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

by Gregory, Susanna

  ‘It is too late. Now start walking before—’

  At that moment, the door flew open and people began to pour in, yelling and laughing boisterously. Bartholomew did the only thing left to him: he started to bawl a warning. Immediately, Welfry lobbed the knife. It thudded into the wood near Bartholomew’s shoulder, and his involuntary flinch caused him to slip. He grabbed the post, and for a moment was suspended only by his hands. With agonising slowness, he struggled to haul himself up again.

  As soon as he was safely on the rafter, fingers locked around the crown-post, he started to shout, but the refectory was now full of people, and his was just one voice among many – he could not make himself heard. And Thelnetham lay in the shadows, so not even the presence of a corpse was going to tell them that something was terribly wrong.

  Welfry touched a flame to his fuse.

  ‘No!’ screamed Bartholomew, although the racket from below drowned out his anguished howl. Then the Michaelhouse Choir began an impromptu rendering of a popular tavern ballad, and he closed his eyes in despair, knowing he would never be heard once they were in action. Welfry was crouching in the shadows of the doorway, watching his fuse burn towards the pulleys and buckets. He ignored Bartholomew now, seeing his presence as irrelevant.

  Then Michael entered the refectory, beadles at his heels, looking everywhere but upwards. The monk began to mingle with the crowd, stepping between groups that would have swung punches and clearly far too busy to think about the Dominican and his plot.

  Welfry’s flame was burning steadily towards a lever, and Bartholomew knew there were only moments left before something terrible happened. His stomach lurched as he looked at the people below – his sister and her husband, Michael, Gyseburne, Tulyet, most members of his College and others he knew and loved were going to be among the casualties.

  But there was one option left open to him: he could jump off the rafter and plummet to his death. That would make people look up, and when they saw the ropes and buckets they would run to safety. Unfortunately, he could not leap from where he was, because Edith was almost directly beneath him and he could not risk injuring her. He took a deep breath, ducked around the crown-post and took his first step along the beam, back towards the door.

  A wave of dizziness assailed him, and he thought he was going to fall. But the feeling passed, and he took another step, and then another. He was aware of Welfry glaring and making meaningful pushing gestures with his hands, but it did not matter, because there was nothing he could do to Bartholomew that Bartholomew was not already planning to do to himself. The fuse burned closer to the lever.

  Welfry’s jaw dropped when he understood what the physician intended. He started to shout, but Bartholomew could not hear him, and would not have paid any attention if he had. Only a few more steps now. Bartholomew sensed Welfry starting along the rafter towards him, but took no notice. Two more steps would put him over the middle of a table, and no one would be hurt when he jumped. He glanced at the fuse. The flame was almost there: he was going to be too late!

  A flicker of movement caught the corner of his eye, and when he looked up, Welfry was gone. But something was happening below. The laughter and merriment had changed to cries of horror. He risked a glance downwards, and saw Welfry sprawled unmoving on one of the tables. People were beginning to look up, pointing. In his determination to stop Bartholomew, Welfry had lost his own balance.

  ‘Everyone out!’ bellowed Michael, when he saw the ropes and the pails. ‘Now!’

  ‘So the greedy Colleges can have all this free wine?’ demanded Neyll. ‘Not likely!’

  He grabbed a cup of ale and toasted his cronies, who responded with a rowdy cheer. There was a resentful growl from Bene’t and the Hall of Valence Marie.

  ‘Out!’ hollered Michael. But hostels were bawling insults at Colleges, and those who could hear the monk ignored him. The noise level intensified again, and although Bartholomew yelled until his voice cracked, he knew he was wasting his time. He took another step along the rafter, trying frantically to control the shaking in his legs. Perhaps if he could reach the fuse …

  He was aware that Edith and Michael were two of those staring at him. Within moments, their upturned faces were going to be showered with some unspeakable substance, and they would die a terrible death. Desperation gave Bartholomew the strength to gain the door.

  But there was no time for relief. He forced himself to turn and inspect Welfry’s fuse. It had already burned out of reach. He hauled off his tabard and flailed it at the flame, but flapping only made it glow more fiercely. He leaned out as far as he could, and flung the garment across it, but the material merely smouldered and the fuse hissed on. There was nothing he could do to stop it. Defeated, he felt himself slump, then begin to fall.

