The Killer of Pilgrims (27 page)

Bartholomew blinked at the abrupt question. ‘I thought you had decided not to tackle them until you had more evidence.’

Michael grimaced. ‘That was about the murders, the pilgrim badge thefts and our missing gates. But they are material witnesses
to what happened to Poynton, so they cannot object to questions about him. And if the occasion arises, perhaps I shall see
what a little subtle probing on other matters brings to light. Besides, I am low on clues, so it is time to rattle a few nerves.’

Bartholomew followed him over the road to Chestre Hostel. The rain had darkened its plaster to the point where it was almost
black, and a strategically placed window shutter made the ‘face’ on the front of the building appear to be leering. Even Michael
looked a little unsettled when he rapped on the door and it evinced an eerily booming echo that rumbled along the corridor
within.

‘We have already told you all we know,’ said Kendale irritably, when the Senior Proctor and his Corpse Examiner were shown
into the hall. ‘And I am busy.’

He was teaching, and from the complex explanations chalked on the wall, Bartholomew could see he was deep into the mean speed
theorem. He was sorry Kendale was unfriendly, because he would have liked to listen. However, he could see by the bored, bemused
faces that Chestre’s students did not feel the same way.

‘But not too busy to offer a little hospitality,’ said Neyll, exchanging a sly grin with Gib and lifting a jug. Bartholomew
felt sick at the thought of it: it was far too early in the day for wine.

‘It is the Feast Day of St Dorothea,’ declared Michael, raising an imperious hand to stop the Bible Scholar from pouring.
‘And we always abstain from strong drink then, to honour her. We cannot accept your generous offer, I am afraid.’

Neyll opened his mouth to argue, but could apparently think of nothing to say, and closed it again. Bartholomew hoped the
monk had not lied, for the excuse was something that could be checked.

‘Then state your business, so I can return to my lecture,’ ordered Kendale arrogantly. ‘Is it to ask yet more tediously bumbling
questions about Poynton, like you did yesterday?’

‘Yes,’ replied Michael, equally haughty. ‘I want to know why Gib sobbed like a girl over his bruised leg, thus allowing Neyll
to murder a pilgrim on the camp-ball field.’

Even Bartholomew was taken aback by this assertion, and the students were livid. They flew to their feet, and for a moment
the hall was a cacophony of clamouring voices.

‘That is not my idea of subtle probing, Brother,’ murmured Bartholomew, as Michael held up an authoritative hand for silence.
It was ignored, and it was Kendale who restored calm.

‘Sit,’ he ordered his scholars. They did so immediately, and he turned to the monk. ‘I assure you there was no
collusion between Neyll and Gib. And Neyll was only one of a score of men who inadvertently crushed Poynton, anyway. Clearly,
the man owned a feeble constitution and should not have been playing such a rough game.’

Bartholomew watched Neyll and Gib intently, but their faces were blank, and he could read nothing in them. Nor could he tell
whether Kendale had had an inkling that his violent students might have committed a crime. Neither could Michael, apparently,
because he changed the subject.

‘This business of our gates,’ he began, and Bartholomew saw Kendale’s hubris had nettled him into saying more than he had
intended. ‘It was neither amusing nor clever.’

‘I quite agree,’ said Kendale. ‘Which is why we are not guilty. We would never demean ourselves with such a paltry trick.
It is hardly in the same class as illuminating St Mary the Great!’

‘Your “fuses”,’ began Bartholomew, still hoping to learn something useful from that escapade. ‘No one can work out how you—’

‘True,’ interrupted Michael, cutting across him and concentrating on Kendale. ‘Stealing gates
is
an asinine prank, so I know
you
are innocent. However, your students—’

‘My lads had nothing to do with it,’ interrupted Kendale firmly. ‘And I suggest you look to a College for your culprit. They
are the unimaginative ones, not we.’

‘It was Seneschal Welfry,’ declared Neyll, grinning. ‘
He
did it, so the hostels would be blamed. He had better not try anything like it on us, or I will slit his … I will not
be pleased.’

