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

by Gregory, Susanna

  Walter scowled, ever surly. ‘I already told you, no.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Michael, struggling for patience. ‘But please think again. Was there anything different – anything at all, no matter how small or insignificant it may seem?’

  ‘Well, we had sightseers,’ said Walter disapprovingly. ‘Prior Etone brought the pilgrims to stand at our gate and gawp around – he has always admired the Colleges, which is why he sides with us against the hostels. Then Kendale and his louts tried to do the same, but I saw them off.’

  ‘Kendale?’ cried Michael, shocked. ‘Why did you not mention this before?’

  ‘Because I chased them away the instant they arrived. They had no time for mischief – I saw to that.’ Then Walter looked thoughtful. ‘Although I suppose they could have brought Drax’s body here a bit later, when I was in the latrines.’

  Michael closed his eyes and whispered something, presumably a prayer for fortitude. Then he opened them again and looked at Bartholomew. ‘This is enough to allow us to tackle Chestre at last, although it will not be pleasant.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Bartholomew unenthusiastically. The peacock issued a noise he had never heard from a bird before, and pecked at the porter’s sleeve to indicate it was time for more wine-dipped bread. ‘Should you be feeding him that?’

  Walter frowned, puzzled. ‘Of course I should. He loves claret.’

  ‘I am sure he does, but I doubt it is good for him.’

  ‘You mean I may be doing him harm?’ asked Walter, alarmed.

  Bartholomew nodded, so Walter dunked the bread in water instead. The bird ignored it, and looked pointedly at the wine jug. Clearly, the creature was well on the way to becoming a sot.

  ‘Feed him seed,’ suggested Bartholomew, taking pity on the horrified porter. ‘Or worms.’

  ‘He does not eat worms!’ cried Walter indignantly. ‘He is cultured!’

  Shaking his head in disgust, both at Walter’s peculiar perception of his pet and his withholding of information that would have been helpful days ago, Michael aimed for the gateless doorway. He was almost bowled from his feet when Cynric raced into the yard. He was red faced and breathless.

  ‘They have found him,’ he gasped. ‘The yellow-headed villain.’

  ‘Found him where?’ asked Bartholomew.

  ‘Dead,’ panted Cynric. ‘Come and see.’

  The rain had stopped when Bartholomew and Michael ran towards the High Street, hot on Cynric’s heels. Because it was Sunday, the streets were quiet, and most pedestrians were scholars, going to and from their Sabbath devotions. There were friars and monks in habits of brown, grey, black and white, and students in the uniforms of their foundations. There were rather more of them than usual, and Bartholomew noticed for the first time that those who had allied themselves with the hostels had donned some item that was red, while Colleges and their supporters favoured blue. He regarded them unhappily as he trotted past, dismayed to note that places previously neutral had now declared an affiliation. The trouble was spreading fast.

  ‘Jolye was murdered by the hostels,’ he heard the lads of Peterhouse telling the scholars of Bene’t College. ‘He is a martyr to our cause, and the crime must be avenged.’

  ‘He fell in the river and drowned,’ countered Michael sharply, skidding to a standstill. ‘It was a tragic accident. Do not abuse his memory by making his death something it was not.’

  The Peterhouse students nodded dutifully as they backed away, but the members of Bene’t looked thoughtful, and Bartholomew knew the damage had been done.

  ‘This damned rivalry has taken on a life of its own, Matt,’ muttered Michael worriedly. ‘It is gathering momentum, and it is only a matter of time before it erupts into killing and bloodshed.’

  Cynric led them to the Great Bridge, a grand name for the rickety structure that spanned the River Cam. It comprised a single stone arch, with timber rails to prevent people falling over the sides, and was always on the verge of collapse. Every so often, a tax was levied to fund its repair, but the town worthies were corrupt, and the money was invariably siphoned off to other causes.

  That day, a crowd had gathered on it. They included Yffi and his apprentices, who were laughing and joking with drinking cronies from the Griffin.

  ‘You!’ exclaimed Michael, stopping dead in his tracks. ‘You are meant to be mending our roof.’

  ‘It is Sunday,’ replied Yffi piously. ‘We do not despoil the Sabbath by labouring.’

