The Killer of Pilgrims (43 page)

Welfry’s jaw dropped when he understood what the physician intended. He started to shout, but Bartholomew could not hear him,
and would not have paid any attention if he had. Only a few more steps now. Bartholomew sensed Welfry starting along the rafter
towards him, but took no notice. Two more steps would put him over the middle of a table, and no one would be hurt when he
jumped. He glanced at the fuse. The flame was almost there: he was going to be too late!

A flicker of movement caught the corner of his eye, and when he looked up, Welfry was gone. But something was happening below.
The laughter and merriment had changed to cries of horror. He risked a glance downwards, and saw Welfry sprawled unmoving
on one of the tables. People were beginning to look up, pointing. In his determination to stop Bartholomew, Welfry had lost
his own balance.

‘Everyone out!’ bellowed Michael, when he saw the ropes and the pails. ‘Now!’

‘So the greedy Colleges can have all this free wine?’ demanded Neyll. ‘Not likely!’

He grabbed a cup of ale and toasted his cronies, who responded with a rowdy cheer. There was a resentful growl from Bene’t
and the Hall of Valence Marie.

‘Out!’ hollered Michael. But hostels were bawling insults at Colleges, and those who could hear the monk ignored him. The
noise level intensified again, and although Bartholomew yelled until his voice cracked, he knew he was wasting his time. He
took another step along the rafter, trying frantically to control the shaking in his legs. Perhaps if he could reach the fuse
…

He was aware that Edith and Michael were two of those staring at him. Within moments, their upturned faces were going to be
showered with some unspeakable substance, and they would die a terrible death. Desperation gave Bartholomew the strength to
gain the door.

But there was no time for relief. He forced himself to turn and inspect Welfry’s fuse. It had already burned out of reach.
He hauled off his tabard and flailed it at the flame, but flapping only made it glow more fiercely. He leaned out as far as
he could, and flung the garment across it, but the material merely smouldered and the fuse hissed on. There was nothing he
could do to stop it. Defeated, he felt himself slump, then begin to fall.

His downward progress was halted by an intense pressure around his middle, then strong arms were hauling him to the safety
of the doorway.

‘Christ and all his saints, Matt!’ cried Michael. He rarely cursed, and that, coupled with his white face and shaking hands,
was testament to his fright. ‘We almost lost you!’

‘My sister,’ gasped Bartholomew, thinking only of Welfry’s trick. ‘The wildfire …’

‘No one will leave,’ shouted Michael in despair. ‘And the place is too crowded for me to force them. There will be carnage,
and there is nothing we can do but watch.’

Bartholomew saw the flame reach a bucket, which began to upend. It initiated a chain reaction, and the rafters started to
vibrate as pulleys swung into action. The first
pail tipped, emptying its contents on to the crowd below. It was followed by a second container, and a third, and then there
were more than he could count. Howls followed.

He closed his eyes, not wanting to see. But then it occurred to him that he and his colleagues had not created
that
much of the deadly substance. He pulled away from Michael and sat up. The yells were not of agony, but of shocked indignation.
And there was laughter, too.

‘Water!’ he breathed. ‘Welfry’s trick was water!’

Michael was inspecting a sheet that had been attached to one pulley. He grimaced. ‘Water that was set to culminate in a rather
inflammatory banner being hoisted – one that claims this to be the victory of bold hostels over the stupid Colleges. It would
have caused a fight for certain.’

But people were beginning to flee the room, unwilling to stand around and be drenched. Outside, Michael’s beadles were waiting,
to ensure they dispersed.

‘Welfry miscalculated,’ said Michael, gazing at the spectacle with saucer-like eyes. ‘The water was meant to infuriate, and
cause a great battle. But instead, it doused the skirmishes already in action, and drove the participants away.’

Bartholomew was too numb to feel elation. ‘He failed in a spectacular manner.’

‘And he wanted your substance not to spray over hapless victims, but to create a fuse,’ said Michael in relief. ‘It is over,
Matt. My beadles will ensure there is no more fighting.’

‘He killed Thelnetham,’ said Bartholomew brokenly.

‘Thelnetham is not dead. He is not very happy about being knocked over the head, but he will survive. Gyseburne and Meryfeld
are tending him.’

