The Killer of Pilgrims (18 page)

‘They are out a lot at night, too,’ added Yolande, while Valence nodded vigorous agreement with Isnard. ‘I see them when I
visit my clients. Tell Brother Michael to watch them, Doctor, because I am sure they mean mischief.’

‘Their home, Chestre Hostel, is haunted,’ said Cynric matter-of-factly. ‘It did not use to be, but those hostel men brought
an evil aura with them, and now it pervades the building.’

‘Cynric!’ said Bartholomew sharply, aware that this was the sort of tale that might be repeated and then blown out of all
proportion. He did not want the hostels to accuse the Colleges of rumour-mongering, thus providing an excuse for the full-scale
war that everyone sensed was brewing.

‘Actually, he is right,’ said Yolande. ‘There
is
something nasty about Chestre. Why do you think Drax tried to raise the rent? To get rid of them! Of course, it saw him dead
for his pains.’

‘You think Chestre killed Drax?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Do you have any evidence to suggest—’

‘I do not need evidence,’ declared Yolande loftily.
‘Because I have intuition. Kendale and his horrible students live near where Drax died and where he was dumped, and they
objected to the fact that he wanted to raise the rent. Of course they are the culprits.’

‘Did you hear that Celia Drax was robbed?’ asked Isnard, when the physician was silent. ‘She lost a pilgrim badge, which is
odd, because a number of them have gone astray recently.’

Yolande nodded. ‘Poynton had one filched off his saddlebag, and the Mayor told me just today that he had two pinched from
the Guildhall. Then there is Meryfeld the physician – he thought his had fallen off his cloak, but in the light of these other
thefts, he has reconsidered.’

Bartholomew stood. It was getting late and he was tired. He thanked Isnard for his hospitality.

‘Be careful,’ said the bargeman as he left. ‘You may think Cambridge is safe at the moment, because we have had no serious
trouble for weeks, but there is something nasty in the air. Perhaps it is the hostels itching for a fight. Or perhaps it is
the thief with his penchant for pilgrim relics, which is as black a sin as any. Regardless, our town feels very dangerous
to me.’

His warning sent a tingle of unease down Bartholomew’s spine.

Cynric slipped away on business of his own when they reached the main road. Bartholomew was tempted to call him back, not
liking the notion of him being out alone after what Isnard had said, but then he came to his senses. Cynric was a seasoned
warrior, and knew how to look after himself.

‘The last patient is none other than the loathsome Kendale himself,’ said Valence. He gave a feeble laugh. ‘I am not sure
we should go, given what Isnard has just told us about him.’

Bartholomew recalled his last encounter with Kendale, when the Principal and his students had accosted him in St Michael’s
Lane and initiated a contest about who should have right of way.

‘He has a cheek to think you will help him,’ Valence went on when there was no reply. ‘Neyll told Walter that Rougham, Gyseburne
and Meryfeld have all refused to visit, and that you are his last hope. But that is no reason to tend a man like Kendale.’

‘Did Neyll say what is wrong?’ asked Bartholomew. He did not usually refuse to see patients, but did not relish the prospect
of setting foot in a house full of men who hated members of Colleges.

‘He has a crushed hand,’ explained Valence. ‘An accident. Neyll told me they have stopped the bleeding, but that it needs
stitches and possibly set bones.’

‘Then why did you not mention it sooner?’ demanded Bartholomew, aghast. ‘We should have gone there first. You give the impression
that it is a routine call, but it is an emergency!’

‘I forgot,’ said Valence. He saw Bartholomew’s sceptical glance. ‘I
did
!’

There was no point in remonstrating. ‘Tell Michael where I am. And if I do not return by—’

‘I am not letting you visit Chestre alone,’ declared Valence, straightening his shoulders defiantly. ‘Michaelhouse students
are
not
afraid of hostel men.’

Bartholomew tried to dissuade him, but Valence was adamant. He gave way, and they walked briskly down the lane to the grand
house currently leased by Kendale. Valence knocked, and while they waited for a reply, Bartholomew studied the building that
Cynric said was haunted.

During the day, he would have dismissed the book-bearer’s notion as fancy, but at night there was something
vaguely unearthly about the place. It was darker than the surrounding houses, and its roof overhung rather forebodingly.
In addition, its windows formed a pattern that looked like two eyes and a leering mouth. When he saw the route his thoughts
had taken, Bartholomew shook his head, disgusted with himself for allowing his imagination to run so wild.