  ‘You were labouring this morning,’ called Isnard the bargeman, who could always be found among spectators, no matter what had attracted them. ‘You were in the Carmelite Priory, building their shrine. I saw you.’

  ‘I was not building anything,’ asserted Yffi stiffly. ‘I was surveying the site.’

  ‘You were hammering and sawing,’ countered Isnard.

  ‘Lies!’ snarled Yffi, bunching his fists.

  Michael stepped forward to prevent a spat, but Bartholomew was more interested in what Cynric was trying to show them. He followed the book-bearer through the throng, knelt down and peered over the edge of the bridge. A rope had been tied to one of the stanchions to form a noose, and a man with yellow hair was dangling from the end of it. It was a fairly long rope, and the man’s legs were in the water, causing the body to sway as the river washed past.

  Michael joined him, then turned to address the crowd. ‘Who found him?’

  ‘I did.’ It was Meryfeld, stepping forward importantly and rubbing his grimy hands together. ‘My windows overlook the bridge, and I saw him when I happened to glance out. He was invisible to anyone walking across it, and might have dangled there for days, had I not been vigilant.’

  ‘Was he there yesterday?’ asked Michael.

  ‘Of course not,’ replied Meryfeld tartly. ‘Or I would have raised the alarm then.’

  While Michael continued to question the crowd, Bartholomew grabbed the rope and began to haul. Meryfeld helped, and they soon had the body up on the bridge. The long yellow hair was plastered across the corpse’s face, but when Bartholomew pushed it away, he noticed two things: that the victim was Gib from Chestre Hostel, and that he was wearing a wig.

  ‘I am sorry you have to see a patient like this,’ he said sympathetically, aware that his colleague was looking away in distaste. ‘Hangings are never pleasant.’

  Meryfeld raised his eyebrows in surprise, then peered more closely at the corpse. ‘Why, it is Gib! I would never have recognised him! I wonder what drove him to take his own life.’

  ‘What makes you think it was suicide?’ asked Bartholomew, taken aback.

  Meryfeld shrugged. ‘It is obvious. First, his hands are not tied, as they would have been, had it been murder. Second, none of the Chestre lads like Cambridge, so they tend to be gloomy all the time. Third, he used a long rope, to ensure he could not climb back up again, should he change his mind. And last, he is not the first tortured soul to fling himself off this bridge.’

  Bartholomew sat back on his heels. ‘However, first, not all killers tie their victims’ hands, so that proves nothing. Second, it is a big step from gloom to self-murder. Third, he could not have climbed up a short rope, had he had second thoughts, so its length is irrelevant. And last, there have been suicides on the bridge, but most have thrown themselves in the water.’

  ‘So what are you saying?’ demanded Michael, overhearing. ‘That he was murdered?’

  Bartholomew pointed to Gib’s ragged fingernails. ‘He certainly put up a fight.’

  ‘That happened when he clawed at the rope,’ argued Meryfeld. ‘Even when men are determined to die, they still rebel against the pain of a constricted neck. It is only natural.’

  ‘But there is a bruise on his head and his arm is broken,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He was involved in some sort of tussle before he died.’

  ‘He damaged his arm as he threw himself off the parapet,’ countered Meryfeld doggedly. ‘While the mark on his head occurred when we dragged him up.’

&nbs
p; ‘It is difficult to bruise a corpse,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Their blood vessels do not rupture …’

  He stopped speaking when he became aware that the crowd was listening, and most were regarding him rather oddly. So was Meryfeld. He stifled a sigh, and wished he did not have to watch his words whenever he drew on something he had learned from cadavers.

  ‘I suppose you were taught this in Padua,’ said Meryfeld distastefully. ‘During a dissection.’

  ‘I have never dissected anyone,’ objected Bartholomew, although he could tell by the crowd’s reaction that it was more interesting to think that he had. ‘But my work as Corpse Examiner means I know what happens to a person after death, and they do not bruise. Only living tissues bruise.’

  There was a murmur of revulsion at this revelation, and Michael rested his hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘Do not say anything else,’ he whispered. ‘You are digging yourself a deeper pit.’

  ‘But they believe I am a—’

  ‘Sharing grisly details about the dead will not help your case. But never mind this now. We need to take Gib somewhere private, so you can inspect him without an audience. I want the answers to two questions. First, is this really the yellow-headed killer-thief? And second, are we now obliged to look for his murderer?’