‘Welfry tried to make me go through that other door,’ said Bartholomew tiredly, waving a vague hand towards it. ‘He did not
want to kill me, either.’

Michael snorted his incredulity. ‘The stairs have
collapsed behind that. Had you stepped through it, you would have fallen to your death. You are a fool if you believe Welfry
would have let you live after the kind of conversation I imagine you had.’

Bartholomew would not have been able to walk down the stairs had it not been for Michael’s helping hand, and when they finally
reached the ground, he leaned against a wall and slid down it until he was sitting on the floor. There was a brazier on the
wall above his head, and its illumination showed how unsteady his hands were. It had been a terrible experience, and he felt
as though he had been to Hell and back.

The refectory had not cleared completely, because those very interested in drink had lingered, prepared to risk a soaking
for free ale and wine. Bartholomew saw with relief that his sister was not among them, and nor were his Michaelhouse colleagues.
Langelee was, though, his eyes fixed unwaveringly on Kendale and the students of Chestre. Cynric was with him, also glowering,
and Bartholomew wondered whether they intended to pick a fight over the stolen gates.

‘I feel a little cheated,’ said Michael, looking around him uneasily. ‘I was expecting something truly diabolical, but …’

‘It would have been diabolical had it worked,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘A bloodbath as Colleges and hostels clashed in a
fairly confined space, and townsmen joined in. Are you sure Welfry is dead? The reason I ask is because he did not use all
the substance he stole from Meryfeld for his fuse – there is still a lot missing.’

‘Quite dead,’ replied Michael. His eyes narrowed. ‘Neyll and Ihon are coming towards us. Stand up. You do not want them to
think you a weakling.’

‘I do not care what they think,’ muttered Bartholomew, declining to comply.

Ihon removed his cap as he approached. ‘We want to apologise for taking your gates,’ he said, loudly enough to attract the
attention of a number of people, who came to see what was happening. ‘There, I have said it. Are you satisfied?’

‘It was only a joke,’ said Neyll. He held a camp-ball, and was rolling it from hand to hand. It looked heavy. ‘You should
have been able to take a joke.’

Casually, he hefted the ball in his right hand and took aim, narrowing his eyes in concentration. Bartholomew twisted around
to see what he was looking at. The brazier. He glanced back to Neyll, and noticed a black, sticky substance oozing through
the ball’s seams.

But there was a sudden thump, and Neyll gripped his chest with a grimace of agony. A blade protruded from it, and Bartholomew
recognised the letter-opener he had given Langelee. Neyll pitched forward, but not before the ball had flown from his hand.
It landed on the edge of the brazier, and teetered there. Bartholomew surged to his feet, aiming to punch it away from the
flame, but Ihon dived forward to stop him, knocking him off balance.

There was a muffled explosion. Bartholomew was already falling, so it was the hapless Ihon who took the brunt of the blast.
The student crashed backwards in a billow of smoke. The wall behind him was splattered with gobbets of the substance that
burned with a devilish glow, and one or two onlookers began to bat at smouldering clothes.

‘I thought the beadles had searched everyone for knives,’ said Cynric to Langelee. There was admiration in his voice.

‘That is not a knife,’ replied Langelee smoothly. ‘It is a letter-opener. And thank God they let me keep it. You were right
to warn me there was something suspicious about
that pair, Cynric. If their plan had succeeded, it would have deprived me of my two favourite Fellows.’

‘And many innocent bystanders,’ added Cynric, inspecting the sticky substance with a grimace of disapproval. ‘I love a weapon
as much as the next man, but there is something unspeakable about this one.’

Michael shuddered when he saw what had happened to Ihon. He turned to Neyll, whose eyes were already turning glassy. ‘Why
in God’s name did you do that?’

‘We had a letter from Emma de Colvyll,’ whispered Neyll. ‘She told us to do it, because it would score a great victory for
the hostels. She wrote it this morning.’

‘Welfry,’ said Bartholomew heavily. ‘Emma could not have written anything today, because she was too ill. Will the man’s tricks
never end?’

‘You will just have to wait and see,’ breathed Neyll with a ghastly grin. And then he died.