Neyll answered the door immediately, and his black eyebrows drew down into a hostile scowl when he saw Bartholomew and Valence.
The physician took a step back. Was someone playing a joke, deliberately sending them into an awkward situation?

‘We were beginning to think you were too frightened to come,’ the Bible Scholar growled sullenly. ‘Well? Are you just going
to stand there, or are you coming in?’

Inside, Bartholomew was disconcerted to note that Kendale and his students had decorated Chestre’s walls with the skulls of
animals they had slaughtered. Some were very fearsome, with great curling horns and gaping eye sockets. He saw Valence cross
himself and felt the urge to do the same. He might have done, but Neyll was watching, and he had his pride.

The house comprised a large hall on the ground floor, plus two smaller rooms for private teaching or reading. A flight of
stairs led to the upper storey, and in the gloom he could see more bones adorning those walls, too; he wondered why Kendale
had not settled for tapestries or murals, like everyone else. More steps led to a cellar, which a trail of muddy footprints
suggested was in frequent use – probably, he thought, noting the number of telltale splashes on the walls, because it was
where they stored their claret.

‘At last!’ exclaimed Kendale. He was sitting by the fire, and his hand was a mess of bloody cloths. All his students
were there, and the place reeked of wine. ‘I know we hostel men are not a high priority, but I did not think you would leave
me in agony for quite so long.’

‘I am sorry,’ said Bartholomew, genuinely contrite. ‘It has been a busy evening.’

He knelt next to Kendale, and gently removed the dressings. The hand had indeed been crushed – the fingers were bruised, and
there were deep cuts across the back of them.

‘I slipped on some ice,’ said Kendale, by means of explanation.

‘This is not the sort of injury that can be sustained by falling,’ remarked Bartholomew absently, inspecting it in the light
of the fire.

‘Are you accusing me of lying?’ demanded Kendale. There was an immediate menacing murmur from his students, and two or three
came angrily to their feet.

‘Only if you are accusing me of being unable to distinguish between injuries caused by a tumble, and injuries caused by compression,’
retorted Bartholomew tartly, declining to be intimidated.

Kendale regarded him silently for a moment, then laughed, although it was not a pleasant sound. ‘All right, I did not slip.
I caught it in the door.’

‘It must have been quite a door,’ muttered Bartholomew, not believing that tale, either.

‘You are as bad as Meryfeld,’ sneered Neyll. ‘He is all nosy questions, too. The last time he came, he asked so many of them
that we had to put a knife to his throat, to shut him up.’

Bartholomew glanced at him, to see whether he was making a joke, but the dour visage told him that the Bible Scholar was no
more capable of humour than he was of flying to the moon. And if his claim was true, then it was
not surprising the other
medici
had declined to answer Kendale’s summons.

‘Meryfeld is your physician?’ Bartholomew asked. ‘Then why did he not come tonight?’

‘Neyll’s teasing must have frightened him off,’ said Kendale. ‘But does it matter how my hand came to be injured? I want you
to mend it, not analyse how it could have been avoided.’

‘Of course it matters,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘Knowing how a wound was caused tells me what sort of damage might lie beneath
the skin. For example, the hard edges of a door will result in different harm than if your hand was caught between two flat
surfaces.’

‘It was not two flat surfaces,’ said Kendale, after a moment of thought. ‘As I said, it was a door.’

Bartholomew was disinclined to argue. He asked for a lamp, then began to suture the larger cuts with stitches any seamstress
would have been proud of. Kendale gritted his teeth, although the reek of wine on his breath indicated he should not have
been feeling a great deal.

‘Thank you,’ said Kendale, sitting back in relief when the operation was over and the hand was wrapped in clean bandages.
‘And now sit down, and have a drink.’

‘It is late,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And I do not—’

‘Drink,’ ordered Neyll, slamming a goblet on the table in front of him and filling it to the brim. ‘In my country, no guest
leaves without refreshment. Not even members of pompous, rich Colleges. You, too, Valence. Sit, or we will be deeply offended.’

Bartholomew did not want his refusal to be used as an excuse for a spat, so with a sigh of resignation, he perched on the
bench next to Valence and picked up the goblet. ‘To good relations,’ he said, raising it in salute. ‘Between the hostels and
the Colleges.’

