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

by Gregory, Susanna

  ‘I shall assume the role of Prior until Etone has recovered,’ Horneby was saying. ‘God knows, I am no administrator, but no one else is willing to step into the breach, and we cannot be leaderless at such a time.’

  ‘Well, you need not worry about accommodating us much longer,’ said Fen kindly. ‘We intend to leave soon – Poynton’s family must be informed of his death as quickly as possible.’

  They all looked around as the gate was opened, and Seneschal Welfry stepped inside. The Dominican saw Horneby, and ran towards him, his face a mask of shock.

  ‘I am so sorry! When Prior Morton told me what had happened, I thought it was his idea of a joke. I would have come last night had I known – I could have helped search for these vile scoundrels.’

  ‘It would have made no difference,’ said Horneby sadly. ‘We hunted all night and found no trace of them – and we had Cynric. If he could not catch them, then no one could.’

  ‘Cynric is the physician’s man,’ said one of the fat nuns unpleasantly. Bartholomew thought she was Agnes. ‘Perhaps he did not try as hard as he might have done.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ demanded Michael, hands on hips.

  ‘What was he doing here in the first place?’ Agnes snarled. ‘It was late, dark and wet. Yet he was lurking around the shrine, unaccompanied by Carmelites. It is suspicious, to say the least!’

  ‘It is not,’ said Horneby quietly. ‘He and Bartholomew saw the gate ajar and came to investigate. And thank God they did, or we would not have known the scapular was missing until this morning. Besides, they did their best to tackle the invaders.‘

  ‘Did they?’ sneered the other nun – Margaret. ‘Are you sure about that?’

  ‘Ladies!’ said Welfry sharply. ‘You would be wise to keep such nasty insinuations to yourself. There is no room for them here.’

  ‘You are right,’ said Fen softly. ‘My fellow pilgrims speak out of turn. Please accept our apologies, Doctor. It has been a long night, and we are all tired.’

  ‘Yes, you should beg his forgiveness,’ said Horneby firmly. ‘Bartholomew did all he could to prevent the thieves from escaping. I saw him knocked to the ground myself.’

  ‘Then why did you not give chase?’ demanded Margaret. ‘If you were that close?’

  ‘I am unwell,’ said Horneby stiffly. ‘Confined to my room, and—’

  ‘I know you have postponed the Stock Extraordinary Lecture,’ said Agnes, regarding him doubtfully. ‘But you do not look unwell to me.’

  ‘He is ill,’ said Welfry, indignant on his friend’s behalf. ‘He should not be out of bed now, as a matter of fact, but he has rallied because of this crisis. Please do not rail at him. And do not rail at Matthew, either. He is the last man in Cambridge to steal relics.’

  ‘I am not so sure about that,’ said Agnes snidely. ‘There are rumours that he dabbles in sorcery, and sacred objects are very useful when performing dark rites.’

  ‘So we are told,’ added Margaret hastily.

  ‘You overstep the mark, sisters,’ said Welfry coldly. ‘And although successful physicians attract this sort of from half-wits, I am appalled to hear it from you. You should know better.’

  ‘Matt said the front gate was open,’ mused Michael, when the nuns seemed unable to think of a reply to the rebuke, and only shuffled their feet. ‘Yet the thieves did not leave that way. Why?’

  ‘Probably because they were afraid of being seen by the patrons of the Swan tavern opposite,’ supplied Fen. ‘The bell was ringing at that point, and everyone would have been looking over.’

  ‘Or because they were already home,’ whispered Michael to Bartholomew. ‘In other words, Fen and his two fat nuns had no need to tear out of the convent, because they intended to spend the night in its comfortable guest hall. And now we hear they will soon be leaving.’

  There was no more to be learned from the White Friars, so Bartholomew and Michael left them to their grieving and walked towards the High Street. Alice was going to be buried that day, and the monk was so desperate for clues regarding her death that he had already said he wanted both of them to mingle with the mourners, to see what might be gleaned from questions and eavesdropping.

  ‘Fen and his nuns are scoundrels,’ Michael growled as they walked. ‘I wager they stole the scapular, then tried to have you blamed for the crime, to shift attention from themselves.’