It was pleasant in Michaelhouse’s conclave. Rain pattered against the window shutters, and the night was bitter, but there
was a fire in the hearth and wine mulling over it. Bartholomew sat at the table, reading a book on natural philosophy that
Thelnetham had lent him, while his colleagues talked about the remarkable lecture Horneby had delivered that day. Bartholomew
had not been there: he had been with Meryfeld and Gyseburne, discussing which of his poverty-stricken patients they were going
to take off his hands.

He experienced a twinge of guilt when he thought about them. Both had been on his list of suspects for the killer-thief, but
they had been entirely innocent. He was glad, and looked forward to resuming his experiments with them to develop a steadily
burning lamp – assuming they only did so when they were sober, of course.

‘Our roofs have been restored to their original condition,’ reported Langelee, changing the subject to one he considered more
interesting. ‘Unfortunately, the “original condition” means they still leak, but at least it is only drips, not deluges.’

‘We are back where we started,’ said Suttone gloomily. ‘All that disruption was for nothing. Worse, we owe Blaston
and
the mason we hired to replace Yffi for their labour.’

‘Emma gave us enough to pay them, in return for
Michael keeping Odelina and Heslarton out of his official report,’ said Langelee. His face darkened. ‘Although I could not
prevail on her to give us more. Still, I suppose you cannot blame her, since he then declined to let them escape.’

‘Of course I declined,’ said Michael indignantly. ‘It would have been very wrong.’

‘The family
did
love each other,’ said Clippesby with quiet compassion. ‘Indeed, it was affection that brought about their downfall: Heslarton’s
love for his daughter led him to help cover her crimes. And Odelina’s love for her grandmother gave Matthew and Cynric a chance
to escape – she wanted to kill them immediately, but decided to let them save Emma first.’

‘That is one way of looking at it, I suppose,’ said Langelee. ‘But as far as I am concerned, they were all villains. I wonder
whether the
signacula
Welfry accrued will help them on Judgment Day. The holiness may have rubbed off on their fingers when they touched them.’

‘They
will
help,’ said Suttone, while William nodded agreement. ‘Handling such sacred objects will see them skip through Purgatory.’

‘They will not,’ countered Clippesby. ‘The tokens were stolen, so they cannot claim any benefit from them. Besides, a person
is judged on his merits, not what he manages to touch during his life.’

‘You are right, Clippesby,’ said Thelnetham, who was polishing his nails with a piece of oiled cloth. The conclave smelled
strongly of perfume, and no one was sitting too close to him. ‘And—’

‘It is a pity we have lost so much from this unpleasant business, though,’ interrupted Langelee, not very interested in another
theological discussion. ‘A benefactress, a host of prayers to be said …’

‘What do you mean?’ asked William suspiciously. ‘What prayers?’

‘Before Emma agreed to pay Blaston and the new mason, she made me promise that Michaelhouse’s priests would say masses for
her, Heslarton and Odelina,’ explained Langelee. ‘And also for Fen, Poynton and the two fat nuns.’

‘I am not saying masses for them!’ declared William indignantly. ‘None are worthy. Did I tell you why Fen was always so wan
and pale, by the way? Because he offered to sell Kendale some books!’ His lips pursed meaningfully.

‘Yes, he told us,’ said Bartholomew. ‘One by Bradwardine on natural philosophy.’

‘That was a lie. What he actually offered were banned books on alchemy.’ William hissed the last word, giving it a decidedly
sinister timbre. ‘It was guilt that made him sheepish. Moreover, those fat nuns are bigamists. They say they were both wives
of Hugh Neel, but how is that possible? If he took two wives, one of them should have been dead first. And as for Odelina
and Heslarton …’

‘Perhaps this is why Emma thinks they need our masses,’ said Clippesby gently. ‘I have said a few prayers for them already,
poor lost souls.’

‘Have you?’ asked Langelee, rather belligerently. ‘I wonder if that is why Heslarton and Odelina are not hanged, as they should
have been, but ordered to abjure the realm. Perhaps we should withhold our blessings for a while. With luck, someone will
murder them on their way to the coast.’

‘Really, Master!’ exclaimed Clippesby, shocked. ‘That is not a kindly thing to say.’

Langelee shrugged, unrepentant. ‘I have never made any pretensions to being kindly, and I speak as I find. Incidentally, did
you know that Emma has decided to join
the Gilbertine Order, and will donate all her worldly goods to the Mother House at Sempringham?’