‘There you are, Brother,’ said Kendale smugly. ‘Speak to Welfry – that fool in a Dominican habit, who takes it upon himself
to answer the hostels’ challenges. Incidentally, the townfolk were disappointed by yesterday’s camp-ball.
They said it was boring. So, I have decided to sponsor another game on Tuesday. It will be between the hostels and the Colleges,
and any scholar will be welcome to join in.’

Bartholomew was appalled, knowing exactly what would happen if a lot of young men were given free rein to punch other young
men from foundations they did not like.

‘You cannot,’ said Michael, also trying to mask his shock. ‘It will be the same day as the Stock Extraordinary Lecture. You
will never recruit enough players.’

But he would, of course, because camp-ball was far more interesting to students than a theological debate, and Kendale knew
it. He smiled languorously.

‘I am sure we shall rustle up sufficient support. And afterwards we shall provide free wine and ale, for players and spectators
alike.’

If the game itself did not lead to a fight, then Chestre’s powerful beverages would certainly do the trick. Bartholomew gaped
at him, horrified that he should even contemplate such an irresponsible act.

‘I refuse you permission,’ said Michael coldly. ‘You cannot hold such an event without the consent of the Senior Proctor,
and that will not be forthcoming.’

Kendale held a piece of parchment aloft, and Bartholomew did not think he had ever seen a more maliciously gloating expression.
‘I do not need your consent, because I have gone over your head. Chancellor Tynkell has given me what I need, and he is head
of the University, is he not?’

‘Only in theory,’ replied Michael icily. ‘Tynkell’s writ will be annulled within the hour.’

‘It will not,’ predicted Kendale. He smiled again. ‘I have powerful friends in the King’s court, and Tynkell is a lot more
concerned about offending them than you.’

‘The game will be fun,’ said Neyll insolently, delighted by the monk’s growing alarm. ‘A chance for the hostels to demonstrate
their superiority over the fat, greedy Colleges. It will be a great spectacle – for scholars and townsfolk alike.’

‘A bloody spectacle,’ muttered Michael. ‘Lord! There will be deaths galore.’

‘You cannot do it,’ blurted Bartholomew. ‘Please reconsider, Kendale! Surely, your conscience tells you that this is wrong?’

‘I am sponsoring a game and drinks for my fellow men,’ said Kendale, while his students sniggered. ‘That makes me a philanthropist.
What can possibly trouble my conscience about that?’

‘I will not allow this to happen,’ warned Michael.

‘You can try to stop me,’ said Kendale softly. ‘But you will not succeed.’

Michael was so angry as he stormed out of Chestre that he did not hear the jeering laughter that followed. White-faced, he
stamped towards the High Street, and those who saw the expression on his face gave him a wide berth. Even Emma, who was walking
with Heslarton and Odelina, closed her mouth and the remark she had been planning to make went unspoken. Odelina smiled coquettishly
at Bartholomew, and reached out to snare his arm as he passed.

‘I am better,’ she said in a low, sultry voice. ‘You were right: a good night’s sleep banished my fever and rendered me hale
and hearty again. I owe you a great deal.’

‘You owe me nothing,’ said Bartholomew shortly, aware that Heslarton was listening, and loath for the man to think his daughter
might need protecting from predatory medics. Heslarton wore the broadsword he had been honing the previous night, and it looked
sharp and deadly.

‘No, we do not,’ agreed Emma. Her malignant face creased into what he supposed was a smile. ‘But we are appreciative anyway.
I might do you a favour one day, if it is convenient to me.’

Bartholomew was not sure what to make of such an enigmatic offer, but he had more pressing matters to concern him at that
moment, and he pushed Emma and her family from his mind as he ran to catch up with Michael. Seeing that the red fury burned
as hotly as ever, he put a calming hand on the monk’s shoulder. Michael shrugged it off.

‘Who does Tynkell think he is?’ he raged.

‘The Chancellor?’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘Kendale is right: he
is
supposed to be in charge.’

‘He has never been in charge,’ snarled Michael. ‘Not even in the beginning. It has always been me, so how dare he issue writs
without my permission!’

