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

by Gregory, Susanna

  ‘Moreover, a stranger would not have known there were pilgrim tokens in her stolen box – he would have opted for a jewelled candlestick or a gold goblet.’ Bartholomew rubbed his head, wishing it would stop aching. ‘Or is that a reason to assume she is not the villain? I cannot think properly …’

  The door opened suddenly. Cynric rose to his feet fast, but the two men standing there had bows and arrows at the ready, and indicated he was to sit back down again.

  ‘Very good,’ said Heslarton, entering behind them. ‘You have guessed a lot, although you are still a long way short of the whole story. I was hoping to spare you – you did save Odelina, after all – but I am afraid that is impossible now. You are simply too dangerous.’

  Heslarton leaned against the wall, and regarded his captives impassively. Behind him, the two men with bows stood alert and ready, arrows nocked. Bartholomew glanced at Cynric and hoped he would not attempt anything rash, because he could tell by the way the men stood that they would not hesitate to shoot. Fortunately, Cynric knew it too, and crouched motionless to one side.

  ‘I have no idea why you should want Kendale and his students blamed for the crimes you committed,’ said Bartholomew, struggling to make sense of what was happening. ‘But you will not get away with it.’

  ‘No?’ asked Heslarton softly. ‘We shall see about that.’

  ‘Why kill Yffi?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘What did he—’

  ‘He tried to blackmail me,’ replied Heslarton tersely. ‘Over Poynton.’

  ‘Poynton?’ asked Bartholomew. Details slithered together in his mind. ‘It was your dagger that killed him during the camp-ball game? And Yffi knew?’

  ‘It was an accident. But Yffi said he would claim it was deliberate, unless I paid him.’

  ‘So you stabbed him, then decided to put the body to good use – by leaving it in Chestre.’

  Heslarton shrugged. ‘Why not? I have never liked those swaggering louts.’

  ‘What about us?’ demanded Cynric, before Bartholomew could remark that dislike was hardly a reason to devise such a hideous plot. ‘Will you have our murders blamed on Chestre, too?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Heslarton. There was no trace of the amiable rogue now; all that was left was the ruffian. His eyes did not twinkle, and his compact strength was intimidating. ‘I understand they convinced Michael that they are innocent, but your bodies should make him think again.’

  ‘It will not work,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘You left clues on Yffi that allowed Michael to deduce that the corpse had been dragged through a window, and you will make similar mistakes when—’

  ‘We have another plan – one involving Edmund House, which we are about to sell to the Gilbertines. And this time, there will be no misunderstandings.’ Heslarton gestured to the archers. ‘Clean shots, please. We do not want a mess.’

  ‘Why are you selling it?’ asked Cynric quickly, a feeble attempt to delay the inevitable.

  ‘Because he no longer needs it to frolic in with Celia,’ said Bartholomew, speaking before Heslarton could answer for himself. He recalled the shadow he had seen there when he had tended Brother Jude’s gashed leg some days before; doubtless, they had been there then. ‘Now Alice and Drax are dead, they do not require a secret place for their trysts. That is why the family have always refused to part with it before.’

  Heslarton wrinkled his nose. ‘As I said, you know too much.’ He nodded to the bowmen.

  ‘Wait!’ Bartholomew struggled to his feet. ‘Let Cynric go. He has nothing to do with this.’

  ‘I cannot.’ Heslarton sounded genuinely apologetic, and Bartholomew saw he was uneasy with the situation in which he found himself. ‘He represents too great a danger. I am sorry – I would have spared you both if I could.’

  ‘Yes, you will be sorry,’ agreed Cynric venomously, as the bowmen took aim. ‘Because Doctor Bartholomew is the only one who can save your mother-in-law from an agonising death.’

  Heslarton raised his hand to prevent the archers from shooting. ‘What?’

  ‘None of the other physicians know how to cure her,’ Cynric went on. ‘I heard them talking about it last night. Emma will die of her fever if she is left to them.’

  ‘She will not,’ said Heslarton, although he looked uneasy. ‘It is only a bad tooth, for God’s sake.’

  ‘It has been left too long, and has poisoned her blood,’ stated Cynric with great conviction. ‘She needs a surgeon to pull it out. And Meryfeld, Rougham and Gyseburne do not perform cautery. You know this – it is why you summoned Doctor Bartholomew this morning, not them.’

