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

by Gregory, Susanna

  Gyseburne made an enthusiastic but ineffectual assault on the ground and, unwilling to be there all night, Bartholomew took the shovel from him. It was hard going, because the soil was clayey.

  ‘I liked the bit where Doctor Bartholomew threw the pail of water in Meryfeld’s face,’ said Dickon gleefully, watching him work. ‘Can I have a go? He is still pink.’

  ‘Put that bucket down,’ ordered Tulyet sharply. He turned back to the table. ‘God preserve us! The flames seem to be getting fiercer!’

  ‘Because the pitch is heating up, I imagine,’ said Bartholomew, stopping his labours to watch. ‘We must have precipitated some sort of chain reaction.’

  ‘I do not care what it is,’ said Tulyet angrily. ‘Just stop it.’

  ‘This would make an incredible weapon,’ mused Meryfeld, picking up the stick Tulyet had dropped and inspecting it minutely. ‘Imagine if you were in a castle, being attacked. You could drop this on your enemies, and they would never be able to extinguish it. And, as an added bonus, its fumes are toxic.’

  Bartholomew felt sick, appalled that a physician should suggest such a terrible thing.

  ‘How did you make it again?’ asked Dickon.

  ‘Actually, I cannot remember,’ said Meryfeld. ‘And that is a pity, because I am sure the King would pay handsomely for such a device. It would be devastating in battle.’

  ‘Quite,’ said Rougham, suddenly sober. ‘And we are physicians. We do not invent methods to kill people, so I recommend we dispense with the pitch next time.’

  ‘Pitch?’ asked Dickon keenly.

  ‘Among other ingredients,’ said Rougham coolly. ‘Many other ingredients. You cannot possibly hope to replicate what we did here this evening.’

  Dickon pulled a face at him, then turned to his father. ‘If I make some, I could take it to school. That would teach my classmates for not wanting to sit next to me.’

  ‘It is not a joke, Dickon,’ said Bartholomew quietly. ‘This compound could subject someone to a very slow and painful death.’

  ‘Better and better,’ grinned Dickon.

  ‘I still cannot believe you allowed yourself to be involved in such a wild scheme,’ said Tulyet a short while later. He and Bartholomew were in his house, sitting in the room he used as an office, and he was pouring wine for his guest. ‘I hope to God your cronies will not remember the formula tomorrow, especially Meryfeld. He strikes me as rather unscrupulous.’

  ‘They were hurling substances into the pot willy-nilly,’ said Bartholomew. He was exhausted, partly from his colleagues’ irresponsible antics, partly from the worry of what might unfold the following day, and partly from too many disturbed nights. ‘Even if one of them does recall what he added himself, he will never know what the others put in.’

  ‘You probably do, though,’ said Tulyet. ‘And it is a dangerous secret.’

  ‘It is not a new invention – I have read about “wildfire” in texts from the Ancient Near East. It is said to have brought great armies to their knees.’

  Tulyet regarded him balefully. ‘This is deadly knowledge, and you should not share it with anyone else. I find it repulsive, and I am a professional soldier, used to slaughtering my enemies. Let us hope your friends will be less reckless when they are not sodden with wine. Unless …’

  ‘Unless what?’ asked Bartholomew, suspecting from the tone of Tulyet’s voice that he was about to be told something he would rather not hear.

  ‘Unless one of them knew exactly what he was doing. I am sorry to malign men you probably like, but Gyseburne bothers me. He claims he studied at Oxford and Paris, but the Chancellor told me there is no record of him at either, and there is something … unsettling about him.’

  ‘The Chancellor must be mistaken.’

  ‘I doubt it. And Meryfeld is as bad. I am uncomfortable with the fact that it was he who found Gib’s body, and I am not sure I believe his tale about the pilgrim badge he claims to have lost. Or Gyseburne’s, for that matter. I think one of them may be the killer-thief.’

  Bartholomew regarded him coolly. ‘And is Rougham on your list of suspects, too?’

  ‘He was,’ Tulyet flashed back. ‘But Yolande de Blaston is his alibi for several of these crimes, and I trust her implicitly. I am not confiding my suspicions to annoy you, Matt, but to warn you to be on your guard. One of them may have been trying to kill you tonight, to hinder your investigation.’

