The Killer of Pilgrims (22 page)

‘I wish it was
you
working on the roof,’ said Michael fervently. ‘Could you not run up a ladder and nail a few tiles down? Yffi does not seem
very interested in doing it.’

Blaston laughed. ‘Tiling is a skilled task, Brother, and I will not undertake anything I cannot do well. Of course, I could
probably do a better job than Yffi – I have no respect for his workmanship.’

‘You are not the only one,’ muttered Michael. ‘Did
you
see anyone tampering with our gates?’

‘Unfortunately not,’ said Blaston ruefully. ‘Or I would have stopped them. But my work absorbs me, as you have just seen,
and I notice very little once I start.’

‘When we spoke before, you mentioned your unhappiness
with the high prices Drax charged for ale. Will you tell me exactly what—’

Blaston’s eyes opened wide with alarm. ‘You think I killed him because his ale was too expensive! But I was here, in Michaelhouse,
when he was murdered.’

‘Actually, you were not,’ countered Michael. ‘Drax died when you told us you left to buy nails.’

‘The smith will tell you I went to his forge and left him money,’ objected Blaston. ‘
Ask
him.’

‘I have, and he did. I am not accusing you, Blaston. I am merely pointing out a fact – namely that no one can vouch for you
at the time of Drax’s death.’

‘Then what about Yffi?’ demanded Blaston angrily. ‘
His
alibi is those vile lads, who would think nothing of lying to protect him – or rather, to protect their jobs. Moreover,
he
disliked Drax’s high prices, too, and was always complaining about them. Ask
him
these questions, not me!’

Bartholomew was dismayed to see tears glitter as Blaston turned back to his work. He grabbed Michael’s arm and tugged him
away, determined that the carpenter should be distressed no further.

‘You hurt his feelings with your “facts”, Brother,’ he said reproachfully, when they were out of earshot. ‘We both know he
is innocent, so why torment him?’

Michael glared. ‘Because it would be remiss not to explore
all
the lines of enquiry available to us. Blaston probably is innocent, but you think so because he is a friend and you like
him, whereas I would rather eliminate him with solid evidence. Dick Tulyet will not be sentimental about what he learns, and
neither should we.’

Bartholomew supposed he had a point, although he did not feel like admitting it. ‘Where are you going next?’

‘It is time I put my needs first, and my investigations second. I am going to ask Yffi why he has left us with no
roof. Are you coming, or are you afraid I might say something to offend him, too?’

With a sigh, Bartholomew followed him through Michaelhouse’s gateless entrance.

The Carmelite Priory was a good deal calmer than it had been during the kerfuffle over the attempt to snatch St Simon Stock’s
scapular. The shrine was busy, as usual, but it was now being guarded by two sturdy lay-brothers. Bartholomew and Michael
arrived just as the visiting pilgrims emerged from it. The physician was surprised to see Horneby and Welfry with them.

‘You should be resting,’ he told the Carmelite.

Horneby smiled. ‘I woke this morning feeling much better, although, as you can hear, I am still hoarse. Then Welfry said St
Simon Stock might be willing to ensure I have a strong voice for the lecture I am to give in his honour, so we went to pray
in his shrine.’

Welfry crossed himself. ‘I hope he listened, and will be inclined to oblige. I am looking forward to Horneby’s address – the
University is dull during term time, when everyone is too busy teaching to propound new theories, and I need something to
enliven my life.’

‘I do not suppose you enlivened it by stealing my College’s gates, did you?’ asked Michael coolly. ‘Someone spirited them
away this morning.’

Welfry looked startled, then laughed when Michael explained what had happened. The monk was unimpressed by his reaction.

‘I would not have thought the Seneschal would delight in silly ventures,’ he said icily.

‘Then you do not know him very well,’ muttered Horneby.

‘I am all admiration for the hostels’ ingenuity today,’
declared Welfry, still smiling. ‘Taking the gates is not as clever as the trebuchet business, but—’

‘How do you know it was a hostel that stole them?’ Michael pounced.

‘Oh, come, Brother!’ exclaimed Welfry. ‘Of course it was a hostel. Who else would pick on a College? I shall have to think
of an answering trick to—’

‘No,’ ordered Michael sharply. ‘This ridiculous rivalry has gone far enough. We shall have a war on our hands if it continues,
and none of us want a bit of foolery to end in bloodshed.’

