‘But if we do – especially today, when the camp-ball is on – they will think we are guilty for sure,’ said Neyll angrily. ‘They will say we arranged the game as a diversion, to let us escape.’
There was a clatter of footsteps on the stairs, and Michael arrived, followed by Kendale and his students, with the beadles bringing up the rear. It was a tight squeeze in such a small chamber. Bartholomew watched the Chestre men peer into the crate one by one, only to recoil with shock, revulsion or horror when they saw what lay within. He was as sure as he could be that none of them had known what was there, not even Kendale.
‘Well?’ asked Michael, folding his arms. ‘I think this warrants an explanation.’
‘Michaelhouse put him here,’ shouted Neyll. ‘Who else could it have been?’
But Kendale shook his head. ‘The Michaelhouse men are villains to a man, but I do not see them playing pranks with corpses. Even Langelee would not stoop that low.’
‘Well, if not Michaelhouse, then another of our enemies,’ yelled Neyll, as Bartholomew and Cynric lifted the mason from the chest and laid him on the floor. ‘Emma de Colvyll—’
‘Emma?’ interrupted Kendale. ‘But she provided us with the wine that you have been downing so merrily. She means us no harm.’
Bartholomew listened to the ensuing discussion while he inspected Yffi. The cause of death was obvious: the mason had been stabbed. He began to look for other clues as to what had happened – ones that would either exonerate Chestre, or prove once and for all that they were killers.
‘Why should she be generous to us?’ persisted Neyll, tears of impotent rage in his eyes. ‘We have nothing she wants. And she does not like us, or she would have funded that scholarship.’
‘Why must you always be so suspicious?’ sighed Ihon. ‘Some folk are decent, and do mean us well. When we first arrived, Michaelhouse tried to make friends, but your surliness drove them off. I wish we had not let it, because we might have been living in peace now if—’
‘Peace?’ howled Neyll, livid. ‘I do not want peace with a College! And I was right to be wary, because look where we are now – on the brink of being charged with crimes we did not commit.’
‘I abhor the Colleges too,’ interjected Kendale, raising his hand to quell the debate. ‘And you were right to reject Michaelhouse’s sly advances, Neyll. However, you are wrong about Emma, because we have something she wants very much. Namely our collection of hunting trophies.’
‘Hunting trophies?’ blurted Bartholomew, startled.
‘She thinks they will look nice in her solar, and wants to buy them,’ explained Ihon.
‘So she gave us claret, in an effort to convince us to sell,’ said Kendale. He turned to the rest of the students. ‘Who else means us harm? And do not recite a list of the Colleges, because that will not convince the Senior Proctor. I want names and believable motives. Think, because our lives depend on your answers.’
‘Clearly, the real thief is the culprit,’ said Ihon, after a moment during which the cellar was totally silent. ‘The man responsible for killing Drax, Alice and Gib, and stealing all those pilgrim badges. One of the missing signacula was in the “evidence” box, so—’
‘That much is obvious,’ snapped Kendale. ‘But who is it? Why does he bear us so much malice? I heard a rumour that it is a scholar, but which of the Colleges is home to such a ruthless villain?’
While they debated, Michael crouched next to Bartholomew, eyebrows raised questioningly.
‘Yffi was killed by a single wound to the chest,’ the physician replied. ‘The shape of the injury is indicative of a knife, rather than a dagger, but that does not help – every man, woman and child in Cambridge owns a knife.’
‘Is there nothing else?’ asked Michael, disappointed.
Bartholomew nodded, then pointed to several places where Yffi’s clothes were torn. There was also a deep abrasion on his stomach, where pieces of wood had embedded themselves in the skin.
‘This did not bleed much,’ he said. ‘Which indicates it happened after he died.’
‘You mean when he was stuffed in the crate?’
Bartholomew shook his head. ‘You can see for yourself that there are no jagged edges on it. However, if you look closely at the wound, you will detect flecks of red. And Cynric said the broken window in Chestre’s scullery was red.’
Michael stared at him. ‘In other words, Yffi was killed elsewhere, and his body was brought into Chestre via a window?’