There was no reasoning with him, so Bartholomew followed him to St Mary the Great, where the Chancellor’s office comprised
a chamber that was considerably less grand than the Senior Proctor’s. They arrived to find Tynkell laid low with stomach pains,
something from which he often suffered, due to a peculiar aversion to hygiene. The room stank, and Bartholomew itched to put
his sleeve over his mouth. The wrath drained out of Michael when he saw Tynkell looking so pitiful.

‘Why did you sign Kendale’s writ?’ he asked tiredly, slumping on to a bench.

‘Because he came with his loutish students and frightened the life out of me,’ replied Tynkell, nervously defensive. ‘And
then he showed me letters from his kinsmen, who are close to the King, and said they would be displeased if I refused him.’

‘So?’ asked Michael. ‘Who cares about what they think?’

‘I do, and so do you. They might persuade the King to
favour our sister University at Oxford, and then where would we be?’

‘We may not
have
a University if this game takes place,’ Michael pointed out. He reached for pen and inkpot. ‘You will issue a declaration
withdrawing permission. You have the perfect excuse, in that it is on the same day as the Stock Extraordinary Lecture. You
can claim the conflict slipped your mind. No one will hold it against you.’

‘It is too late,’ said Tynkell miserably. ‘Kendale has already made his intentions public, and people are looking forward
to the free drinks. If we cancel now, the town will see us as a spoiler of fun, and we shall have a riot anyway.’

‘But the Carmelites will be livid,’ cried Michael. ‘The lecture is an important event for them, and they will not want a large
chunk of their audience enticed away by sport.’

‘The kind of lad who likes camp-ball is unlikely to be interested in theology,’ began Tynkell, but Michael overrode him, blasting
on as though he had not spoken.

‘Worse, they may assume the Gilbertines are responsible, because they lost the last game, and we shall have a feud between
the two Orders into the bargain.’

‘There will be no trouble if the event is properly policed,’ argued Tynkell, although with scant conviction. ‘We shall provide
plenty of beadles and all the players will be searched, to ensure they have no weapons.’

‘You will have to search the spectators, too,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I imagine there will be as much fighting off the field as
on it, especially if Kendale aggravates the situation with rumours about martyrs – or worse, with another dangerous joke,
like the crated bull.’

There was a polite knock on the door, and Horneby entered, wearing an enormous woollen scarf to protect his throat.

‘I am sorry, Horneby,’ said Michael, before he could
speak. ‘I would not have interfered with your sermon for the world, and—’

‘It is all right,’ said Horneby, holding up his hand to stop him. ‘Prior Etone is outraged, but I do not want trouble. So
I have come to suggest a solution.’

‘You have?’ asked Michael hopefully. ‘Then let us hear it.’

‘If my sore throat returns, I cannot give my address – it will be postponed regardless of whether or not there is a camp-ball
game. No one can take offence at that.’

‘But you are better,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The swelling is gone.’

Horneby smiled. ‘Then you are going to have to tell a small lie, Bartholomew. You must inform anyone who asks that I need
another day to recover. I shall keep my end of the bargain by staying in my room. I do not mind – it will give me more time
to prepare.’

‘That would work,’ said Michael, nodding. ‘The vicious scrimmage between hostels and the Colleges will still continue, but
at least we will not have to worry about warlike Carmelite novices starting a fight because they feel they have been slighted.
It is a good idea, and very gracious of you, Horneby.’

‘Actually, it was Welfry’s idea,’ the friar admitted, ‘He abhors bloodshed.’

‘Perhaps he will not make such a bad Seneschal, after all,’ said Michael approvingly.

‘My efforts to prevent the hostels going to war with the Colleges are interfering with my hunt for the killer-thief,’ said
Michael the following day, as he and Bartholomew walked home from the church after dawn prayers. It was Sunday, which meant
the ceremonies had lasted longer than usual.

Bartholomew yawned. It had been another dismal night, with the wind whipping through the missing window and water continuing
to ooze through the missing roof despite Langelee’s declarations that there would be trouble if they were not mended. As a
result, he had slept badly again, and his wits were still sluggish.

‘That is unfortunate,’ he said, ‘because Drax’s murder should not be too difficult to solve, when you think about it. A corpse
was brought to our College in broad daylight, so
someone
must have noticed it being toted around. It is almost certainly just a case of locating a witness.’