  His downward progress was halted by an intense pressure around his middle, then strong arms were hauling him to the safety of the doorway.

  ‘Christ and all his saints, Matt!’ cried Michael. He rarely cursed, and that, coupled with his white face and shaking hands, was testament to his fright. ‘We almost lost you!’

  ‘My sister,’ gasped Bartholomew, thinking only of Welfry’s trick. ‘The wildfire …’

  ‘No one will leave,’ shouted Michael in despair. ‘And the place is too crowded for me to force them. There will be carnage, and there is nothing we can do but watch.’

  Bartholomew saw the flame reach a bucket, which began to upend. It initiated a chain reaction, and the rafters started to vibrate as pulleys swung into action. The first pail tipped, emptying its contents on to the crowd below. It was followed by a second container, and a third, and then there were more than he could count. Howls followed.

  He closed his eyes, not wanting to see. But then it occurred to him that he and his colleagues had not created that much of the deadly substance. He pulled away from Michael and sat up. The yells were not of agony, but of shocked indignation. And there was laughter, too.

  ‘Water!’ he breathed. ‘Welfry’s trick was water!’

  Michael was inspecting a sheet that had been attached to one pulley. He grimaced. ‘Water that was set to culminate in a rather inflammatory banner being hoisted – one that claims this to be the victory of bold hostels over the stupid Colleges. It would have caused a fight for certain.’

  But people were beginning to flee the room, unwilling to stand around and be drenched. Outside, Michael’s beadles were waiting, to ensure they dispersed.

  ‘Welfry miscalculated,’ said Michael, gazing at the spectacle with saucer-like eyes. ‘The water was meant to infuriate, and cause a great battle. But instead, it doused the skirmishes already in action, and drove the participants away.’

  Bartholomew was too numb to feel elation. ‘He failed in a spectacular manner.’

  ‘And he wanted your substance not to spray over hapless victims, but to create a fuse,’ said Michael in relief. ‘It is over, Matt. My beadles will ensure there is no more fighting.’

  ‘He killed Thelnetham,’ said Bartholomew brokenly.

  ‘Thelnetham is not dead. He is not very happy about being knocked over the head, but he will survive. Gyseburne and Meryfeld are tending him.’

  ‘Welfry tried to make me go through that other door,’ said Bartholomew tiredly, waving a vague hand towards it. ‘He did not want to kill me, either.’

  Michael snorted his incredulity. ‘The stairs have collapsed behind that. Had you stepped through it, you would have fallen to your death. You are a fool if you believe Welfry would have let you live after the kind of conversation I imagine you had.’

  Bartholomew would not have been able to walk down the stairs had it not been for Michael’s helping hand, and when they finally reached the ground, he leaned against a wall and slid down it until he was sitting on the floor. There was a brazier on the wall above his head, and its illumination showed how unsteady his hands were. It had been a terrible experience, and he felt as though he had been to Hell and back.

  The refectory ha
d not cleared completely, because those very interested in drink had lingered, prepared to risk a soaking for free ale and wine. Bartholomew saw with relief that his sister was not among them, and nor were his Michaelhouse colleagues. Langelee was, though, his eyes fixed unwaveringly on Kendale and the students of Chestre. Cynric was with him, also glowering, and Bartholomew wondered whether they intended to pick a fight over the stolen gates.

  ‘I feel a little cheated,’ said Michael, looking around him uneasily. ‘I was expecting something truly diabolical, but …’

  ‘It would have been diabolical had it worked,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘A bloodbath as Colleges and hostels clashed in a fairly confined space, and townsmen joined in. Are you sure Welfry is dead? The reason I ask is because he did not use all the substance he stole from Meryfeld for his fuse – there is still a lot missing.’

  ‘Quite dead,’ replied Michael. His eyes narrowed. ‘Neyll and Ihon are coming towards us. Stand up. You do not want them to think you a weakling.’

  ‘I do not care what they think,’ muttered Bartholomew, declining to comply.