  ‘That is ridiculous!’ All four of us were in danger from the experiment, not just me. And even if one of them is the culprit, why would he harm me? You and Michael are the ones on his trail.’

  ‘And we have had our close calls, too,’ said Tulyet soberly. ‘Michael when a rock was lobbed during a skirmish he was trying to quell, and me when the castle portcullis fell suddenly yesterday.’

  ‘That portcullis has been threatening to drop for years. Its chains are rusty.’

  ‘Perhaps. However, just ask yourself whether it was lucky no one was hurt in Meryfeld’s garden, or whether someone just did not anticipate your speedy reactions when you hurled yourself away from the blast.’

  ‘You are wrong,’ persisted Bartholomew doggedly. ‘I know you are.’

  Tulyet changed the subject. ‘What more have you learned about the case? I hope your antics were a way to gain information, because you should not have been fooling around when we have a moral obligation to use every available moment to stall tomorrow’s trouble.’

  ‘I “fooled around” because I did not want three of Cambridge’s four physicians to be out of action when we might need their services,’ retorted Bartholomew tartly, thinking it was not the Sheriff’s place to berate him. Then he relented, knowing Tulyet was apprehensive about the next day, too, and it was worry speaking. ‘I have learned something new: Helia claims Neyll murdered Jolye.’

  ‘Really?’ Tulyet was interested. ‘Then do you think he dispatched Gib, too? They often quarrelled over Helia – my men were called to quell fights between them at least three times.’

  ‘It is possible. Neyll does seem to be a violent man.’

  Tulyet rubbed his chin. ‘Of course, that solution makes no sense. Even Neyll – no great intellect – must know that sticking a yellow wig on a colleague and shoving him off the Great Bridge is not a good idea. It basically says that Chestre Hostel is home to the killer-thief.’

  ‘Neyll may have acted on Kendale’s orders. I agree with you that Gib’s murder seems to do Chestre no favours, but Kendale is complex and sly, and may well have devised a way to turn such a situation to his advantage. I cannot see how, but that means nothing.’

  Tulyet groaned. ‘Damn scholars and their love of intrigue! Has Michael arrested Neyll?’

  ‘I imagine he will wait until after tomorrow’s game. The tension between the Colleges and hostels is too tight to do it before. Have you learned anything new?’

  ‘Yes, actually. I have eliminated Celia and Heslarton as suspects for the killer-thief.’

  ‘Really? How?’

  ‘I have a trustworthy informant in Emma’s household, and Heslarton was with him when Drax was murdered. And if Heslarton did not kill Drax, then he is innocent of the other crimes, too, given that Michael assures me we are looking for a single culprit.’

  ‘And Celia?’

  ‘Reliable witnesses say she was in Emma’s home for the first part of the morning that Drax died, and in mine the second.’ Tulyet grimaced. ‘My wife saw fit to admit to me this morning that Celia came to complain about Dickon. She claims he has been spying on her, but of course it is nonsense.’

  Bartholomew wondered why Tulyet should think so, when the Sheriff knew perfectly well that Dickon regularly spied on their other neighbours. Prudently, he kept his thoughts to himself.

  ‘I hate to admit it, but Chestre has bested me,’ said Tulyet, after a while. ‘My engineers have been unable to manoeuvre that damned trebuchet out of the Guildhall, and your hostels will be laughing at me, knowing their ingenuity is greater than mine.’
r />   Bartholomew stood. ‘Would you like me to try?’

  ‘What, now?’ asked Tulyet, startled.

  ‘Why not? It is not so late. Besides, Michael wants Cynric to break into Chestre tonight, to look for evidence that Gib’s cronies are the killer-thief. I will not be able to sleep until he is safely back.’

  Tulyet frowned. ‘Is that a good idea? If a College servant is caught burgling a hostel …’

  ‘That is what I said, but Cynric assures me that capture is not on his agenda.’

  Tulyet’s eyes gleamed. ‘In that case, I have an excellent idea for a diversion.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘The trebuchet. If you really can get it back to the castle, we shall make sure the Chestre boys know we have solved the problem they have created. They will come to watch, to see whether it is true. And while they do, Cynric can go about his business.’