‘You are right,’ said Michael, after a moment of serious reflection. ‘We will talk to Blaston.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew immediately. ‘Not Blaston. Leave him alone.’

‘I shall not accuse him of anything, but he was closer to where Drax was left than anyone else. There may be a detail he forgot
to mention that will allow us to solve this case. Will he be at home, do you think?’

‘No,’ repeated Bartholomew, sure the monk would not confine himself to innocuous questions, and Blaston was
a friend. ‘Please, Brother. You hurt his feelings the last time we spoke.’

‘I said nothing that was not true, and it is our duty to explore the matter fully – to clear his name of any suspicion, if
nothing else.’

‘Very well,’ said Bartholomew reluctantly. ‘But take care not to offend him, or you may find yourself with leaking windows
in revenge. And it would serve you right.’

‘Do not jest about leaks,’ said Michael, following him towards the High Street, where Blaston owned a house that was far too
small for his enormous family. ‘You can stay with your sister, should life at Michaelhouse become unbearable, but I have nowhere
else to go.’

‘You have plenty of refuges,’ said Bartholomew, wondering why he had not thought of Edith the previous night. ‘Your Benedictine
brethren at Ely House are always pleased to see you, and you have friends in other Colleges.’

‘And let people know Michaelhouse is below par?’ sniffed Michael. ‘That would be disloyal.’

‘There
is
Edith,’ said Bartholomew, when he saw his sister walking towards them with her husband. ‘She was at the camp-ball game yesterday,
but I was too busy to talk to her.’

‘I was not – she is an observant lady, and I hoped she might be able to tell me who killed Poynton. Unfortunately, she could
not. She is carrying a parcel. I wonder if there is any food in it.’ The monk surged forward. ‘Edith! What a pleasant surprise!
Is that a pie in your—’

‘It is for Matt,’ said Edith, jerking the package away from his questing fingers.

‘We are worried about him,’ explained Stanmore. ‘He is always thin and pale these days – a combination of too much teaching,
too many patients, and the slop your College claims is food.’

‘There is nothing wrong with me,’ said Bartholomew tiredly, wishing they would not fuss so.

‘You will take this pie, and eat it all yourself,’ instructed Edith, pressing it into his hand. ‘No sharing with greedy Benedictines.
Do you promise? And there is something else, too. You know Oswald and I went on a pilgrimage to Walsingham last year?’

‘To see what the Blessed Virgin could do about the fact that your son seduced the Earl of Suffolk’s daughter,’ said Bartholomew,
wondering what was coming next.

Edith’s expression hardened. ‘She was the one who did the seducing, but that is beside the point. Which is that my badge has
been stolen. I only left my cloak – the nice dark red one – unattended for an instant, but when I turned around, it had gone.
And the token was gone with it.’

‘We believe the culprit is a scholar,’ Stanmore went on. ‘That is why we were coming to see you. At first, in the interests
of town–University relations, we decided to overlook the matter, but then we heard that others have fallen victim to his light
fingers, so we thought we had better mention it.’

Michael blanched. ‘I sincerely hope you are wrong! What led you to this conclusion?’

‘Because the theft took place in the Gilbertines’ chapel,’ explained Edith. ‘The only townsfolk present, other than us, were
Emma, Gyseburne and Meryfeld. None of them are likely to steal a cloak, so the thief
had
to have been a member of the University – a student or a cleric.’

‘We said nothing to Prior Leccheworth, of course,’ added Stanmore. ‘We did not want to offend him by denouncing one of his
guests as a scoundrel. But it was distressing to fall victim to a crime that took place on holy ground – a betrayal of trust.’

‘Can you remember who else was there?’ asked Michael unhappily.

‘Yes,’ replied Edith. ‘All the Gilbertines and all the Carmelites, the scholars from Chestre … although I cannot imagine
why
they
were invited, because they are a surly crowd.’

‘They were included because the Gilbertines have taken the hostels’ side in the University’s latest quarrel,’ explained Stanmore.
‘And Chestre is very vocal against the Colleges.’