‘Yes,’ said Thelnetham smugly. ‘Prior Leccheworth is delighted. He is even more delighted that she intends to live there,
and not with us. He wants her money, but not her company.’

Ayera regarded Bartholomew disapprovingly. ‘When you pulled her tooth, her howls could be heard all along the High Street.
You should not dabble in surgery – it is not right.’

‘No, it is not,’ agreed Thelnetham. ‘But a new surgeon should be arriving from York soon, so he will not have to do it much
longer, thank God. His reputation as a warlock is doing Michaelhouse no good whatsoever, especially after he invented the
substance that killed Ihon.’

‘The Archbishop of York is very interested in finding out what went into that,’ said Langelee. ‘Indeed, he has offered a princely
sum for the recipe. We could do the with money …’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew firmly. It was not the first time he had been approached for the formula, and he had a bad feeling
it would not be the last, either. ‘I cannot remember.’

‘Good,’ said Thelnetham with a shudder. ‘It is best forgotten.’ He changed the subject. ‘I heard all the pilgrim badges have
been returned to their rightful owners, Michael.’

‘All except the most important one,’ said Michael gloomily. ‘Mine. The others were under Welfry’s bed at the Dominican friary
– he was so confident he would never be caught that he made no effort to hide them. He had St Simon Stock’s scapular, too,
and Etone was delighted to have it back. Personally, I think it is a fake.’

‘I
know
it is,’ said William. He shrugged when everyone
looked at him. ‘A few years ago, a Carmelite novice hacked a bit off one of my habits. I have always wondered why. Yesterday
I went to the shrine, and compared my damaged robe to that holy scapular. They matched perfectly.’

‘You mean pilgrims have been worshipping something of yours?’ asked Thelnetham, regarding the Franciscan’s revolting clothes
in stunned disbelief. ‘That is worse than sacrilege!’

‘It is not my fault,’ said William stiffly. ‘Clearly, the business started as a prank, but took on a life of its own, as these
things are apt to do. To make the “relic” appear genuine, the jokers must have wanted something …’ He waved his hand.

‘Old and filthy,’ supplied Langelee. ‘Well, it worked, because it looked real to me. Perhaps we should fabricate something
to attract pilgrims ourselves, because we are desperately short of funds.’

‘Again?’ sighed Michael wearily. ‘I do not think I can take much more terrible food.’

‘It is Bartholomew’s fault,’ said Langelee. ‘He told Walter to feed his peacock grain, rather than wine-soaked bread, and
the wretched beast has devoured all the seeds we were going to plant for vegetables this spring.’

‘Really?’ asked Michael, brightening. ‘That is good news. I do not care for vegetables.’

There was a silence as the Fellows pondered their lot.

‘Tell me again, Brother,’ said William, a little while later. ‘Who dispatched whom? I did not follow your explanation after
the camp-ball game. It was too garbled.’

Michael obliged. ‘Odelina killed Alice and Drax, so her father and Celia could marry and live happily ever after. Heslarton
stabbed Poynton by accident during the camp-ball game, and then knifed Yffi when he tried to blackmail him over it.’

‘Odelina killed Gib, too, with her father’s help,’ added Thelnetham, who had not found the monk’s explanation garbled at all.
‘And Welfry suggested they tie a yellow wig on him, to make Michael and the Sheriff think the killer-thief was dead.’

‘I see,’ said William. ‘And Welfry stole the
signacula
and St Simon Stock’s relic because he thought he had leprosy and he needed them to see him through Purgatory.’

Michael nodded. ‘But before being sentenced to spend his dying days in some remote hospital, he decided to do the University
a favour, and rid it of one of its more troublesome elements – Chestre, who were stirring up strife between the hostels and
the Colleges.’

‘So he needled Kendale with tricks, challenging him to reply in kind,’ continued Thelnetham. ‘He thought this alone would
see Chestre suppressed, but it did not. So he elected to see them accused of more serious offences instead, and ordered Heslarton
to plant “evidence” as proof.’

‘He was an odd man,’ mused Michael. ‘He tried hard to calm the rivalry Kendale was inciting, by inventing clever but gentle
tricks and encouraging the hostels to respond with their wits, not their fists. And he certainly saved King’s Hall with his
timely riddle. Yet he would have seen members of Chestre punished for crimes of which they were innocent.’