  St Clement’s was the closest church, so Michael made arrangements for Gib to be carried there. While he did so, Bartholomew talked to the bridge’s guards, who were unrepentant about the fact that someone had been hanged on the structure they were meant to be watching. All he learned was that Gib had probably died between midnight and five o’clock, which was when they liked to sleep.

  ‘Assuming this is murder, who are our suspects?’ asked Michael, speaking softly, so as not to be overheard as they followed the grim procession off the bridge and back towards the town.

  ‘Heslarton is the obvious choice,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘He has been hunting the killer-thief since last Monday, and has vowed revenge on the man who not only invaded his mother-in-law’s home, but probably poisoned his wife and daughter, too.’

  ‘Poison that harmed Alice and Odelina, but that may have been intended for him or Emma.’ Michael was silent for a moment, thinking. Then he said, ‘Was it Gib you chased out of their house?’

  Bartholomew closed his eyes as he replayed the memory. ‘The hair looks the same – a wild, yellow shock that tumbled about his shoulders. I did not see his face, not even when I grabbed the reins of his horse and he kicked me away. The thief was the same height as Gib …’

  ‘But?’ asked Michael, sensing a caveat.

  Bartholomew’s eyes snapped open when he stumbled over a pile of manure. ‘But anyone can don a wig. And anyone can tie one on a corpse, too.’

  Michael regarded him thoughtfully. ‘In other words, someone may have fastened this hair on Gib to make us – and Heslarton – stop pursuing the real villain?’

  ‘It is possible. However, we should not forget what Edith and Oswald told us – that all the Chestre lads were in the Gilbertines’ chapel the day her signaculum was stolen. Perhaps Gib did put on a yellow wig and make off with her cloak.’

  Michael nodded slowly. ‘True. But let us assume for a moment that you are right, and Gib is innocent. If we do, then Heslarton cannot be a suspect – he would not have tied a yellow wig on a corpse to stop himself searching for the real culprit! So who is left on our list?’

  ‘All the Chestre men are fiery: there may have been a falling out among them. Then there are the killer-thief’s myriad victims – Celia Drax, Emma, Welfry, Gyseburne, Meryfeld, the Mayor, Burgess Frevill, at least two Franciscans, several merchants, Poynton … but he is dead.’ There was Edith, too, but Bartholomew saw no reason to include her name.

  ‘Fen is not dead, though,’ said Michael, eyes gleaming. ‘And pardoners are a murderous breed. It is possible that Fen killed Gib for stealing something he intended to inherit from Poynton. Meanwhile, I am not sure what to make of Meryfeld and his insistence that this was suicide.’

  Nor was Bartholomew. ‘Gib did not seem depressed at the camp-ball game—’

  ‘Look!’ hissed Michael, pointing down the street. ‘Speak of the Devil, and he will appear, because there is Fen, and his salacious nuns with him. We shall order them to inspect Gib and tell us whether it is the man who stole Poynton’s signaculum. Remove the wig, Matt. Quickly!’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it is distinctive, and if I wore it, they would say I was the culprit. Cover his head with his hood, and let us see whether they can make the identification on face and physique alone.’

  It was a good idea, and Bartholomew hastened to do as he was bidden.

  ‘Yffi has just told us what happened,’ said Fen as he approached. ‘Have you found Poynton’s stolen signaculum on this villain’s person?’

  ‘We have not examined the body yet,’ said Michael coolly. ‘Earthly baubles are not my first consideration when discovering a corpse.’

  ‘This was not an earthly bauble,’ snapped the fat little nun called Agnes, although Fen flushed at the monk’s implied criticism. ‘It was a valuable token from the Holy Land. Let me see him, Brother. I want to look on his treacherous face.’

  ‘Certainly,’ said Michael, gesturing to the corpse with a courtly sweep of his hand. Bartholomew hid the wig behind his back. ‘Look all you like.’

  ‘That is him,’ Agnes declared immediately. ‘I would know that evil visage anywhere.’

  ‘You are wrong,’ countered Margaret. ‘His hair is different.’