  Heslarton was silent for a moment, and when he did speak, it was more to himself than his captives. ‘I do not see how this can be safely achieved now.’

  Bartholomew frowned. It was an odd thing to say. He watched Heslarton go over to mutter to one of his men; the other kept his bow trained unwaveringly on the prisoners. The archer left after a moment, and Heslarton came back. Bartholomew could only suppose the fellow had been sent for reinforcements. Gradually, more answers drifted into his mind.

  ‘Emma has no idea what you have done, does she?’ he said challengingly. ‘And you are afraid that if you take us to help her, we will tell her that her beloved son-in-law is nothing but a killer and a thief. Your curious words – “I do not see how this can be safely achieved now” – mean you do not see how we can save her without your role being exposed.’

  ‘I have an alibi for Drax’s murder,’ snapped Heslarton. ‘One the Sheriff himself acknowledges. And I have one for Gib’s death, too, because I was with Celia. So, if I am innocent of those two crimes, then I am innocent of the pilgrim-badge thefts, too. You have nothing on me!’

  Other than the fact that he was wearing Edith’s stolen cloak, thought Bartholomew, trying not to stare at it.

  ‘And your wife?’ demanded Cynric. ‘Can you prove you did not kill Alice, too?’

  ‘Why should I kill her? I did not want her dead, and I certainly would not have done anything to put my daughter at risk.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Bartholomew, able to put the facts together at last. ‘Odelina is responsible for what happened to Alice. She loves you and Celia, but she did not care for her mother. She committed murder, so you and Celia might marry.’

  Heslarton regarded him contemptuously. ‘If that were the case, she would not have swallowed the poison herself. She nearly died.’

  ‘She read the pharmacopoeia in Celia’s house, which is full of silly advice. One example is that wolfsbane can be counteracted with a hefty dose of milk. She followed the instruction – I saw a jug of it next to the wine – but there is no truth in the claim, and she became ill, too.’

  ‘You do not know what you are talking about,’ snapped Heslarton. ‘She would never—’

  ‘Odelina had to drink the wine, because it would have looked suspicious if Alice had died, but she had conveniently abstained. Then, terrified because her “antidote” was not working, she crawled under the bed. She was lucky we found her.’

  Heslarton shook his head in disgust. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself, spinning such vile tales about an innocent young woman who thinks the world of you.’

  ‘She killed Drax first, though,’ Bartholomew went on. ‘He and Celia argued a lot, and Odelina is nothing if not loyal to her friends. She decided Celia would be happier without him.’

  ‘She is a girl,’ argued Heslarton. ‘Girls do not kill. Besides, she says she did not harm Drax, although I admit to helping her move his body to Michaelhouse after she happened across it.’

  ‘Why there?’ asked Bartholomew, sensing he was on dangerous ground by mentioning Odelina’s involvement, so changing the focus of the discussion.

  ‘Because she wanted the Chestre men blamed. And they probably were the culprits, anyway – they did quarrel with him the morning he was dispatched. I did not think we would manage it unseen, but Physwick Hostel went out mid-afternoon, and Yffi unwittingly provided a perfect distraction with a ribald discussion
about Yolande de Blaston.’

  ‘You sold Drax a pilgrim badge,’ said Bartholomew, deciding there was no point in protesting Chestre’s innocence. ‘It was—’

  ‘He was driving Celia insane by harping on about getting one, so I obliged him, to give her some peace. We made the transaction outside the Gilbertine Priory, although I think we were seen – your cronies Clippesby and Thelnetham were both nearby that night. And I denied it when you asked because it was none of your damned business.’

  ‘But then you wanted it back,’ said Bartholomew. ‘His hat was ripped—’

  ‘How many more times must I tell you?’ snarled Heslarton. ‘I did not kill Drax, and neither did my daughter. If his badge was stolen, then it had nothing to do with us.’

  ‘Dickon Tulyet saw you and Odelina slip out of Celia’s house the night Gib was murdered,’ lied Cynric, not seeming to care that there was now a dangerous light in Heslarton’s eyes. Bartholomew hoped Heslarton would not kill the boy for the book-bearer’s fabrications – or him and Cynric for reintroducing Odelina into the conversation. ‘Did Odelina order you to murder Gib, and tie a yellow wig on him? As another nail in Chestre’s coffin?’