Welfry sobered immediately. ‘Of course not, Brother. Forgive me. It must be because …’ He trailed off, and his hand went
to the place where the little boot had been pinned. A hole in the material showed where it had been ripped away.

‘I heard you lost your
signaculum
,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I am sorry.’

‘So am I,’ said Welfry, genuinely downcast. ‘I know Dominicans are not supposed to own personal property, but that badge represented
… It was my reminder that …’

‘It helped him keep his sense of fun in check,’ explained Horneby. ‘He thinks laughter makes him a poor friar, although I
cannot say I agree. There is nothing wrong with making people smile, and if more men were like Welfry, Cambridge would be
a happier place.’

Welfry blushed, clearly uncomfortable with his friend’s approbation. He turned awkward and tongue-tied, uncharacteristically
at a loss for words.

‘I had better do all I can to retrieve it, then,’ said Michael. ‘In the meantime, concentrate on your duties as Seneschal.
That should keep you away from the temptations posed by practical jokes.’

‘Come, Welfry,’ said Horneby, taking his friend’s arm. ‘I have prepared the next part of my lecture and I would like you to
read it. That should keep you out of mischief for a while.’

Keenly interested, Welfry allowed himself to be led away. Michael watched them go.

‘There is something odd about their friendship,’ he said. ‘Welfry possesses an excellent mind, but he is too frivolous to
put it to good purpose, so why does Horneby waste time with him?’

‘Horneby is not wasting his time,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Welfry has helped him a great deal with his sermon – probably more than
Horneby will ever admit.’

But Michael was not listening. He had fixed glaring eyes on Prior Etone, who was standing by the shrine with Yffi. He marched
towards them, ignoring the greetings of Poynton and Fen as he stalked past. Not wanting to cause offence, Bartholomew hastened
to wish the pilgrims good day.

‘Has Michael located the villain who stole my badge yet?’ demanded Poynton. His face was more flushed than usual, and his
eyes had a yellow cast, both signs of poor health.

‘If he had, he would have told you,’ retorted Fen sharply, and it seemed that even his equable temper was being tested by
Poynton’s constant belligerence.

‘I understand you stayed in the Griffin when you first arrived in the town,’ said Bartholomew, also sufficiently irritated
by Poynton’s manner to go on the offensive. He did not share Michael’s suspicions about Fen as a suspect for the killer-thief,
but Poynton was another matter entirely: he might well have lied about his badge being stolen, and the crimes did seem to
have started the day he arrived. ‘It was owned by John Drax, who was subsequently murdered. Did you meet him?’

‘Yes – and we disliked him profoundly,’ Poynton declared. ‘I am not surprised God saw fit to end his miserable life. His ale
was expensive, and he denied his regular patrons credit.’

Fen smiled at the physician. ‘Speaking of wine, Thelnetham was here earlier, and he mentioned that you partook too heavily
of it last night. Are you recovered? You are very pale.’

‘
Thelnetham
told you that?’ demanded Poynton, while Bartholomew wondered two things: why Fen should change the subject so abruptly, and
why Thelnetham should have been discussing him with strangers. ‘But he is a Gilbertine, and you should not fraternise with
them – we are to play them at camp-ball this afternoon, so they are the enemy.’

‘Poynton has been invited to join the Carmelites’ team,’ explained Fen, when the merchant had stamped furiously away. ‘Apparently,
he is good at it, although I do not believe it is a pastime worthy of a pilgrim. But now you must excuse me, too, because
I have not finished my prayers.’

Bartholomew wanted to pursue the matter of Drax but Fen either did not hear or chose to ignore the question he began to ask.
Thwarted, the physician walked towards Michael, who was engaged in a head-to-head confrontation with Prior Etone and Yffi.

‘—cannot rip the roof off my home,’ the monk was shouting, ‘then disappear on another job.’

‘But this is far more important than your roof, Brother,’ snapped Etone. ‘Yffi is to build us a proper shrine. The incident
yesterday told us that we need something more secure, and we were delighted when he said he could begin work immediately.’

‘I am sure you were!’ yelled Michael. ‘But that is not the point. He has been engaged to repair Michaelhouse,
and he cannot leave us with no windows and no roof while he makes you a temple.’