‘I do not know about that,’ growled Kendale. ‘I am more inclined to toast continued hostilities. It is a lot more satisfying.’

There was a cheer from the students, and the toast was repeated in a feisty roar.

Because he was tired, the wine went straight to Bartholomew’s head. He finished it with difficulty, and started to stand,
but Neyll grabbed his shoulder and pushed him back down again, while another student refilled the goblet. Meanwhile, Valence
was already on his third cupful.

‘We really must go,’ said Bartholomew, trying to struggle away from Neyll’s meaty hand. It was hopeless: the burly Bible Scholar
was extremely strong.

‘Why?’ demanded Kendale. ‘You cannot have more patients at this time of the night. Or are you too good to drink in our hostel?’

‘Of course not,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But patients summon me at all hours, and—’

‘Drink!’ ordered Kendale, flicking his fingers at an alebellied lad, who brought another jug of claret to the hearth. Kendale
swallowed two brimming cups in quick succession, and indicated that the student was to pour him a third.

‘Easy,’ advised Bartholomew. ‘Too much wine is not good after the shock of a wound.’

Kendale sneered. ‘I am from the north. We can drink as much as we like without it having the slightest effect on us. Why do
you think we win so many battles?’

Bartholomew was not entirely sure how these two claims fitted together. ‘I see,’ he hedged.

‘My family’s history is peppered with glorious victories,’ Kendale went on. His students gave another cheer, and he grinned
at them. ‘Indeed, we all have warrior blood
running in our veins, which is why we can drink any mere College man into a state of oblivion.’

‘I am sure you can,’ said Bartholomew, hoping he and Valence would not be expected to meet the challenge. He changed the subject
hastily. ‘What percentage of brimstone to pitch did you use when you lit up St Mary the Great? You see, I would like a lamp
that burns with a constant light. It would be useful for situations like these, where it is difficult to see what—’

‘You could not see properly?’ demanded Kendale. ‘No wonder it hurt!’

‘I did not mean—’ began Bartholomew, realising he would have to watch what he said.

‘Drink up,’ interrupted Neyll. ‘Or is our claret not fine enough for you?’

‘It is very nice,’ said Bartholomew, taking another gulp. Someone had refilled his cup again, and he wondered whether they
intended to keep him there all night. ‘Now, about the light—’

‘No,’ said Kendale firmly. ‘Why should I tell you how to create something that might make you rich? I would be better inventing
such a lamp myself.’

‘Do it, then,’ urged Bartholomew. ‘It would have all manner of useful applications.’

‘No,’ said Kendale again. ‘I have better things to do. Such as besting arrogant Colleges.’

There was yet another cheer from the students, and Kendale raised his goblet in a sloppy salute. Cups were drained and slammed
down on tables, and the ale-bellied student began filling them again. Bartholomew tried to snatch his away, but his fingers
were now clumsy and he was too late. He glanced at Valence and saw him glare defiantly at Neyll before downing the contents
of his beaker in a single swallow. Neyll did the same, then reached for the jug.

‘Stop,’ ordered Bartholomew, loath to spend the rest of the night dealing with cases of excessive intoxication, especially
as he was now far from sober himself. ‘You have been more than generous, Principal Kendale, but it is time for us to go home.’

‘Yes, give us our fee, and we will be gone,’ slurred Valence. ‘A shilling.’

Bartholomew winced. Payment had been a long way from his mind, and he wished it had been a long way from Valence’s, too. It
was not the time for issuing demands for cash.

‘A shilling?’ demanded the ale-paunched student. ‘That is brazen robbery!’

‘It is non-negotiable, Gib,’ stated Valence, trying to stand and failing. He slumped into Neyll, who slopped wine on the floor.
‘You should have asked for a quotation before we started if you intended to bargain with us.’

‘Bartholomew is a surgeon, not a builder,’ snapped Gib. ‘You do not haggle with surgeons.’

‘He is a physician,’ declared Valence hotly. He hiccuped. ‘Not a surgeon.’

‘If Bartholomew were a physician, he would have prepared my horoscope and inspected my urine,’ said Kendale. ‘But he sutured
my wounds. That is surgery. And surgeons are lowly, base creatures, so we shall pay accordingly. One penny.’