  ‘It is possible, I suppose,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘Still, assuming the killer-thief – with helpmeets – did steal the scapular last night, at least we can say that Gib was not the culprit. You cannot have a better alibi than being dead. In other words, someone probably did tie the yellow wig on him in order to mislead us.’

  ‘Our other suspects remain the same, though,’ said Michael grimly. ‘Fen and his nuns at the top of the list, followed by the devious scholars of Chestre, Yffi—’

  ‘But not Blaston,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘He would never tamper with holy relics. And neither would my medical colleagues, before you think to include them in your inventory.’

  Michael sighed. ‘Welfry did you a favour today. A tale that the town’s favourite warlock stole the scapular would have spread like wildfire, but he managed to knock it on the head. He was forceful but polite. Perhaps he will not be as disastrous a Seneschal as I initially feared.’

  The churchyard of St Mary the Great was already filling with mourners, most from the town, but some scholars among them. Bartholomew went to stand with Edith and Stanmore, who confided that Alice had had a nasty habit of accusing traders of giving her the wrong change. Then Blaston told him she had been critical of craftsmen and had reduced several to tears. Finally, Isnard claimed she had drunk more wine than the rest of the Colvyll clan put together.

  Bartholomew regarded the bargeman thoughtfully. Was this significant? Did it mean the poisoner’s target had been Alice, and wine had been chosen because she was the one most likely to imbibe it? Eager to learn more, he started to ask questions about Emma, but the flow of information stopped abruptly. People were far too frightened to gossip about the old lady.

  ‘But why?’ asked Bartholomew of his sister. ‘She is not so terrifying.’

  ‘She most certainly is,’ averred Edith. ‘I cannot recall ever meeting a more evil individual. Do you know what Cynric told me? Not to stand too close when we go inside the church, lest the saints object to her wicked presence and make her explode into pieces.’

  ‘Lord!’ muttered Bartholomew, struggling not to laugh. ‘Cynric has a vivid imagination.’

  Edith did not share his amusement, and turned to another subject. ‘Fen gave Heslarton a signaculum from Rome to put in Alice’s coffin. It was a kind thing to do.’

  Michael overheard, and came to join them. ‘I have just looked at it. It is made of tin, although I am sure he has plenty of gold ones. Heslarton should have held out for something better.’

  ‘That would have been ungracious,’ said Edith reproachfully. ‘And Heslarton may be a ruffian, but he has some manners. But Celia is announcing something. What is she saying?’

  ‘That everyone is invited to a celebration this evening,’ explained Michael. ‘In her house. It is primarily to honour her husband, but she plans to drink toasts to Alice, too.’

  ‘Does she mean it?’ asked Bartholomew, looking around. ‘There are a lot of people here.’

  ‘She means it,’ said Edith. ‘She is very wealthy now Drax is dead.’

  Odelina was among the crowd, wearing another of her unflatteringly tight gowns. Welfry ducked hastily behind Prior Morden when she made a beeline in his direction. But despite his determination not to be mauled, his words to her were kind, and it was clear he was doing his best not to hurt her feelings. When she saw she was going to have no success with him, she aimed for Bartholomew.

  ‘I would rather you stayed away from her, Matt,’ murmured Stanmore. ‘She is looking for a husband, and I do not want my family associated with Emma’s. It will be bad for trade.’


  ‘You need have no worries on that score,’ said Bartholomew firmly.

  ‘I bought my mother three general pardons,’ Odelina announced as she approached. ‘I do not believe they will shorten her stay in Purgatory, but my father does, and I like to make him happy.’

  ‘You are fond of him,’ said Edith. Bartholomew winced when he saw the puzzled expression on her face, indicating she could not imagine why.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Odelina, nodding fervently. ‘He is the gentlest, sweetest man in the world. And if he wants pardons for my mother’s soul, then pardons he shall have.’

  ‘She might do better with your prayers,’ said Michael piously. ‘Genuine ones.’

  But Odelina was not very interested in talking to him. She fixed her gaze on Bartholomew. ‘I knew you would come today,’ she simpered. ‘For me.’

  ‘You should go to your grandmother,’ he said, unwilling to waste time repelling her when he should be concentrating on catching a killer. ‘She looks unwell.’