‘Those four pilgrims were present, too,’ Edith went on. She frowned. ‘Of course,
they
are not members of the University, so perhaps we are wrong to accuse a scholar of the crime …’

‘You mean Fen?’ pounced Michael eagerly. ‘The pardoner?’

Edith nodded. ‘And finally, Thelnetham had invited Ayera. And that was all – there was no one else. But the most important
fact is yet to come. Tell them, Oswald.’

‘We saw a man with yellow hair,’ announced Stanmore. ‘We thought nothing of it at the time, but then we heard the description
of the villain who robbed Emma, the Mayor, Welfry, Celia Drax, Poynton and God knows who else.’

‘It was definitely a wig,’ added Edith. ‘And we suspect one of the guests shoved it on his head to disguise himself while
he stole my badge. He may have pilfered other things, too, then reverted to his normal appearance to shake hands and smile
at his hosts as he left with his ill-gotten gains.’

Michael groaned. ‘A scholar stealing
signacula
and murdering townsfolk! We shall have a riot for certain, and the University is already in turmoil with the hostels at the
Colleges’ throats.’

‘We shall say nothing, Brother,’ said Stanmore quietly.
‘You see, we have just been to visit Emma, and we do not want to be responsible for
her
making war on scholars for stealing her box.’

‘We did not want to go,’ added Edith. ‘But she summoned us, and we did not dare refuse.’

‘Really?’ asked Michael, still dazed from what he had been told. ‘Why?’

‘Because she is powerful,’ explained Stanmore. ‘I am happy to ignore the orders of others I find objectionable, but there
is something about her that makes me want to stay on her good side.’

‘Actually, I meant why did she summon you,’ said Michael. ‘You do not need to justify your reluctance to annoy her, because
I feel the same way.’

‘She wanted to talk to us about Matt,’ said Edith. ‘Because he saved her granddaughter from poison, and she was eager for
his family to know his efforts were appreciated.’

‘I did very little,’ said Bartholomew, startled. ‘Gyseburne and Meryfeld were there, and—’

‘And stood by while you did all the work,’ interrupted Stanmore. ‘We had the tale from her own lips. But this is bad news!
It is risky to offend her, but it is equally risky to earn her affection. She intends to dismiss Meryfeld and rehire you,
because she thinks you are more likely to cure her.’

‘The only way that will happen is if a tooth is removed,’ said Bartholomew.

‘Do not extract her fangs!’ cried Stanmore in horror. ‘First, tooth-pulling is the domain of surgeons, and you should not
perform such lowly tasks. And second, if anything goes wrong, I doubt she will be very forgiving.’

‘But it
must
come out,’ said Bartholomew, tired of explaining the obvious. ‘It is rotting, which means it will release bad vapours into
her blood. I have seen such cases turn fatal.’

Stanmore glanced behind him, to ensure he could not be overheard, then lowered his voice. ‘Would that be such a terrible thing?
The woman is evil – I feel it with every bone in my body. Perhaps you
should
let nature take its course.’

The Blaston home was a chaos of noise when Bartholomew and Michael arrived. At least four children were crying, several were
enjoying a game that involved slamming pots against a table, and the rest were engaged in a furious argument about whose turn
it was to go for water. It was colder inside the house than out, and there was no evidence that a fire would be lit for dinner.
One child was sobbing more from distress than demands for attention, so Bartholomew picked it up.

‘There is something wrong with him,’ said Yolande, watching. Her usually hard face was tender. ‘He will not stop grizzling.’

‘He is hungry,’ said Bartholomew, noting the bloated belly and overly large eyes.

‘Poor mite,’ murmured Michael, not liking the sound of that.

‘But he vomits up the stew I feed him,’ said Yolande in frustration. ‘He will not keep it down.’

‘Because he needs milk sops,’ explained Bartholomew. ‘Valence will bring him some later.’

‘We do not accept charity,’ said Blaston stiffly.

‘It is not charity,’ countered Bartholomew shortly. ‘It is medicine.’

Blaston sat at the table and put his head in his hands. Yolande went to stand next to him, resting her hand on his shoulder.
Suddenly, the older children stopped arguing, the middle ones ended their assault on the table, and the babies ceased bawling.
The silence was eerie.