  ‘She did not—’ began Heslarton uncomfortably.

  ‘Obviously, she could not overpower Gib, and toss him over the Great Bridge by herself,’ Cynric went on, ignoring Bartholomew’s warning glance that he was pushing Heslarton too far. ‘But you were there, ready to help with the dirty work.’

  Heslarton’s expression was hard and cold. ‘I did what was necessary to protect my daughter. Like any loving father.’

  ‘So she is the yellow-headed thief,’ said Cynric with bitter satisfaction. Bartholomew closed his eyes, having reasoned the same, but dismayed that Cynric should share such a conclusion with her fiercely devoted father. ‘And you helped her kill Gib, so everyone would stop looking.’

  ‘No!’ declared Heslarton. ‘She would never … she is not …’

  ‘Your guilt was obvious when you failed to go out scouring the Fens for the thief the day Gib was found.’ Cynric pressed on relentlessly. ‘You knew there was no point, because you learned the previous night that your beloved Odelina was the culprit. You doubtless told Emma to say Gib was definitely the yellow-haired invader, too.’

  ‘Odelina is not a thief,’ cried Heslarton. ‘She wanted Gib blamed in order to protect another …’

  Cynric waved a dismissive hand. ‘The next day, she was careful to remind everyone that Gib knew his way around your house – that he had acted as Kendale’s messenger when Emma was thinking of funding a scholarship, so would know where to look for valuables. She was very clever.’

  ‘I was right,’ said Heslarton coldly. ‘You know far too much. I am sorry for Emma – I would take the risk to save her if it was just me you were accusing. But I will not let you harm Odelina.’

  ‘Do not worry, Father.’ Bartholomew looked up to see Odelina standing at the door. ‘Grandmother is too ill to listen to their stories now. Doctor Bartholomew can save her without the slightest risk to ourselves. And if he fails, we will kill him and his servant.’

  * * *

  The prisoners were shoved out of the stable and into the yard. Bartholomew was not sure he was capable of surgery – even the comparatively straightforward business of removing a tooth – because his vision was blurred, his legs were unsteady and his hands shook. It would be irresponsible of him to attempt it, and he told Odelina so.

  ‘You will, or your book-bearer will die,’ she said coldly. She leaned close to him and lowered her voice, so her father would not hear. ‘And if you try to say one word to my grandmother about what you have surmised, I will kill you where you stand.’

  ‘Odelina,’ said Bartholomew softly, hoping to appeal to the dreamy girl who had harboured a fancy for him. ‘You must see that what you are doing is wrong.’

  Odelina pulled a disagreeable face. ‘Celia told me I was stupid to see you as one of my heroes, and I should have listened. She said you cast a spell on me, to make me adore you, but you did not love me back. Well, I am wiser now. Your gentle manners will not beguile me again.’

  ‘I accept your anger with me,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But Cynric—’

  ‘You will both be released as soon as my grandmother is well,’ snapped Odelina. ‘So you can stop your begging. I do not want to hear it.’

  ‘Do not trust her,’ said Cynric. ‘The moment you fulfil your end of the bargain, she will—’

  ‘I will certainly kill you if you annoy me,’ blazed Odelina, whipping around to glare at him. ‘But Isnard has a barge leaving for France tomorrow, and I will arrange for you both to be locked in its hold. You will be released – unharmed – when it reaches the coast. By the time you return, we will be gone.’

  ‘How do you know the schedules of Isnard’s barges?’ asked Bartholomew, rubbing his aching head. He knew he was off on a tangent, but he could not help it.

  ‘The answer to that is obvious, boy,’ said Cynric, regarding Odelina with dislike. ‘Bargemen are not usually wealthy, but Isnard can afford Yolande de Blaston, the town’s most expensive prostitute. Obviously, he supplements his income by sending illegal cargos through the Fens.’

  ‘What illegal cargos?’ asked Bartholomew dully.

  ‘Good-quality tiles, window frames and timber,’ explained Cynric. ‘Which Emma gets from places like Michaelhouse. In other words, Yffi was hired to take the decent stuff from us and replace it with rubbish. Emma’s beneficence was nothing of the kind.’