  Bartholomew and Tulyet met Michael on the High Street. The monk was with his beadles, prowling the town to make sure the hostels did not reply to Welfry’s egg trick with something vengeful. But nothing was happening, and he was almost disappointed to report that the streets were quiet.

  ‘They will not stay that way for long,’ warned Tulyet. ‘It is the calm before the storm.’

  ‘I am at my wits’ end, Dick,’ said Michael worriedly. ‘I can feel a catastrophe looming, but I am powerless to avert it.’

  ‘Then let us hope Cynric finds evidence to prove the killer-thief is Kendale and his louts,’ said Tulyet. ‘Without its sponsor, the game will be cancelled, and it will not matter if half the town marches on Chestre and sets it ablaze, because it would have to be closed down, anyway.’

  ‘Well, that is one way of solving the problem, I suppose,’ said Michael, round eyed. ‘Although I would prefer a solution that does not involve arson and large numbers of rioters.’

  ‘It is better than the alternative,’ said Tulyet shortly. ‘Namely that we have battles on and off the playing field, as hostels and Colleges attack each other, and my town joins in. And the Chestre men are certainly my first choice of suspects for the killer-thief, anyway.’

  ‘They are not mine,’ said Michael. ‘I prefer Fen and his nuns. And I have not forgotten the fact that Yffi is conveniently missing, either. Or that Matt’s medical colleagues are a sinister rabble, who might think a few signacula will make them better healers.’

  ‘They are not—’ began Bartholomew.

  ‘Thelnetham has been acting oddly of late, too,’ said Tulyet, overriding him. ‘He is not the outrageously cheerful man he was a month ago, and I have come to distrust him intensely.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ declared Michael. ‘Our College does not harbour killers.’

  Bartholomew said nothing, but his mind ranged back to the past, when he had learned the bitter lesson that not everyone who enrolled at Michaelhouse was a good man.

  They walked the rest of the way in silence. When they reached the Guildhall, Bartholomew studied the war machine for a long time, working out angles, distances and measurements in his mind. It did not take him long to understand why Tulyet’s engineers had failed: the device needed to be dismantled in a specific order, or the pieces were never going to fit through the door. Tulyet soon grew impatient with him.

  ‘How much longer are you going to stare at the damned thing?’ he demanded. ‘We need it disassembled now if we are to help Cynric, not next week.’

  ‘I think I see how they did it,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Do you have six strong soldiers, who can help with the lifting?’

  Tulyet nodded, then lowered his voice. ‘But give me a few moments to make a fuss while I assemble them – we must ensure that Chestre hears what we intend to do, or Cynric will find himself invading their domain while they are still in it.’

  Bartholomew followed him outside, where a large number of people were walking home after Celia’s celebration. Among them were Rougham, Gyseburne and Meryfeld, evidently having returned to the festivities after the incident in the garden. Meryfeld and Rougham were still reeling from the wine they had imbibed, but Gyseburne appeared to be sober. In fact, he seemed to have recovered so completely that Bartholomew wondered whether he had been drunk in the first place.

  ‘The trebuchet will be gone tonight,’ Tulyet was announcing in a ringing voice to a group of men from the Guild of Corpus Christi. ‘Do not worry – you shall have your meeting in here tomorrow.’

  A number of people stopped to listen, and Bartholomew was pleased when he saw Kendale and Neyll were among them. It would save adopting more creative measures to ensure they had heard.

  ‘We will not convene before the game, though,’ said one of the Guild. He was Burgess Frevill, a thickset, loutish fellow who was one of the killer-thief’s victims. ‘I am looking forward to that.’

  ‘Are you?’ asked Tulyet in distaste. ‘Why? There may be violence and bloodshed.’

  ‘Quite,’ said Frevill gleefully. ‘It will be great sport to see the University tear itself to pieces. And I may join in – I have heard a scholar is responsible for murdering Drax and stealing pilgrim badges – including the one I bought from the time I went to Hereford. I dislike a large number of those snivelling academics, and one might confess if I give him a taste of my fists.’

  ‘I would not recommend taking matters into your own hands,’ said Tulyet, his voice deceptively mild. ‘I shall not be pleased if you make my task tomorrow any harder than it needs to be.’