  ‘Her tooth is paining her,’ explained Odelina. ‘It is a pity, because she was looking forward to today. She loves funerals.’

  ‘Oh.’ Bartholomew blinked. ‘Ask Meryfeld to tend her. He is standing by the church door.’

  Reluctantly, Odelina went to do as she was told. The moment she had gone, Thelnetham joined them. Unusually, his habit was plain, and bore none of the flagrant accessories he normally sported.

  ‘Your medical students are hatching a plot to disrupt this afternoon’s lectures,’ he said, pursing his lips. ‘They plan to infest the hall with rats – and no hall, no teaching.’

  Bartholomew groaned. ‘If it is not one problem, it is another.’

  ‘Go,’ said Thelnetham. ‘I will help Michael eavesdrop on the mourners. I want these thefts and murders solved as much as the next man.’

  It was an odd offer, but Bartholomew nodded his thanks and strode quickly to Michaelhouse, where he arrived just in time to see Valence lifting a large rodent from a box. The student dropped it when his master marched into the hall, and it made an immediate bid for escape, heading unerringly for the spiral staircase that led to the yard. Bartholomew folded his arms and raised his eyebrows.

  ‘It was to test a remedy,’ said Valence defensively. ‘A new one we have devised to … to reverse the course of miscarriage in women.’

  ‘That is not possible,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And even if it were, you would not prove your case by testing it on that particular rat – it was male. But as you are all here, we may as well start work early. It will give me more time to test you on what you have learned afterwards.’

  He saw alarmed looks being exchanged, and grinned to himself, thinking it served the rascals right. He threw himself into the exercise with all the energy at his command, and by mid-afternoon – and he stopped only because Langelee told him the bell had rung a long time before and the servants were still waiting to serve dinner – he felt as though progress had been made.

  ‘Christ’s blood!’ muttered Valence, watching him head for the high table to join the rest of the Fellows. ‘I have never been worked so hard in my life! Perhaps we should all forget about being physicians, and become lawyers, instead.’

  CHAPTER 10

  Because his students’ performance had been better than he had expected, Bartholomew gave them the rest of the afternoon off, an announcement that was greeted with a spontaneous cheer. He had been going to suggest they spent the time reading Theophilus’s De urinis, but their reaction made him wonder whether Michael was right, and he had been pushing them too hard. But there was a desperate need for qualified physicians, and he felt it was his duty to train as many as he could.

  He was still thinking about teaching when Michael approached. The monk was dressed in his best habit, and his lank brown hair had been carefully brushed around his tonsure. He had shaved, too, so his plump face was pink and clean, although his expression was anxious.

  ‘We are going to Celia Drax’s celebration,’ he announced. ‘All our suspects are likely to be there, and we must catch this killer-thief before the camp-ball game.’

  Bartholomew nodded. ‘And if we can make enough fuss about our success, it may even distract the hostels and Colleges from fighting, too.’

  ‘Quite,’ agreed Michael. ‘It is imperative we uncover some clues this evening. So change that torn tabard, don a clean shirt and let us be off. Incidentally, did your students tell you that the Colleges have replied to the trebuchet incident? Or are they too frightened of you to indulge in idle chatter these days?’

  Bartholomew did not like to admit that he had not given them the chance. ‘I hope it was nothing to worsen the trouble,’ he said nervously. ‘Cynric told me that Gib and Jolye, now official martyrs for hostels and Colleges respectively, are being used as figureheads to rally support. It is becoming increasingly difficult for the peaceful scholars to remain neutral.’

  ‘The trick is very clever, and has Welfry’s hand all over it – amusing without being vicious or dangerous. I could have kissed him when members of both factions stood together to laugh.’

  ‘What did he do?’

  ‘I am not sure how, but he built a mountain of eggs and set Agatha in a large throne on top of them. Both laundress and chair are extremely heavy, and I cannot imagine how the whole thing does not collapse. But not one egg is so much as cracked.’

  Bartholomew regarded him uneasily; only lunatics crossed Agatha. ‘Does she mind?’

  ‘She is having the time of her life. People are flocking to admire the spectacle – and admire her, too. I wish you could see it, but your duty lies at Celia Drax’s home, which represents a vital opportunity to see what can be learned about these thefts and murders.’