Yffi sighed heavily. ‘All right. I will go to Michaelhouse, and my apprentices will stay here. Then everyone will be happy.
And do not say that is unacceptable, Brother, because the work on your roof has reached the point where only a master mason
can make headway anyway. My lads would have been standing around doing nothing, regardless.’

Michael was clearly unconvinced, but Yffi grabbed a sack of tools and stalked towards the gate, indicating with a wave of
his hand that his apprentices were to begin measuring out the new site. Etone immediately went to pester them with unwanted
advice and directions.

‘Yffi has left his apprentices unattended, Brother,’ remarked Bartholomew, to stall the impending diatribe. ‘It is an opportunity
to speak to them without a master prompting their replies.’

A determined gleam came into Michael’s eyes. ‘So it is! And we need not worry about objections from Etone that we are distracting
them, because Poynton and Fen have just dragged him off somewhere – probably to complain about impertinent questions from
you. You did ask some, I hope?’

‘None that elicited helpful answers.’

‘It was as Yffi told you,’ said Peterkin, when the monk ordered them to repeat their story. ‘We could not see the yard. It
was dangerous upon that roof, and we were concentrating on our work.’

‘You were discussing Yolande de Blaston,’ countered Michael. ‘That was not concentrating.’

The lad flushed. ‘We can talk about her and do our jobs at the same time. But how could we see anything down in the yard when
we were lounging around the back of the …’ He faltered.

‘Lounging?’ pounced Michael.

Peterkin tried to retract his words, but it was too late. The slip allowed Michael to launch into one of his aggressive interrogations,
and he soon learned that Yffi and his lads had been idling out of sight when Drax’s body had been hidden.

‘The first we knew about it was when Agatha started fooling around with that dog,’ said Peterkin, speaking reluctantly and
sulkily. ‘We all looked down at the yard then.’

‘Who initiated that discussion about Yolande?’ demanded Michael. ‘Yffi?’

A sly grin stole across Peterkin’s face. ‘Yes, because it amused him when all you scholars started listening to us. We could
not see the yard, but we could see into your hall, and we saw we had your undivided attention. And half of you are priests,
too! You should know better.’

‘Yes,’ said Michael bitterly. ‘We should, because it was your lewd banter that let a killer deposit a corpse in our College.
You are not innocent in this affair, and I intend to see you pay for it.’

He turned on his heel and strode away, leaving the grin fading from Peterkin’s face, and his cronies exchanging anxious glances.

Langelee invited Bartholomew to dine with him when the physician returned to Michaelhouse, plying him with fresh bread, roasted
meat, sweetmeats and a very small goblet of wine.

‘If you are still thirsty, you can have some small ale,’ said Langelee, snatching the cup away before Bartholomew had taken
more than a token sip. ‘You cannot be drunk for this afternoon.’

‘I will not be drunk,’ said Bartholomew testily, indicating that the Master should return it to him. It was good wine.
‘Not on a thimbleful of claret. Are you nervous?’

‘A little,’ admitted Langelee. ‘It is the biggest camp-ball game of the season.’

‘Well, just be careful,’ said Bartholomew, finishing the wine and standing to leave. ‘We do not want anything to happen to
you.’

‘Nothing will happen to me,’ declared Langelee, following him across the yard. ‘But the opposition had better watch themselves.
The Carmelites have recruited two of the louts from Chestre Hostel, and if
they
try anything sly, they will be sorry.’

‘There is no evidence that it was Chestre who stole the gates,’ warned Bartholomew, afraid Langelee might decide to punish
the outrage on the field. ‘It may have been someone else.’

‘Of course it was them,’ said Langelee bitterly. ‘They have always hated us.’

Bartholomew looked uncomfortably at the yawning gap in the College’s defences as they passed through it. It was disconcerting,
and he felt acutely vulnerable, despite the student-guards on patrol.

‘Do you know how the two Orders came to challenge each other to an annual camp-ball game in the first place?’ he asked, as
they walked up St Michael’s Lane.

‘After the plague, life was bleak, so the Gilbertines decided to cheer everyone up. They settled on sponsoring a bout of camp-ball
because it is popular with townsfolk, as well as scholars. The Carmelites thought it a wonderful idea, and offered to fund
the opposing team.’

‘And it always takes place on the day after the Feast of St Gilbert of Sempringham?’