The Killer of Pilgrims (28 page)

‘I do not want any.’

‘Starving yourself will not help the Blaston brats. Eat this, or I shall tell Edith you gave it to your students. And then
there will be trouble.’

Bartholomew had a feeling he might do it, so took the proffered slice. It was good, although he barely tasted it, and at one
point he gagged.

‘Perhaps I should go on a pilgrimage,’ said the monk, watching him. ‘And ask for an early end to winter. What do you think?’

‘That the University would be in flames by the time its Senior Proctor returned.’

Michael selected the largest of the Lombard slices and inserted it into his mouth. ‘In that case, perhaps I had better stay,’
he said, enunciating with difficulty. ‘I shall
content myself by catching this killer-thief instead. Perhaps that will suffice to see my sins forgiven.’

‘What sins?’ asked Bartholomew.

Michael waved an airy hand, took another cake and aimed for the door. ‘Come with me to see Walter. Like Blaston, he may have
remembered something else now he has had a chance to reflect.’

They found Walter and his peacock sharing a piece of bread, the porter soaking each crumb in wine before feeding it to the
bird. The creature’s eyes were glazed, and it was unsteady on its feet.

‘Drax,’ stated Michael without preamble. ‘I know you were in the latrines when the body was brought here, but did anything
else happen that was unusual that morning?’

Walter scowled, ever surly. ‘I already told you, no.’

‘Yes,’ said Michael, struggling for patience. ‘But please think again. Was there anything different – anything at all, no
matter how small or insignificant it may seem?’

‘Well, we had sightseers,’ said Walter disapprovingly. ‘Prior Etone brought the pilgrims to stand at our gate and gawp around
– he has always admired the Colleges, which is why he sides with us against the hostels. Then Kendale and his louts tried
to do the same, but I saw them off.’

‘Kendale?’ cried Michael, shocked. ‘Why did you not mention this before?’

‘Because I chased them away the instant they arrived. They had no time for mischief – I saw to that.’ Then Walter looked thoughtful.
‘Although I suppose they
could
have brought Drax’s body here a bit later, when I was in the latrines.’

Michael closed his eyes and whispered something, presumably a prayer for fortitude. Then he opened them again and looked at
Bartholomew. ‘This is enough to allow us to tackle Chestre at last, although it will not be pleasant.’

‘No,’ agreed Bartholomew unenthusiastically. The peacock
issued a noise he had never heard from a bird before, and pecked at the porter’s sleeve to indicate it was time for more
wine-dipped bread. ‘Should you be feeding him that?’

Walter frowned, puzzled. ‘Of course I should. He loves claret.’

‘I am sure he does, but I doubt it is good for him.’

‘You mean I may be doing him harm?’ asked Walter, alarmed.

Bartholomew nodded, so Walter dunked the bread in water instead. The bird ignored it, and looked pointedly at the wine jug.
Clearly, the creature was well on the way to becoming a sot.

‘Feed him seed,’ suggested Bartholomew, taking pity on the horrified porter. ‘Or worms.’

‘He does not eat worms!’ cried Walter indignantly. ‘He is cultured!’

Shaking his head in disgust, both at Walter’s peculiar perception of his pet and his withholding of information that would
have been helpful days ago, Michael aimed for the gateless doorway. He was almost bowled from his feet when Cynric raced into
the yard. He was red faced and breathless.

‘They have found him,’ he gasped. ‘The yellow-headed villain.’

‘Found him where?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Dead,’ panted Cynric. ‘Come and see.’

The rain had stopped when Bartholomew and Michael ran towards the High Street, hot on Cynric’s heels. Because it was Sunday,
the streets were quiet, and most pedestrians were scholars, going to and from their Sabbath devotions. There were friars and
monks in habits of brown, grey, black and white, and students in the uniforms of their foundations. There were rather more
of them than usual, and
Bartholomew noticed for the first time that those who had allied themselves with the hostels had donned some item that was
red, while Colleges and their supporters favoured blue. He regarded them unhappily as he trotted past, dismayed to note that
places previously neutral had now declared an affiliation. The trouble was spreading fast.

‘Jolye was murdered by the hostels,’ he heard the lads of Peterhouse telling the scholars of Bene’t College. ‘He is a martyr
to our cause, and the crime
must
be avenged.’