  ‘Never mind this.’ Odelina made no effort to deny the accusation. ‘You have a choice, Doctor. You either help my grandmother, or we kill your servant. Then, when you are released later, you will have his death on your conscience.’

  Bartholomew could see the bowmen were ready to do as she threatened, so raised his hands in surrender, ignoring Cynric’s grimace of disapproval. Odelina allowed herself a small grin of satisfaction, and there was a glitter in her eyes that was uncannily like her grandmother’s. Bartholomew was disgusted at himself for underestimating her: with forebears like Emma and Heslarton, he should have known there would be more to her than just someone who liked romantic ballads.

  ‘Everyone said you are clever,’ she said gloatingly, as they began to walk across the yard. Cynric trailed behind with Heslarton. ‘But you are not. We have outwitted you at every turn, and you are only now beginning to put the pieces together. You are a fool!’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Bartholomew ruefully. ‘But at least I know why you picked on Gib. You developed an affection for him when he was carrying messages between Kendale and Emma. But he kept a prostitute, which disappointed your idealistic visions—’

  ‘It was sordid!’ Odelina declared, grabbing Bartholomew’s arm when he stumbled. She was very strong. ‘But he just laughed when I challenged him about it. When he turned his back on me, I hit him over the head with a stone. I thought I had killed him.’

  ‘So you raced to your father for help, then decided to use his corpse to your advantage. You tied a yellow wig on his head. But he was not dead, was he? He recovered, and you had a serious struggle on his hands when he fought back.’

  Odelina did not reply, and they walked in silence the rest of the way to the door. Bartholomew thought about what he had learned, aware that he still did not have the whole story. The culprit had been clever, but he was not sure Odelina was sufficiently sly to have outwitted Michael for the best part of nine days, and he doubted Heslarton would be much help on that front. He recalled her precise words.

  ‘You said we outwitted you,’ he said, climbing slowly and unsteadily up the stairs towards the old lady’s bedchamber. ‘You and your father killed Drax, Alice, Poynton, Yffi and Gib, but neither of you were the yellow-headed man I chased. You have an accomplice. He is bold and quick, able to steal Emma’s box, snatch Poynton’s signaculum from—’

  ‘Enough of this nonsense,’ snapped Odelina curtly. ‘I am tired of it.’

  ‘Your poor father,
’ said Bartholomew softly. ‘He knew nothing of your association with the thief until recently, did he? If he had, he would not have tried so hard to catch him. He helped you with Gib and Drax, because he loves you and did not want to see you in trouble. But he had no idea that you are in league with a felon. When did you tell him? After you made him a gift of Edith’s stolen cloak?’

  ‘I said stop!’ hissed Odelina.

  ‘Who is he?’ persisted Bartholomew. ‘A scholar? A townsman?’

  ‘Someone who is better than you,’ she snarled. ‘And I did not kill Drax, by the way. I admit to dispatching my mother and Gib, but I never touched Drax. I found him dead in Physwick’s dairy – I went there to give him a piece of my mind about how he was treating Celia – and I put him in Michaelhouse to … But no. I shall not talk about that.’

  ‘It was your accomplice’s idea,’ surmised Bartholomew. ‘Doubtless he also told you how to make use of Gib and Yffi’s bodies. Who is he, Odelina? You cannot protect such a rogue.’

  ‘Stop! I am not talking about it any more, so unless you want to be shot, you had better shut up.’

  She clearly meant it, so Bartholomew tried to work out the fellow’s identity for himself. Fen? One of his medical colleagues? Thelnetham? All were self-assured and intelligent, and might well secure the affections of a lonely, gullible woman desperate for a champion.

  Or, more likely than any of them, was it Celia, who had an eye for valuable jewellery and was Odelina’s good friend? And Celia was a liar, as evidenced by the fact that she had denied being able to read, claiming the books in her house belonged to her husband. But according to Kendale’s testimony, Drax was illiterate. The more Bartholomew thought about it, the more he was sure he was right. Celia was the villain.

  Emma had indeed taken a turn for the worse. Her face was flushed, and her eyes were bright with fever. She moaned in pain, and when Bartholomew and Cynric were shoved unceremoniously into the room, she reached out a gnarled hand towards them.