The Killer of Pilgrims (42 page)

‘He is not here,’ said Thelnetham. He sounded relieved.

‘He must be,’ whispered Bartholomew. ‘I can smell brimstone. He must have brought it here.’

‘Then
where
is he? He is not under any of the tables, and this is a single room with no pillars to hide behind, or chests in which to
seek shelter.’

Bartholomew saw he was right. Perhaps Welfry had given up when Odelina had been caught, and had fled, taking his pilgrim badges
with him to pay for a new life. Bartholomew sagged, feeling that the Dominican had beaten him. Then he saw a small, sticky
stain on the floor.

He stepped towards it and crouched down. It was definitely the potion he had helped to create in Meryfeld’s garden. Very slowly,
he looked upwards, to the rafters.

‘He
is
here,’ he said softly to Thelnetham.

The Gilbertine peered to where he was pointing. ‘Ropes and pulleys!’ he exclaimed. ‘Half hidden among the shadows and the
darkness. But what are they for?’

‘Another practical joke,’ guessed Bartholomew. ‘Except this one will not be amusing, and will end in death and mutilation.
I believe he intends to shower the people who come for their free drinks with a burning substance that cannot be extinguished
– a ruthlessly vicious variation on the trick at the Dominican Priory, which saw him brained with a basket.’

Thelnetham turned white, and crossed himself. ‘Horrible! Can you see him?’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘Tell Michael what we have found, and do not let anyone come in. I will try to disarm whatever
device he has constructed.’

Thelnetham pointed to a door. ‘There are the stairs that lead to the roof. God forgive me, but Welfry asked me where they
went the other day, and I told him. I thought he was making polite conversation, and he is such a charming fellow …’

‘It is not your fault – he deceived us all. Now go.’

Bartholomew opened the door and began to climb. The steps were narrow, pitch black and very uneven, and he could not go as
fast as he would have liked. It seemed an age before he reached another door, which he opened to reveal a small ledge and
a dizzying drop. But there was something else, too.

In the gloom of the ancient, dusty rafters, he could see buckets attached to ropes. They were linked by twine that had been
smeared with the substance he and his medical colleagues had created, and he understood immediately what was intended to happen:
a flame would be touched to the twine, allowing the perpetrator time to escape while it burned. He recalled Welfry admiring
the ‘fuse’ Kendale had invented when he had illuminated St Mary the Great: he had stolen the idea.

Bartholomew tried to pull the twine away from the pails, but it had been tacked very securely to the wood, and he could not
do it – he would have to disable the receptacles themselves. But these had been positioned far along the rafters, so they
would be directly over the tables below. Cautiously, he stepped off the door ledge, and took several wobbly steps along the
nearest beam. Immediately, the door closed behind him.

‘Keep walking,’ came Welfry’s voice. ‘I have a knife, and I am not afraid to use it. And even if I only injure you, you will
still fall to your death. Walk away from me, and do not turn back.’

Bartholomew could not have turned back, even if he had wanted to, because the beam was too narrow. With no choice but to obey,
he did as Welfry ordered.

His legs trembled, and he tried not to look down, although it was difficult, because he had to watch where
he was putting his feet: the rafter was uneven, and there was a very real risk of him losing his balance and falling to his
death without the Seneschal’s knife helping him along. Eventually, he reached the crown-post in the middle of the rafter,
and grabbed it gratefully.

‘Do not stop,’ called Welfry. ‘There is another door at the far end. Walk to it, and close it after you. The latch sticks,
so you will be trapped until someone rescues you, but you will live. However, if you stop, I will be forced to kill you.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew. The next section of rafter was much more uneven, and he was in no state for acrobatics. ‘Lob your
knife if you will, but I am not moving.’

Immediately, a blade thudded into the wood by his face, making him jump so violently that he almost lost his footing.

‘Damn!’ muttered Welfry. ‘But I have another, so do not think of starting back.’

‘This is over, Welfry.’ Bartholomew sounded a lot more confident than he felt.

‘Almost,’ agreed Welfry. ‘My work will soon be completed.’

‘How could you do this?’ Bartholomew eased around the post in an effort to put himself out of knife range. ‘You are one of
the University’s most popular members – and its latest Seneschal. How could you betray it all for a future with Odelina and
a handful of
signacula
?’

‘I am not going anywhere with Odelina. First, Isnard’s barge is unseaworthy. But second, and more importantly, you should
credit me with a little integrity – I have never broken my vows of chastity.’ Welfry sighed when he saw Bartholomew no longer
represented a clear target. ‘I said keep moving.’

‘Michael knows about your crimes,’ warned Bartholomew, not holding much hope of talking the Dominican into giving up, but
desperate enough to try.
‘You may not have killed Drax, Alice, Gib, Yffi and Poynton yourself, but you are certainly implicated. And we know it was
you who stole the
signacula
and St Simon Stock’s scapular.’

‘Perhaps, but he will never be able to prove it. Please start walking. I do not want to hurt you.’

‘He
will
prove it.’ Bartholomew could see Welfry in the gloom, holding a blade in his gloved hand. He was safe from lobbed knives
behind the crown-post, but as long as he was pinned down, he could not stop the Dominican from activating his pulleys. He
knew he had to do something quickly, but what? ‘He even knows
why
you have done these terrible things.’