‘He fell in the river and drowned,’ countered Michael sharply, skidding to a standstill. ‘It was a tragic accident. Do not
abuse his memory by making his death something it was not.’

The Peterhouse students nodded dutifully as they backed away, but the members of Bene’t looked thoughtful, and Bartholomew
knew the damage had been done.

‘This damned rivalry has taken on a life of its own, Matt,’ muttered Michael worriedly. ‘It is gathering momentum, and it
is only a matter of time before it erupts into killing and bloodshed.’

Cynric led them to the Great Bridge, a grand name for the rickety structure that spanned the River Cam. It comprised a single
stone arch, with timber rails to prevent people falling over the sides, and was always on the verge of collapse. Every so
often, a tax was levied to fund its repair, but the town worthies were corrupt, and the money was invariably siphoned off
to other causes.

That day, a crowd had gathered on it. They included Yffi and his apprentices, who were laughing and joking with drinking cronies
from the Griffin.

‘You!’ exclaimed Michael, stopping dead in his tracks. ‘You are meant to be mending our roof.’

‘It is Sunday,’ replied Yffi piously. ‘We do not despoil the Sabbath by labouring.’

‘You were labouring this morning,’ called Isnard the bargeman, who could always be found among spectators, no matter what
had attracted them. ‘You were in the Carmelite Priory, building their shrine. I saw you.’

‘I was not
building
anything,’ asserted Yffi stiffly. ‘I was surveying the site.’

‘You were hammering and sawing,’ countered Isnard.

‘Lies!’ snarled Yffi, bunching his fists.

Michael stepped forward to prevent a spat, but Bartholomew was more interested in what Cynric was trying to show them. He
followed the book-bearer through the throng, knelt down and peered over the edge of the bridge. A rope had been tied to one
of the stanchions to form a noose, and a man with yellow hair was dangling from the end of it. It was a fairly long rope,
and the man’s legs were in the water, causing the body to sway as the river washed past.

Michael joined him, then turned to address the crowd. ‘Who found him?’

‘I did.’ It was Meryfeld, stepping forward importantly and rubbing his grimy hands together. ‘My windows overlook the bridge,
and I saw him when I happened to glance out. He was invisible to anyone walking across it, and might have dangled there for
days, had I not been vigilant.’

‘Was he there yesterday?’ asked Michael.

‘Of course not,’ replied Meryfeld tartly. ‘Or I would have raised the alarm then.’

While Michael continued to question the crowd, Bartholomew grabbed the rope and began to haul. Meryfeld helped, and they soon
had the body up on the bridge. The long yellow hair was plastered across the corpse’s face, but when Bartholomew pushed it
away, he noticed two things: that the victim was Gib from Chestre Hostel, and that he was wearing a wig.

‘I am sorry you have to see a patient like this,’ he said sympathetically, aware that his colleague was looking away in distaste.
‘Hangings are never pleasant.’

Meryfeld raised his eyebrows in surprise, then peered more closely at the corpse. ‘Why, it is Gib! I would never have recognised
him! I wonder what drove him to take his own life.’

‘What makes you think it was suicide?’ asked Bartholomew, taken aback.

Meryfeld shrugged. ‘It is obvious. First, his hands are not tied, as they would have been, had it been murder. Second, none
of the Chestre lads like Cambridge, so they tend to be gloomy all the time. Third, he used a long rope, to ensure he could
not climb back up again, should he change his mind. And last, he is not the first tortured soul to fling himself off this
bridge.’

Bartholomew sat back on his heels. ‘However, first, not all killers tie their victims’ hands, so that proves nothing. Second,
it is a big step from gloom to self-murder. Third, he could not have climbed up a
short
rope, had he had second thoughts, so its length is irrelevant. And last, there
have
been suicides on the bridge, but most have thrown themselves in the water.’

‘So what are you saying?’ demanded Michael, overhearing. ‘That he was murdered?’

Bartholomew pointed to Gib’s ragged fingernails. ‘He certainly put up a fight.’

‘That happened when he clawed at the rope,’ argued Meryfeld. ‘Even when men are determined to die, they still rebel against
the pain of a constricted neck. It is only natural.’

‘But there is a bruise on his head and his arm is broken,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He was involved in some sort of tussle before
he died.’

‘He damaged his arm as he threw himself off the parapet,’ countered Meryfeld doggedly. ‘While the mark on his head occurred
when we dragged him up.’