‘The evidence seems to point that way. But the Chestre men would have no reason to manhandle Yffi through a window – they would use a door. Ergo, I think they are telling the truth. Someone has left a body in their domain in the hope that they will be accused of murder. It is not the first time someone has done it – Drax was left in Michaelhouse, do not forget.’
There was a sudden clatter of footsteps on the stairs, and one of Tulyet’s soldiers arrived.
‘Trouble, Brother,’ he called. ‘Bene’t College is marching on Batayl. And Maud’s, Ovyng and Cosyn’s hostels are empty. We think they are planning a joint assault on King’s Hall.’
‘You see what you have done?’ Michael rounded on Kendale. ‘All this unrest is your doing – the rivalry between hostels and Colleges was never so bitter until you came along.’
‘Oh, yes, it was,’ snapped Kendale. ‘Only you, being from a College, never paid heed to it. I am right to encourage the hostels to stand up for themselves. It is grossly unfair that the Colleges should wallow in riches while the hostels are poor, and it is high time the inequity was removed.’
‘Michaelhouse is not wealthy,’ said Bartholomew quietly. ‘Sometimes, there is barely enough to eat, and we have debts. Why do you think Langelee accepted Emma’s charity? Because we are desperate. We could never afford wine and ale for the whole town after a camp-ball game.’
Kendale stared at him. ‘Well, that is not how it appears.’
‘We prefer people not to know,’ said Michael stiffly, shooting Bartholomew an angry glance for his indiscretion. ‘But enough of this. I want you to cancel the camp-ball game, and—’
‘No,’ said Kendale. ‘I could not, even if I wanted to. The town is expecting entertainment and free refreshments, and will attack the University if we renege. And even if they managed to restrain themselves, the Colleges would attack the hostels for breach of promise. Calling off the game is not the way to avert trouble. Not now.’
‘He is right,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Your best hope for peace is a short game, and enough food and drink to appease all the would-be rioters.’
‘I shall see what can be done about both,’ offered Kendale. ‘But only if you acknowledge our innocence of these crimes. It is obvious that someone is trying to frame us.’
The soldier coughed meaningfully – there was no time to debate the matter. Reluctantly, Michael nodded, and his capitulation was greeted by a chorus of triumphant jeers from the Chestre students. The heckling continued until he was outside. The moment the door closed behind him, there was a clink of jugs on goblets and a rousing cheer: Kendale and his lads were going to celebrate their deliverance from what had initially appeared to be a hopeless situation.
Michael glowered at the building with its lopsided leer, while Bartholomew leaned against a wall and wished he had been more forceful in voicing hisreservations earlier, because it was not going to be easy living with Kendale’s righteous indignation.
‘I hate them,’ muttered Meadowman venomously. ‘And I do not think they are innocent, no matter how clever they were with their logic and their explanations.’
‘There you are, Doctor,’ shouted Valence, flushed and breathless. ‘I have been looking for you everywhere. Emma de Colvyll has fallen into a terrible fever, and you are needed to cure her.’
‘She is Meryfeld’s—’ began Bartholomew.
‘He has been dismissed,’ said Valence. ‘They want you, because they fear she is dying.’
Bartholomew ordered Valen
ce back to Michaelhouse, unwilling for his student to be out when the town felt so uneasy. The lad was reluctant to be deprived of excitement, but did as he was told.
‘Stay with Michael, Cynric,’ said Bartholomew, aiming for the High Street. ‘He will need you.’
‘So might you,’ argued Cynric. He glanced up at the sky, which was beginning to lighten almost imperceptibly. ‘It will be dawn soon, and I do not like what the day promises.’
Neither did Bartholomew. ‘We are back to the beginning as regards suspects,’ he said in frustration, breath coming in short gasps as he ran. ‘We have been up all night, but have gained nothing – and I doubt Kendale’s measures will see the game pass off peacefully.’
‘They might help,’ said Cynric, although with scant conviction. ‘I was certain he was the villain, but now I am not even sure the culprit is a scholar, as we have been led to believe these last few days.’