  Ihon removed his cap as he approached. ‘We want to apologise for taking your gates,’ he said, loudly enough to attract the attention of a number of people, who came to see what was happening. ‘There, I have said it. Are you satisfied?’

  ‘It was only a joke,’ said Neyll. He held a camp-ball, and was rolling it from hand to hand. It looked heavy. ‘You should have been able to take a joke.’

  Casually, he hefted the ball in his right hand and took aim, narrowing his eyes in concentration. Bartholomew twisted around to see what he was looking at. The brazier. He glanced back to Neyll, and noticed a black, sticky substance oozing through the ball’s seams.

  But there was a sudden thump, and Neyll gripped his chest with a grimace of agony. A blade protruded from it, and Bartholomew recognised the letter-opener he had given Langelee. Neyll pitched forward, but not before the ball had flown from his hand. It landed on the edge of the brazier, and teetered there. Bartholomew surged to his feet, aiming to punch it away from the flame, but Ihon dived forward to stop him, knocking him off balance.

  There was a muffled explosion. Bartholomew was already falling, so it was the hapless Ihon who took the brunt of the blast. The student crashed backwards in a billow of smoke. The wall behind him was splattered with gobbets of the substance that burned with a devilish glow, and one or two onlookers began to bat at smouldering clothes.

  ‘I thought the beadles had searched everyone for knives,’ said Cynric to Langelee. There was admiration in his voice.

  ‘That is not a knife,’ replied Langelee smoothly. ‘It is a letter-opener. And thank God they let me keep it. You were right to warn me there was something suspicious about that pair, Cynric. If their plan had succeeded, it would have deprived me of my two favourite Fellows.’

  ‘And many innocent bystanders,’ added Cynric, inspecting the sticky substance with a grimace of disapproval. ‘I love a weapon as much as the next man, but there is something unspeakable about this one.’

  Michael shuddered when he saw what had happened to Ihon. He turned to Neyll, whose eyes were already turning glassy. ‘Why in God’s name did you do that?’

  ‘We had a letter from Emma de Colvyll,’ whispered Neyll. ‘She told us to do it, because it would score a great victory for the hostels. She wrote it this morning.’

  ‘Welfry,’ said Bartholomew heavily. ‘Emma could not have written anything today, because she was too ill. Will the man’s tricks never end?’

  ‘You will just have to wait and see,’ breathed Neyll with a ghastly grin. And then he died.

  EPILOGUE

  A week later

  It was pleasant in Michaelhouse’s conclave. Rain pattered against the window shutters, and the night was bitter, but there was a fire in the hearth and wine mulling over it. Bartholomew sat at the table, reading a book on natural philosophy that Thelnetham had lent him, while his colleagues talked about the remarkable lecture Horneby had delivered that day. Bartholomew had not been there: he had been with Meryfeld and Gyseburne, discussing which of his poverty-stricken patients they were going to take off his hands.

  He experienced a twinge of guilt when he thought about them. Both had been on his list of suspects for the killer-thief, but they had been entirely innocent. He was glad, and looked forward to resuming his experiments with them to develop a steadily burning lamp – assuming they only did so when they were sober, of course.

  ‘Our roofs have been restored to their original condition,’ reported Langelee, changing the subject to one he considered more interesting. ‘Unfortunately, the “original condition” means they still leak, but at least it is only drips, not deluges.’

  ‘We are back where we started,’ said Suttone gloomily. ‘All that disruption was for nothing. Worse, we owe Blaston and the mason we hired to replace Yffi for their labour.’

  ‘Emma gave us enough to pay them, in return for Michael keeping Odelina and Heslarton out of his official report,’ said Langelee. His face darkened. ‘Although I could not prevail on her to give us more. Still, I suppose you cannot blame her, since he then declined to let them escape.’

  ‘Of course I declined,’ said Michael indignantly. ‘It would have been very wrong.’

  ‘The family did love each other,’ said Clippesby with quiet compassion. ‘Indeed, it was affection that brought about their downfall: Heslarton’s love for his daughter led him to help cover her crimes. And Odelina’s love for her grandmother gave Matthew and Cynric a chance to escape – she wanted to kill them immediately, but decided to let them save Emma first.’