‘It is difficult to bruise a corpse,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Their blood vessels do not rupture …’

He stopped speaking when he became aware that the crowd was listening, and most were regarding him rather oddly. So was Meryfeld.
He stifled a sigh, and wished he did not have to watch his words whenever he drew on something he had learned from cadavers.

‘I suppose you were taught this in Padua,’ said Meryfeld distastefully. ‘During a dissection.’

‘I have never dissected anyone,’ objected Bartholomew, although he could tell by the crowd’s reaction that it was more interesting
to think that he had. ‘But my work as Corpse Examiner means I know what happens to a person after death, and they do not bruise.
Only living tissues bruise.’

There was a murmur of revulsion at this revelation, and Michael rested his hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘Do not say anything
else,’ he whispered. ‘You are digging yourself a deeper pit.’

‘But they believe I am a—’

‘Sharing grisly details about the dead will not help your case. But never mind this now. We need to take Gib somewhere private,
so you can inspect him without an audience. I want the answers to two questions. First, is this really the yellow-headed killer-thief?
And second, are we now obliged to look for his murderer?’

St Clement’s was the closest church, so Michael made arrangements for Gib to be carried there. While he did so, Bartholomew
talked to the bridge’s guards, who were unrepentant about the fact that someone had been hanged
on the structure they were meant to be watching. All he learned was that Gib had probably died between midnight and five
o’clock, which was when they liked to sleep.

‘Assuming this
is
murder, who are our suspects?’ asked Michael, speaking softly, so as not to be overheard as they followed the grim procession
off the bridge and back towards the town.

‘Heslarton is the obvious choice,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘He has been hunting the killer-thief since last Monday, and has vowed
revenge on the man who not only invaded his mother-in-law’s home, but probably poisoned his wife and daughter, too.’

‘Poison that harmed Alice and Odelina, but that may have been intended for him or Emma.’ Michael was silent for a moment,
thinking. Then he said, ‘
Was
it Gib you chased out of their house?’

Bartholomew closed his eyes as he replayed the memory. ‘The hair looks the same – a wild, yellow shock that tumbled about
his shoulders. I did not see his face, not even when I grabbed the reins of his horse and he kicked me away. The thief was
the same height as Gib …’

‘But?’ asked Michael, sensing a caveat.

Bartholomew’s eyes snapped open when he stumbled over a pile of manure. ‘But anyone can don a wig. And anyone can tie one
on a corpse, too.’

Michael regarded him thoughtfully. ‘In other words, someone may have fastened this hair on Gib to make us – and Heslarton
– stop pursuing the real villain?’

‘It is possible. However, we should not forget what Edith and Oswald told us – that all the Chestre lads were in the Gilbertines’
chapel the day her
signaculum
was stolen. Perhaps Gib
did
put on a yellow wig and make off with her cloak.’

Michael nodded slowly. ‘True. But let us assume for a
moment that you
are
right, and Gib
is
innocent. If we do, then Heslarton cannot be a suspect – he would not have tied a yellow wig on a corpse to stop himself
searching for the real culprit! So who is left on our list?’

‘All the Chestre men are fiery: there may have been a falling out among them. Then there are the killer-thief’s myriad victims
– Celia Drax, Emma, Welfry, Gyseburne, Meryfeld, the Mayor, Burgess Frevill, at least two Franciscans, several merchants,
Poynton … but he is dead.’ There was Edith, too, but Bartholomew saw no reason to include her name.

‘Fen is not dead, though,’ said Michael, eyes gleaming. ‘And pardoners are a murderous breed. It is possible that Fen killed
Gib for stealing something he intended to inherit from Poynton. Meanwhile, I am not sure what to make of Meryfeld and his
insistence that this was suicide.’

Nor was Bartholomew. ‘Gib did not seem depressed at the camp-ball game—’

‘Look!’ hissed Michael, pointing down the street. ‘Speak of the Devil, and he will appear, because there is Fen, and his salacious
nuns with him. We shall order them to inspect Gib and tell us whether it is the man who stole Poynton’s
signaculum
. Remove the wig, Matt. Quickly!’

‘Why?’

‘Because it is distinctive, and if I wore it, they would say
I
was the culprit. Cover his head with his hood, and let us see whether they can make the identification on face and physique
alone.’