He hauled the physician into a doorway when a gaggle of lads from Ovyng Hostel appeared. Bartholomew did not think they would harm him, given that he was their physician, but he was wearing a tabard that said he was from Michaelhouse, and there was a risk they might punch first and ask for names second. Nevertheless, he fretted at the moments that ticked away as Ovyng sauntered past – moments that might mean the difference between life and death for Emma.
‘The only evidence that the villain is a scholar comes from the fact that your sister’s token was stolen during an event that comprised mainly members of the University,’ whispered Cynric. He sensed his master’s agitation and was keen to take his mind off it, lest he decided to bolt before it was safe. Bartholomew tended to be single minded when it came to his patients’ welfare.
‘An event at the Gilbertine Priory,’ said Bartholomew, trying to concentrate on what Cynric was saying. ‘But the canons’ guests included all the Carmelites, the Chestre men, my medical colleagues, Ayera, Emma and the pilgrims. With that many people, it would have been easy to don a disguise and walk about unnoticed.’
‘In other words, the culprit might be anyone,’ said Cynric, nodding to indicate they should begin running again. ‘He might even be someone we have never met – a visitor to St Simon Stock’s shrine, who considers our town fair game for his villainy.’
‘No, he must be a local,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘A stranger would have no reason to poison Emma’s wine – or put Drax’s body in Michaelhouse.’
When they reached Emma’s house, it was mostly in darkness, in stark contrast to the other High Street homes, which were brightly lit. Some residents, anticipating trouble, had boarded up their windows and barricaded their doors, but Emma had taken no such precautions. Bartholomew wondered why, when she was by far the most unpopular person in the town, and so most likely to be targeted for mischief. Was it because she thought no one would dare? He rubbed his head, simply too tired to think about it.
‘We should go around the back,’ said Cynric, setting off in that direction. ‘Banging on the front door will wake the entire household, and I would sooner Heslarton stayed in bed.’
‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew, trotting after him. ‘You do not like him? He is not our killer-thief, because he has an alibi for Drax’s murder – one that has satisfied the Sheriff.’
‘I like him well enough,’ replied Cynric. ‘He is a soldier, like me – honest and uncomplicated. But he is protective of his mother-in-law, and you will find it easier to work when he is not there.’
Bartholomew was not sure he would have described Heslarton – or Cynric, for that matter – as honest and uncomplicated. He reached the back gate, and stepped through it.
He was surprised to find the yard busy, with horses saddled and a cart loaded with chests and furniture. A number of servants moved around them, although none spoke. One stumbled in the gloom, and he wondered why they did not light torches, because Emma could certainly afford them. Cynric jerked him roughly into the shadows.
‘What are you doing?’ Bartholomew demanded, freeing himself irritably. ‘There is no need to—’
‘None of Emma’s family have mentioned a journey,’ hissed Cynric urgently. ‘So why are they loading up so softly and secretly – and in the dark? Moreover, all the servants seem to be up, so why are there no lamps lit in the house?’
‘Perhaps they do not want to disturb Emma,’ replied Bartholomew impatiently. ‘Her fever—’
‘No,’ whispered Cynric, doggedly determined. ‘It is something more. We should leave.’
‘I cannot leave,’ objected Bartholomew, pulling away from him and beginning to walk towards the rear of the house. ‘The pus from Emma’s rotting tooth has finally …’
He faltered when someone materialised in front of him, carrying a lantern. It was Heslarton, but what caught Bartholomew’s attention was the garment he wore. The lamplight showed it to be dark red, and the last time he had seen it was on Edith, when she had donned it for Drax’s funeral. Later, it had been stolen from the Gilbertines’ chapel, and her signaculum with it.
He gazed in shock, as clues and fragments of evidence collided together to form answers at last. Heslarton stared back, then moved fast, and Bartholomew felt himself grabbed by the throat. He struggled hard, dimly aware of Cynric racing to his assistance.
But they were in a yard filled with Heslarton’s retainers, and it was not many moments before they were overpowered. He opened his mouth to shout, knowing that Michael’s beadles and Tulyet’s soldiers were out in force – they would hear him if he yelled loudly enough – but there was a sharp, searing pain in his head, and then nothing.