  ‘That is one way of looking at it, I suppose,’ said Langelee. ‘But as far as I am concerned, they were all villains. I wonder whether the signacula Welfry accrued will help them on Judgment Day. The holiness may have rubbed off on their fingers when they touched them.’

  ‘They will help,’ said Suttone, while William nodded agreement. ‘Handling such sacred objects will see them skip through Purgatory.’

  ‘They will not,’ countered Clippesby. ‘The tokens were stolen, so they cannot claim any benefit from them. Besides, a person is judged on his merits, not what he manages to touch during his life.’

  ‘You are right, Clippesby,’ said Thelnetham, who was polishing his nails with a piece of oiled cloth. The conclave smelled strongly of perfume, and no one was sitting too close to him. ‘And—’

  ‘It is a pity we have lost so much from this unpleasant business, though,’ interrupted Langelee, not very interested in another theological discussion. ‘A benefactress, a host of prayers to be said …’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked William suspiciously. ‘What prayers?’

  ‘Before Emma agreed to pay Blaston and the new mason, she made me promise that Michaelhouse’s priests would say masses for her, Heslarton and Odelina,’ explained Langelee. ‘And also for Fen, Poynton and the two fat nuns.’

  ‘I am not saying masses for them!’ declared William indignantly. ‘None are worthy. Did I tell you why Fen was always so wan and pale, by the way? Because he offered to sell Kendale some books!’ His lips pursed meaningfully.

  ‘Yes, he told us,’ said Bartholomew. ‘One by Bradwardine on natural philosophy.’

  ‘That was a lie. What he actually offered were banned books on alchemy.’ William hissed the last word, giving it a decidedly sinister timbre. ‘It was guilt that made him sheepish. Moreover, those fat nuns are bigamists. They say they were both wives of Hugh Neel, but how is that possible? If he took two wives, one of them should have been dead first. And as for Odelina and Heslarton …’

  ‘Perhaps this is why Emma thinks they need our masses,’ said Clippesby gently. ‘I have said a few prayers for them already, poor lost souls.’

  ‘Have you?’ asked Langelee, rather belligerently. ‘I wonder if that is why Heslarton and Odelina are not hanged, as they should have been, but ordered to abjure the realm. Perhaps we should withhold our b
lessings for a while. With luck, someone will murder them on their way to the coast.’

  ‘Really, Master!’ exclaimed Clippesby, shocked. ‘That is not a kindly thing to say.’

  Langelee shrugged, unrepentant. ‘I have never made any pretensions to being kindly, and I speak as I find. Incidentally, did you know that Emma has decided to join the Gilbertine Order, and will donate all her worldly goods to the Mother House at Sempringham?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Thelnetham smugly. ‘Prior Leccheworth is delighted. He is even more delighted that she intends to live there, and not with us. He wants her money, but not her company.’

  Ayera regarded Bartholomew disapprovingly. ‘When you pulled her tooth, her howls could be heard all along the High Street. You should not dabble in surgery – it is not right.’

  ‘No, it is not,’ agreed Thelnetham. ‘But a new surgeon should be arriving from York soon, so he will not have to do it much longer, thank God. His reputation as a warlock is doing Michaelhouse no good whatsoever, especially after he invented the substance that killed Ihon.’

  ‘The Archbishop of York is very interested in finding out what went into that,’ said Langelee. ‘Indeed, he has offered a princely sum for the recipe. We could do the with money …’

  ‘No,’ said Bartholomew firmly. It was not the first time he had been approached for the formula, and he had a bad feeling it would not be the last, either. ‘I cannot remember.’

  ‘Good,’ said Thelnetham with a shudder. ‘It is best forgotten.’ He changed the subject. ‘I heard all the pilgrim badges have been returned to their rightful owners, Michael.’

  ‘All except the most important one,’ said Michael gloomily. ‘Mine. The others were under Welfry’s bed at the Dominican friary – he was so confident he would never be caught that he made no effort to hide them. He had St Simon Stock’s scapular, too, and Etone was delighted to have it back. Personally, I think it is a fake.’