  Frevill backed away with his hands in the air: only fools crossed the Sheriff. But Bartholomew had a bad feeling that the burgess’s words reflected the views of others, and suspected it would be a miracle if Kendale’s game passed without incident. The Chestre men had heard the exchange, too, and exchanged smug grins at the notion that the Sheriff was anticipating serious trouble. Unable to look at them, Bartholomew went to speak to his medical colleagues.

  ‘We might be wise to abandon our experiments,’ he said, thinking he could at least put an end to one area of mischief. ‘The Sheriff was unimpressed, and we do not want any more explosions.’

  ‘As you wish,’ said Meryfeld. He sounded pleased, and Bartholomew found himself wondering whether he planned to continue the tests on his own, so he would not be obliged to share any profits that might accrue from the invention. ‘I have plenty of other business to occupy me.’

  ‘What other business?’ asked Gyseburne immediately.

  ‘Nothing to concern you,’ said Meryfeld, rubbing his hands together. ‘And now I must bid you goodnight. Oh, dear! I seem to have walked rather a long way past my front door. You should not have distracted me, Gyseburne.’

  ‘He is an odd fellow,’ said Gyseburne, watching Meryfeld totter back the way he had come. ‘But it is late and I am tired, so I shall bid you goodnight, too. Take care in your dealings this evening, Bartholomew. Whatever they might be.’

  ‘That was a peculiar thing to say,’ said Michael, narrowing his eyes as Gyseburne strode away, Rougham at his side. ‘What did he mean by it? It sounded uncannily like a warning.’

  Uneasily, Bartholomew was forced to admit that it did

  He walked back inside the Guildhall, and went to work with Tulyet’s engineers and a team of burly soldiers. The door was ‘accidentally’ left open, to encourage folk to stay and watch.

  ‘All the Chestre men are among the crowd outside, and I am ready,’ muttered Cynric in Bartholomew’s ear, making him jump. He had not heard the book-bearer approach.

  ‘Are you sure?’ he asked. ‘They have not left a guard? I would have done, if I were Kendale. They have attracted a lot of ill feeling.’

  ‘It is all of their own making,’ replied Cynric. He grinned. ‘I am pleased to be invading them. It will serve them right for stealing our gates. Did I tell you I found them, by the way?’

  Bartholomew gaped at him. ‘No! Where were they?’

  ‘Master Clippesby had a tip from a ferret, so I followed up on it and learned that Neyll and Gib were not as clever as they thought they were
, because the riverfolk saw everything.’

  ‘The riverfolk,’ mused Bartholomew, thinking of the poverty-stricken men and women who inhabited the hovels by the waterside, and who never admitted to seeing or hearing anything; it was safer for them that way. They liked Cynric, though, because his sense of social justice often entailed purloining items from Michaelhouse’s kitchen for distribution among those who were poorer still.

  ‘Neyll was the ringleader,’ Cynric went on. ‘Kendale was not involved – it was too crude a trick for him. They hid the gates in the Carmelite Priory, under the rubble that Yffi has excavated for the foundations of St Simon Stock’s new shrine.’

  ‘Why there?’ asked Bartholomew. He had assumed they were at the bottom of the river and would be found in the summer when the water level dropped.

  Cynric raised his hands in a shrug. ‘A gate is an enormous thing, when you think about it – there are not many places you can hide them.’

  ‘Did you tell Langelee?’

  ‘Yes, as soon as I found them. They are being retrieved as I speak.’

  Bartholomew was grateful that Michaelhouse would soon be secure again, but his relief did not last long. Now the time had come, he hated the notion of sending Cynric into the lair of what might be some very ruthless villains, and wished he had not suggested it. Cynric waved away his concerns, then slipped silently through the rear door, clearly relishing the opportunity to practise the kind of skills his master wished he did not have.

  ‘Do not worry,’ said Michael. ‘He knows what he is doing.’

  ‘I am sure he does,’ said Bartholomew unhappily. ‘But that is not the point.’

  ‘But we need answers. Earlier, when you were blowing up Meryfeld’s garden, Batayl Hostel marched on Bene’t College, claiming they were going to avenge Gib. Gonville joined in, and the resulting altercation was the most difficult to quell yet.’

  ‘What does that have to do with Cynric raiding Chestre?’

  ‘The hostels cannot promote Gib as a martyr if we prove he and his cronies were involved in something untoward. In other words, without one of its figureheads, the trouble might simmer down into something manageable.’