When Bartholomew’s senses began to return, he found himself lying on a cold stone floor with Cynric hovering anxiously over him.
‘Thank God!’ muttered the book-bearer shakily, as Bartholomew opened his eyes. He crossed himself, then clutched one of his amulets. ‘I thought they had killed you.’
Bartholomew’s vision swirled as he sat up, and he gripped his head with both hands, seized with the illogical conviction that it might split in half if he let it go. It ached viciously, and he felt sick. He explored it tentatively, and discovered a lump at the back, where it had been struck.
‘Where are we?’ he asked.
‘Locked in Heslarton’s stable,’ replied Cynric. ‘It is just past dawn, and I have been trying to wake you for hours.’
‘Not hours,’ corrected Bartholomew. ‘It was already growing light when we were summoned.’
But Cynric was not interested in listening to reason. ‘I told you something odd was going on here,’ he said accusingly. ‘You should have listened.’
‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘I am sorry, Cynric. You were right.’
‘What made you start fighting Heslarton in the first place?’ asked Cynric. He sounded exasperated. ‘You should have controlled yourself, because to attack a man who was surrounded by his retainers … well, it was reckless, boy.’
‘I did not attack him.’ Recollections came in blinding flashes. ‘He was wearing Edith’s cloak. I should have pretended not to notice, but it took me by surprise. And he knew exactly what conclusions I had drawn from it.’
‘That he was the one who stole it? And if he took that, then he must be guilty of all the other crimes, too, including murder?’ Cynric swallowed hard. ‘So we are being held captive by a killer.’
‘But he cannot be the villain, because he has an alibi for Drax’s death.’ Bartholomew’s head ached more when he tried to think. ‘I do not understand.’
‘Oh, it is simple enough,’ said Cynric bitterly. ‘The villain is Emma. She poisoned her own daughter, and murdered Drax, Gib and Yffi. She probably told Heslarton to kill Poynton on the camp-ball field, too. And she is behind the theft of the pilgrim badges. She only pretended to be a victim of the yellow-headed thief, and she has been the real culprit all along.’
‘She is an old lady,’ objected Bartholomew. He recalled why he had been going to see her in the first place. ‘With a fever.’
‘She did no
t have a fever until today,’ said Cynric. ‘Besides, she is quite capable of sending others to do her dirty work. Heslarton may not have killed Drax, but she has a whole house full of retainers at her beck and call, and some of them are fearsome louts.’
Bartholomew started to object further, but the words died in his throat. Emma certainly possessed the resources to stage such an elaborate deception. She was already wealthy, but that did not mean she would overlook an opportunity to become more so, and some of the pilgrim badges were very valuable. Moreover, she was devious and ruthless enough for such a venture, sitting in her solar like some vile black spider, dispatching minions to do her bidding.
Yet that did not make sense.
‘Why did she summon me, then?’ he asked. ‘She would not have wanted us anywhere near her, if she is this cunning mastermind.’
‘I told you – she only started her fever today,’ said Cynric. ‘If we had gone to the front of the house, like you wanted, you would have cured her, and we would be safe at home by now. But we went to the back, where her servants are arranging for her to flee with her ill-gotten gains. This is as much my fault as yours.’
‘But why would she be fleeing?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering whether it was exhaustion or concussion that had turned his wits to mud. All he wanted was to lie down and sleep. ‘No one has the slightest inkling that she is behind all this chaos, so she has no need to abandon the empire she has so painstakingly assembled.’
‘Because Brother Michael is on her trail,’ said Cynric with a shrug. ‘He always catches his villains, and she knows it. She is leaving while she is still able.’
‘You may be right,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘On our way here, we decided the culprit had to be someone local, rather than a stranger, because there had to be reasons for poisoning Alice and dumping Drax in Michaelhouse. Emma’s motive for killing Alice is obvious: they did not like each other—’
‘And she dumped Drax in Michaelhouse to discredit us, so she would not have to finish paying for our roof,’ finished Cynric, although Bartholomew was unconvinced by that argument.
The Killer Of Pilgrims: The Sixteenth Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 33