  ‘There is something familiar about him,’ mused Fen. ‘But I am uncertain …’

  ‘Put the wig back, Matt,’ ordered Michael. ‘Let us see what difference that makes.’

  ‘Yes!’ exclaimed Margaret, when the headpiece was in place. ‘That is him!’

  ‘Actually, now I think it is not,’ countered Agnes. ‘I have changed my mind.’

  Fen stared at the body for a long time. ‘I am sorry,’ he said eventually. ‘I still cannot be sure.’

  Michael watched them walk away. ‘We can dismiss the nuns’ testimony as nonsense – they do not seem entirely rational to me. But Fen is another matter. He knows something, yet declines to share it. He probably wants to assess the pitfalls and advantages to himself before—’

  ‘Stop,’ interrupted Bartholomew. ‘Wild claims will not help us solve this case. We need to review the evidence logically, not invent theories based on personal prejudice.’

  ‘I noticed you did not find it easy to remove the wig,’ said Michael, changing the subject rather than admit Bartholomew was right. ‘It was tied on very securely.’

  Bartholomew nodded. ‘Very. I suppose it was either because Gib thought he might have to run, and he did not want it to fall off and reveal his true identity. Or because someone else wanted to make sure it remained in place for the whole town to see.’

  Michael sighed his exasperation. ‘So even a simple thing like the tying of the wig cannot yield an unambiguous clue!’

  ‘Then let us consider the murders for a moment,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Assuming Gib is the killer-thief, I understand why he left poison in Emma’s house – she and her family are universally unpopular. And his reason for killing Drax is obvious, too – Drax was going to raise Chestre’s rent, and Kendale quarrelled with him about it.’

  ‘Blaston heard two sets of footsteps when the body was dumped, suggesting Gib had an accomplice. It must have been Kendale, whom Walter saw peering through our gates earlier that day. Chestre hates the Colleges, so they left the corpse at Michaelhouse – the nearest one to the dairy where the murder was committed – in the hope that it would see us in trouble with the town.’

  ‘It all fits very nicely,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Yet …’

  ‘Yet what?’

  ‘Yet I have the distinct feeling that we are being pointed in a way some devious mind wants us to go. And the notion that anyone can tie a wig on a corpse bothers me.’

  ‘What are you saying? T
hat Gib is not the culprit?’

  ‘I have no idea whether he is our villain or not,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘Perhaps I am looking for overly complex solutions, and we should simply accept what seems obvious.’

  ‘No,’ said Michael. ‘Because I have an odd feeling about this case, too. And I have learned not to ignore my instincts. Or yours.’

  St Clement’s Church was a spacious, airy building, and its vicar, William Heyford, was famous for preaching colourful sermons that attracted enormous crowds of people. Bartholomew had attended one once, but had found it sensational and lacking in logic.

  ‘I most certainly shall not house a corpse in my chancel,’ Heyford declared indignantly, when Michael told him what he wanted. ‘I am holding a mass in an hour, and I do not want the congregation to stay away because the place is stuffed with cadavers.’

  ‘One body hardly equates to a stuffing,’ Michael objected.

  ‘I do not care: he cannot stay. Besides, I recognise him – he is one of those obnoxious lads from Chestre Hostel. He and his cronies have made a lot of enemies among the Colleges, and his presence here may encourage them to come and do something unspeakable.’

  ‘Our students are not in the habit of doing unspeakable things to the dead,’ protested Michael.

  ‘Your Corpse Examiner is, though,’ countered Heyford. ‘And I am not having it, not in my church. It is a holy place, and I do not permit the mauling of mortal remains.’

  ‘If you let Gib lie here, I will arrange for you to do the funeral,’ cajoled Michael. ‘You will be well paid.’

  ‘All right, then,’ agreed Heyford, capitulating with a speed that had even Michael blinking in astonishment. ‘You should have said that money was involved.’

  ‘Matt will see him settled,’ said Michael, indicating that Bartholomew should follow the bier-bearers inside the church.

  Bartholomew rolled his eyes, knowing the monk wanted him to examine Gib while he kept Heyford busy outside. It was sordid, and if he was caught it would make him appear even more sinister than ever. But he could not argue when Heyford was there, so he did as he was told, muttering something vague about making sure Gib was decently laid out.