The Killer of Pilgrims (6 page)

Bartholomew was about to leave him to his work when he noticed that one corner of the hall was empty. It was where Thelnetham,
the College’s Gilbertine theologian usually taught, but his students were sitting with Michael’s pupils.

‘Where is Thelnetham?’ he asked. The Gilbertine was conscientious about teaching, and it was rare for him to miss a lesson.

‘At his friary,’ replied Langelee. ‘There is a meeting to discuss the purchase of some house or other, and he wanted to be
there, to voice an opinion. I envy him. I would not have minded an excuse to miss hollering my way through the afternoon,
either.’

‘Nor I,’ agreed Suttone, a portly Carmelite, looking up from his grammar books. ‘We shall all be after you for sore-throat
remedies before the day is done, Matthew. I am already hoarse.’

It was not long before Bartholomew appreciated what they meant. The masons were enjoying a lewd discussion about the famously
creative talents of Blaston’s wife. Yolande worked as a prostitute to supplement the family income, and when Yffi began to
describe some of her more innovative techniques, Bartholomew saw he was losing his class’s attention – they were all staring
in open-mouthed fascination towards the roof on which the builders were working.

‘What does Galen say about blood that is excessively salty?’ he asked loudly, indicating that Valence should answer the question.

But Valence was transfixed by Yffi’s description of what Yolande could do with a handful of chestnuts and a warm cloth, and
it was Rob Deynman, the dim-witted librarian, who answered. Deynman had been a medical student himself, until he had been
‘promoted’ in an effort to keep him from practising on an unwary public, and prided himself on what he could remember from
the many years of lessons he had attended. Unfortunately, his memory was rarely equal to his enthusiasm.

‘He said salty blood is white,’ he replied, with one of
his bright and rather vacant grins. ‘Because salt is white. And if blood is white, then it means it has turned into phlegm.’

‘Lord!’ muttered Bartholomew, wondering whether anything he had taught the lad had been retained in anything like its original
context. ‘Can anyone else tell me what—’

But he was interrupted by a furious screech from outside, which had students and masters alike rushing to the window to see
what was going on. It was Agatha the laundress, the formidable matron who had inveigled herself into a position of some power
among the servants. It was an unorthodox arrangement – women were not permitted inside Colleges – but neither the Master nor
his Fellows were bold enough to tell her so. She was chasing a dog, which had a ham in its jaws. Cheers from the roof indicated
the builders had also abandoned their work to enjoy the spectacle.

Determined to retrieve the meat, Agatha gradually corralled the animal into a corner, where it took refuge behind a large
pile of tiles, all covered with an oiled sheet. Then she lunged. The dog yowled its outrage as she laid hold of its tail,
although its jaws remained firmly fastened around its booty. It became entangled in the sheet in its efforts to escape. Workmen
and students alike howled their laughter, although the Fellows were more restrained, knowing from personal experience what
could happen if Agatha took umbrage.

‘Go and help her, Bartholomew,’ instructed Langelee, fighting to keep a straight face. ‘Or we shall be here all day, and lessons
will suffer.’

Bartholomew went to oblige, hurrying down the spiral staircase before Agatha or the dog could harm each other. When he emerged
in the yard, she was hauling furiously
on the sheet in an effort to locate her quarry, roughly enough that some of the tiles were falling off their stacks. Yffi
was scrambling down the scaffolding, yelling angrily about the damage. Blaston and the watching apprentices were helpless
with laughter.

‘Stop, Agatha,’ urged Bartholomew, running towards her. ‘Let me help you.’

‘I do not need help,’ snarled Agatha, jerking the sheet so violently that several more tiles crashed to the ground. The dog’s
agitated yips added to the general cacophony. ‘I just want to—’

With a tearing sound, the sheet came away, sending Agatha lurching backwards. The dog was catapulted free and made the most
of the opportunity by racing towards the gate. But neither she nor Bartholomew noticed it. Their attention was taken by what
her tugging had exposed – a man lying half buried by the tiles she had dislodged.

‘Is he dead?’ demanded Langelee, hovering over Bartholomew as the physician struggled to haul the fallen tiles from the prostrate
figure beneath. ‘Who is it? Which of the builders?’

‘It is none of us,’ replied Yffi shakily. The mason was a crop-haired man with the kind of belly that indicated he was fond
of ale; he was fond of camp-ball, too, which said a good deal about his belligerent character. He and his apprentices stood
to one side of the pile, while Blaston was on the other. ‘We are all present and correct.’