  ‘Does that mean you had no luck at Alice’s funeral?’ asked Bartholomew unhappily.

  Michael winced. ‘None at all. It was a waste of time – and time is something we do not have. By this hour tomorrow, the camp-ball game will be over, and who knows what might be left?’

  Worriedly, Bartholomew trailed after him to Celia’s house. When they arrived, it was to find every room packed with guests. An impromptu band of musicians had gathered and was belting out popular tunes, although the thudding beat of the drum drowned out the other instruments. People were dancing, too, in a heaving, gyrating mass. Whoops, cries, cheers and laughter abounded, and there was a rank smell of spilled wine and sweaty bodies.

  ‘Lord!’ muttered Bartholomew. ‘I have not been to one of these since I was a student.’

  Michael looked around with narrowed eyes. ‘We shall start by having a word with Fen and his nuns. They are by the window, talking to Prior Leccheworth.’

  They started to ease their way through the jigging dancers, but were intercepted by Celia, resplendent in yet another new gown.

  ‘All manner of vermin accepted my invitation, I see,’ she said unpleasantly, yelling to make herself heard over the racket. ‘Whores, impoverished students, warlocks, venal monks—’

  ‘Is this any way to honour your husband?’ demanded Michael, gesturing around him in distaste. ‘He is barely cold in his grave.’

  ‘It is what is called a wake,’ bawled Celia. ‘A celebration of his life. If you do not like it, leave.’

  She turned and flounced away before Michael could respond. Bartholomew was tempted to do as she suggested, because he was not in the mood for rowdy parties, but the desperate hope that they might learn something to avert a crisis the following day kept him there.

  ‘Tell Leccheworth he is wrong, Brother,’ Fen cried, as the scholars approached. Tears of distress glistened in his eyes. ‘He keeps saying St Simon Stock’s holy scapular is a fake.’

  ‘Really?’ asked Michael, regarding the Gilbertine with raised eyebrows. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because Etone showed it to me once,’ explained Leccheworth, rather defiantly. ‘And it was too grubby to be sacred. In fact, it was nasty, and I was loath to touch the thing.’

  ‘It is a hundred years old,’
argued Fen, stricken. ‘Of course it is grubby! But I do not care what you think, because I know a blessed relic when I see one.’ He pointedly turned his back on the Prior, and addressed Michael. ‘What have you learned about the scoundrels who took it?’

  ‘That they are familiar with the Carmelite Friary and its grounds,’ replied the monk, watching him intently. Bartholomew did the same with the nuns. ‘A pilgrim, perhaps.’

  ‘Very possibly,’ said Fen, nodding earnestly, and if he thought Michael’s suggestion held an accusation, he gave no sign that he had taken it personally. ‘The shrine attracts many people, and hundreds must have paid homage there. I wish you success in your endeavours.’

  He bowed, and walked away, hotly pursued by the nuns.

  ‘He is too sly to let anything slip,’ said Michael. ‘Damn! I am at a loss as how to trap him.’

  ‘Kendale and his students are better suspects, anyway,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Edith’s testimony told us that the culprit is probably a scholar.’

  He pointed to where the Chestre men were enjoying themselves with several women he knew to be prostitutes, or Frail Sisters, as they preferred to be called. Celia had not been exaggerating when she had remarked on the range of people who had elected to accept her hospitality.

  ‘I will speak to them,’ determined Michael. ‘While you watch from a distance. They will not trip themselves up with words, either, so see what you can deduce from their demeanour.’

  It was resorting to desperate measures, as far as Bartholomew was concerned, but he went to stand with Horneby and Welfry, using them as cover, lest the Chestre lads should happen to glance over and guess what he was doing. Both friars were sipping watered ale, and did not look comfortable amid the lively, noisy throng.

  ‘You should not be here,’ he said to Horneby. ‘You are supposed to be pretending to be ill so that no one will take offence over the cancelled Stock Extraordinary Lecture.’

  ‘The loss of our relic has put paid to that plan – as Acting Prior, I am obliged to be visible.’ Horneby shrugged. ‘But we can use the theft as an excuse to postpone, so it does not really matter.’