and made sure he was under that sheet. I think they did it to confuse you.’

  ‘Explain,’ ordered Michael.

  Blaston raised his hands in a shrug. ‘To make you appreciate that someone cunning is behind the affair. Not some spur-of-the moment killer, who struck out blindly, but someone with an agenda.’

  Michael nodded wearily. ‘You are almost certainly right.’

  ‘I thought at first that Yffi did it, because they were his tiles. I assumed he had intended to keep the corpse hidden until he could find somewhere more permanent for it – a plan thwarted by Agatha and the dog. But then I heard Drax was killed in Physwick’s dairy, and my theory made no sense – the dairy is a much better place for storing bodies. So I reconsidered. The villain must be from the hostels, and he left a corpse in Michaelhouse because it was the nearest available College.’

  ‘Speaking of Yffi, why is no work being done on our roof today?’ asked Michael. He had already reasoned as much himself, and did not need to hear Blaston’s speculations on the matter. ‘I know it is Sunday, but we were awash again last night, and this is an emergency.’

  ‘I wish I could finish the work for you,’ said Blaston tiredly. ‘But I am a carpenter, not a mason.’

  ‘I shall have another word with Emma,’ said Michael. ‘She will encourage him back to work.’

  ‘I doubt it. It is she who is paying for St Simon Stock’s new shrine, and I imagine she thinks completing that will earn her more favour with God than mending your roof.’

  ‘I did not know that,’ said Michael grimly. ‘Thank you.’

  It was raining again when Bartholomew and Michael left Blaston. The monk went to petition Emma, while Bartholomew returned to the College and gave the last of his money to Valence, to buy milk and bread for Yolande’s baby – Edith’s pie had ‘accidentally’ been left behind for the others. Then he went to his room where Edith, knowing her brother well enough to predict what would happen, had arranged for a replacement pie to be sitting on his desk. He could not have eaten it to save his life: the plight of the Blaston family had si
ckened him. He sank down on a chest, put his head in his hands, and was still sitting so when Michael returned. The monk went straight to the parcel and unwrapped it.

  ‘Beef!’ he exclaimed in pleasure. ‘And Lombard slices, too. They are my favourites, so clearly she packed them for me.’

  ‘Actually, she told me not to share them with greedy Benedictines.’

  ‘Well, there you are then,’ said Michael with a shrug. ‘I am not greedy, so she cannot have been referring to me. Eat something, Matt, and I shall join you. It will eliminate the nasty taste in my mouth, after begging Emma to order Yffi back to work and hearing her say she will not interfere.’

  ‘I do not want any.’

  ‘Starving yourself will not help the Blaston brats. Eat this, or I shall tell Edith you gave it to your students. And then there will be trouble.’

  Bartholomew had a feeling he might do it, so took the proffered slice. It was good, although he barely tasted it, and at one point he gagged.

  ‘Perhaps I should go on a pilgrimage,’ said the monk, watching him. ‘And ask for an early end to winter. What do you think?’

  ‘That the University would be in flames by the time its Senior Proctor returned.’

  Michael selected the largest of the Lombard slices and inserted it into his mouth. ‘In that case, perhaps I had better stay,’ he said, enunciating with difficulty. ‘I shall content myself by catching this killer-thief instead. Perhaps that will suffice to see my sins forgiven.’

  ‘What sins?’ asked Bartholomew.

  Michael waved an airy hand, took another cake and aimed for the door. ‘Come with me to see Walter. Like Blaston, he may have remembered something else now he has had a chance to reflect.’

  They found Walter and his peacock sharing a piece of bread, the porter soaking each crumb in wine before feeding it to the bird. The creature’s eyes were glazed, and it was unsteady on its feet.

  ‘Drax,’ stated Michael without preamble. ‘I know you were in the latrines when the body was brought here, but did anything else happen that was unusual that morning?’