‘I do not know how we will survive,’ said the carpenter brokenly. ‘Summer is a long way off still, and work is scarce.’

‘Not for me,’ said Yolande comfortingly. ‘I can get plenty of new clients. Do not fret, Rob. Doctor Rougham is giving me an
extra shilling tonight, and Alfred earned three pence by running errands for Master Walkot at King’s Hall yesterday.’

‘And I will pay you for information,’ added Michael. ‘I need you to think really carefully about what happened when Drax died.
You said you were in the stable, but did not see anything.’

‘Not again, Brother!’ whispered Blaston, fixing him with haunted eyes. ‘How many more times must I tell you that it had nothing
to do with me?’

‘We know,’ said Bartholomew soothingly. A rather dangerous expression was creeping across Yolande’s face; she would not stand
by quietly while her husband was harassed. ‘But you are our best hope for a clue as to the killer’s identity. You were closer
to where Drax was dumped than anyone else.’

Blaston scrubbed at his cheeks. ‘The business has plagued my thoughts ever since, and I have replayed it again and again in
my mind.’

‘And?’ prompted Michael, when the carpenter hesitated.

‘And I may be wrong, but I
think
I heard Drax being dragged into the College.’

Michael laid several coins on the table, although the information was hardly worth them. ‘I knew you would remember something.’

‘There is more. I am fairly sure I heard footsteps, too. Two sets. In other words,
two
men came, carrying Drax between them. They could have left him out in plain sight, but instead they hid him behind the tiles
and made sure
he was under that sheet. I think they did it to confuse you.’

‘Explain,’ ordered Michael.

Blaston raised his hands in a shrug. ‘To make you appreciate that someone cunning is behind the affair. Not some spur-of-the
moment killer, who struck out blindly, but someone with an agenda.’

Michael nodded wearily. ‘You are almost certainly right.’

‘I thought at first that Yffi did it, because they were his tiles. I assumed he had intended to keep the corpse hidden until
he could find somewhere more permanent for it – a plan thwarted by Agatha and the dog. But then I heard Drax was killed in
Physwick’s dairy, and my theory made no sense – the dairy is a much better place for storing bodies. So I reconsidered. The
villain must be from the hostels, and he left a corpse in Michaelhouse because it was the nearest available College.’

‘Speaking of Yffi, why is no work being done on our roof today?’ asked Michael. He had already reasoned as much himself, and
did not need to hear Blaston’s speculations on the matter. ‘I know it is Sunday, but we were awash again last night, and this
is an emergency.’

‘I wish I could finish the work for you,’ said Blaston tiredly. ‘But I am a carpenter, not a mason.’

‘I shall have another word with Emma,’ said Michael. ‘She will encourage him back to work.’

‘I doubt it. It is she who is paying for St Simon Stock’s new shrine, and I imagine she thinks completing that will earn her
more favour with God than mending your roof.’

‘I did not know that,’ said Michael grimly. ‘Thank you.’

It was raining again when Bartholomew and Michael left Blaston. The monk went to petition Emma, while Bartholomew returned
to the College and gave the last of his money to Valence, to buy milk and bread for Yolande’s
baby – Edith’s pie had ‘accidentally’ been left behind for the others. Then he went to his room where Edith, knowing her
brother well enough to predict what would happen, had arranged for a replacement pie to be sitting on his desk. He could not
have eaten it to save his life: the plight of the Blaston family had sickened him. He sank down on a chest, put his head in
his hands, and was still sitting so when Michael returned. The monk went straight to the parcel and unwrapped it.

‘Beef!’ he exclaimed in pleasure. ‘And Lombard slices, too. They are my favourites, so clearly she packed them for me.’

‘Actually, she told me not to share them with greedy Benedictines.’

‘Well, there you are then,’ said Michael with a shrug. ‘I am not greedy, so she cannot have been referring to me. Eat something,
Matt, and I shall join you. It will eliminate the nasty taste in my mouth, after begging Emma to order Yffi back to work and
hearing her say she will not interfere.’