Welfry gave a short, bitter laugh. ‘I doubt it.’

‘You hate Kendale, so you needled him with gentle tricks, knowing he would respond with vicious ones. But when that failed
to see him expelled, you ordered Heslarton to leave Yffi and a box of “evidence” in his hostel, so he would be blamed for
the crimes
you
and your helpmeets had committed. You ordered Drax left in Michaelhouse for the same reason.’

‘Unfortunately, it was too subtle for Brother Michael. He failed to make the connection.’ Welfry sounded exasperated. ‘Enough
of this! Start walking again, or I will—’

‘He failed to make the connection because he does not allow himself to be misled by villains,’ retorted Bartholomew, struggling
to keep the unsteadiness from his voice. ‘But why do you—’

‘It started when I saw Chestre murder Jolye,’ snapped Welfry. ‘Shoving him in the icy river and then refusing to let him out.
It was monstrous!’

‘If you witnessed a murder, you should have told Michael. He represents justice, not you.’

‘My word against an entire hostel, including the wily-tongued
Kendale? No one would have believed me. But they will pay for their crime.’

‘What happened to you, Welfry?’ asked Bartholomew softly. ‘What brought you to this?’

‘
You
ask me such a question?’ asked Welfry with a short, mirthless laugh. ‘A man abandoned by God because of his heretical ideas
and fondness for sorcery?’

Bartholomew winced, but pressed on. ‘How could you throw in your lot with Odelina?’

‘Odelina,’ sighed Welfry. ‘That was the worst part: enduring her attentions to secure her help. However, she dispatched Gib,
Alice – and probably Drax, too, although she denies it – of her own volition. And her father was responsible for Yffi and
Poynton. I had nothing to do with any of it.’

‘No, but you took advantage,’ countered Bartholomew, watching Welfry finger the dagger restlessly. ‘Leaving corpses in Michaelhouse
and Chestre, and tying a yellow wig on Gib to make everyone think the badge thief was dead. The thief was you, although Heslarton
did not know it at the time.’

Welfry inclined his head. ‘And neither did Odelina – both would have killed me for targeting Emma and Celia, so I kept it
from them until I had her completely in my thrall. But enough chatter, Matthew! Start walking towards the door.’

The benefits of Thelnetham’s tonic had finally worn off, and Bartholomew felt sick and dizzy. He knew he would fall if he
moved along the beam as ordered. And how could he thwart Welfry, if he was trapped behind a door that would not open, anyway?
He began speaking again, hoping the delay would allow him time to devise a plan – although nothing had come to mind so far.

‘I do not understand why you stole so many pilgrim
badges. Do you intend to sell them, to make yourself a fortune?’

‘No, of course not. I know why you are struggling to keep me talking, by the way. You expect Thelnetham to fetch Michael and
save you. Unfortunately, Thelnetham met with an accident.’

He jabbed his thumb downwards, and Bartholomew risked a quick glance. The Gilbertine was lying on the floor: there was blood
next to his head.

‘So walk to the far end of the beam and go through the door,’ directed Welfry. ‘I am willing to spare your life, but not at
the expense of spoiling my plans. Go, or I will come and stab you.’

‘If you do, you may fall yourself,’ said Bartholomew, not moving.

Welfry sighed. ‘I have been scampering around these beams for days, and I have a good head for heights. You cannot prevent
what is about to happen, so do as I say, and save yourself.’

‘What is about to happen?’ pressed Bartholomew, hearing the desperation in his own voice.

‘In a moment, scholars and townsmen will come racing in for their free ale and wine. My little trick will swing into action,
and I shall escape in the ensuing chaos. When the commotion eventually dies down, your cries for help will be heard and you
will be released –
if
you walk towards the door. If you continue to be awkward, you will suffer a rather different fate.’

‘But people will see Thelnetham’s body, and—’

‘Not until it is too late to matter.’

‘Please do not do this,’ begged Bartholomew, appalled by the meticulous planning. ‘Our friends will be among those drinking
this wine. And how can you leave Horneby to take the blame?’

Welfry winced and looked away. He regretted Horneby’s fate. ‘He will be dead by now. Odelina is nothing if not thorough.’

‘She is in Michael’s custody, and Horneby has escaped.’

‘I do not believe you.’ Welfry took a step along the beam. ‘I gave you your chance, Matthew, and you refused to take it. I
dislike killing, but you leave me no choice.’

Bartholomew had no strength left to repel an attack. ‘All right,’ he said wearily. ‘I am going. But bear in mind that even
if your plan succeeds, you will never be safe. Michael will find you.’

‘I doubt even his influence extends to the place where I am bound,’ said Welfry softly.

Bartholomew frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

Welfry held up his gloved hand. ‘I tell everyone my hand is marred by a childhood palsy, but it is leprosy. I shall end my
days shunned by all, dead before I am in my grave.
That
is why I shall not sell the
signacula
and St Simon Stock’s scapular – their collective holiness will release me from Purgatory. I started amassing them after a
pilgrimage to Canterbury, some eight years ago.’

‘But there has not been a case of leprosy in Cambridge for years!’ cried Bartholomew. ‘It is almost certain to be something
else. Let me examine it.’

‘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.