‘
I
cannot find it in my heart to blame him for taking against Chestre,’ said William. ‘They
are
an obstacle to peace and a burden to our University.’

‘Not any more,’ said Michael smugly. ‘The fact that Neyll and Ihon almost succeeded in killing people with their camp-ball
“bomb” was enough for me to close the place – along with the fact that they and Gib pushed young Jolye in the river and refused
to let him out again. Kendale
probably was ignorant of both incidents, as he claims, but I told him that was no excuse.’

‘Where is he now?’ asked Bartholomew, not liking the notion of such vitriol at large.

‘Oxford,’ said Michael with immense satisfaction. ‘And his surviving students with him. He claims he will be more appreciated
in our sister University, but he will soon learn otherwise.’

‘But he will make trouble there,’ said Bartholomew, appalled.

‘Almost certainly,’ agreed Michael smugly. ‘And benefactors will disapprove, and look elsewhere for recipients for their largess.
Perhaps we shall not be doomed to poor food for long after all.’

‘Never mind Kendale,’ said William, cutting across Bartholomew’s shocked objections. ‘I am more interested in Welfry.
Did
he have leprosy, Matthew? You examined his body, I understand.’

Bartholomew dragged his thoughts away from the hapless scholars of Oxford. ‘No – and it is the worst part of this entire business.
All his terrors about a lonely death were unfounded. He had a skin condition that I have recently learned how to remedy. Had
he let me examine him—’

‘You mean a smear of balm might have prevented all this?’ asked William.

‘I am not so sure,’ said Michael, before Bartholomew could reply. ‘Odelina still would have dispatched two people so her friend
could marry her father.’

‘Would she?’ asked Clippesby. ‘She confesses to killing Alice, but not Drax.’

‘She is lying,’ said William contemptuously. ‘She cannot open her mouth without poison issuing forth, and we should not believe
a word she says.’

‘Isnard has a lot to answer for, though,’ said Michael. ‘It transpires that he is a smuggler, although Dick Tulyet and I cannot
prove it. However, I am dismissing him from my choir.’

‘Do not do that, Brother,’ begged Bartholomew, recalling the anguish the bargeman had suffered the last time Michael had expelled
him. ‘It would break his heart. And he is generous to the Blaston family, which is a point in his favour. They would starve
without him.’

‘Well, in that case, perhaps I shall overlook his crimes,’ said Michael. ‘Blaston is a good man, and I should never have included
him on my lists of suspects for Drax’s murder.’

The following afternoon, Bartholomew went to watch Blaston putting the finishing touches to the roof. Langelee had been overly
optimistic when he said it had been restored to its original state, because tiles had cracked when they had been removed,
and the guttering was now damaged. The roof was likely to be a lot more leaky than it had been, but at least it was not open
to the skies.

‘Have you heard the news?’ asked Blaston. ‘The barge carrying Odelina and Heslarton to exile sank in the Fens, and there are
no survivors. Word is that Isnard arranged for it to go down, to make amends for dabbling in the smuggling business.’

‘It was not Isnard,’ said Bartholomew, recalling a remark Welfry had made. ‘Welfry said that particular barge was unseaworthy.
Obviously, he tampered with it before he died.’

Blaston stared at him. ‘You may be right. He had a funny sense of justice, and probably would not have liked the notion of
Odelina and Heslarton escaping to France after all they had done.’

Bartholomew was sure of it. ‘I had a bad feeling that we had not heard the last of him.’

‘Celia has confessed all, too,’ added Blaston. ‘She admitted that she lied when she claimed she was with Heslarton the night
Gib was murdered, reading a psalter. And that she claimed to be illiterate, when she can read very well. It was Drax who had
no letters.’

‘A lot of people lied. It was why the case was so difficult to solve.’

Blaston was silent for a moment, then changed the subject to one that was more cheerful. ‘I heard it was you who recommended
me for the task of repairing the Gilbertines’ refectory. It is good work – well paid – and will keep me indoors for the rest
of the winter. And Prior Leccheworth says I can have kitchen scraps for the children. My financial problems are over for a
while.’

‘It is a pity for Drax that they were not over sooner,’ said Bartholomew softly.