‘Will someone help me?’ asked Bartholomew, glancing first at the labourers, then his colleagues. The students and Agatha had
been sent back inside, but the Master and his Fellows had remained.

‘I am not going anywhere near a corpse,’ declared Yffi vehemently. ‘The miasma of death will hang about me afterwards and
bring me bad luck.’

His apprentices crossed themselves, and so did Blaston. Rolling his eyes, Langelee stepped up, and began flinging away stones
with a reckless abandon that made it dangerous for bystanders.

‘Then who
is
under here?’ he demanded, as he worked. ‘It is no one from Michaelhouse, because students, Fellows and staff are all accounted
for.’

‘We shall be needing a bier, regardless,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Where is Cynric?’

‘I am here,’ came a quiet voice at his shoulder. He
jumped. His Welsh book-bearer was as soft-footed as a cat, and he had not heard him approach.

‘This is your fault,’ said Blaston, pointing an unsteady finger at Yffi. ‘You heaped these slabs badly, and now a man lies
dead.’

‘There was nothing wrong with my stacking!’ cried Yffi, alarmed. ‘The tiles were perfectly safe until that woman got among
them like a rampaging bull.’

‘We should discuss this later, when we have the poor fellow out,’ said Langelee, helping Bartholomew haul away the last of
the heavy stones. ‘Oh, Lord! That one landed square on his face. How will we identify him now?’

‘I know him.’

Everyone turned to see Thelnetham standing there, freshly returned from the meeting in his priory. He was by far the best-dressed
of the Fellows, even surpassing Michael, who was vain about his appearance. He was known in the University for enlivening
his Gilbertine habit with a variety of costly accessories, and was flagrantly effeminate.

‘Well?’ demanded Langelee. ‘Tell us his name.’

‘It is John Drax,’ replied Thelnetham quietly.

‘Drax the taverner?’ asked Langelee. ‘How can you tell?’

All the Fellows – except Langelee, whose previous work for the Archbishop of York had inured him to grisly sights – looked
away as Bartholomew began to examine the body. None were approving of or comfortable with his ability to determine causes
of death, while Father William, the College’s bigoted Franciscan – recently returned from exile in the Fens – had declared
to the world at large the previous year that it was what made him a warlock.

‘I recognise his clothes,’ replied Thelnetham, pointedly turning his back on the physician. ‘I have an interest in finery,
as you know. Plus there is the fact that he is missing several fingers.’

‘So he is!’ exclaimed Blaston, risking a peep at the mangled remains. He looked white and sick, and Bartholomew hoped he would
not faint. ‘I heard he lost those working for Yffi.’

‘That was not my fault, either,’ declared Yffi, more alarmed than ever. ‘But I compensated him handsomely even so, and he
used the money to buy himself an inn that was so successful that he bought another. And then another. So, I actually did him
a favour with the incident that …’

‘He
was
rich,’ agreed Langelee. ‘He often gave our College benefactions. In fact, it was he who bought the beeswax candles we shall
use in the Purification ceremonies tomorrow.’

‘I recognise the medallion he is wearing, too,’ added Thelnetham. ‘He told me his wife had encouraged him to buy it. I asked,
because I liked the look of it and was considering purchasing one for myself.’

‘Celia!’ exclaimed Langelee in dismay. ‘God’s blood! One of us will have to go and tell her.’

‘Tell her what?’ asked Michael. ‘What was he doing behind Yffi’s tiles in the first place?’

‘He has never visited us before,’ said Thelnetham. ‘In the past, when he wanted to make donations, he always summoned one
of us to his mansion on Bridge Street.’

‘I did not see him come in,’ said Walter, who had just arrived to join the onlookers. ‘But I have been in the latrines – that
pottage we had earlier did not agree with me.’

‘You mean you left the gate unattended?’ asked Clippesby. It was generally accepted that the kindly, mild-mannered Dominican
was insane, mostly due to his habit of talking to animals and claiming that they answered him back. There were occasions,
though, when Bartholomew thought Clippesby made more sense than the rest of the College combined.

‘Only for a moment,’ said Walter defensively. ‘And it was an emergency.’

‘So, Drax just walked in,’ concluded Michael. ‘I wonder why?’

‘You had better ask Celia,’ said Langelee. ‘But be careful how you do it, Brother, because we do not want her to sue the College
for his death. Yffi claims this was not his fault, but it was not ours, either, and we cannot afford to compensate her for
her loss.’

‘I am sure she will appreciate your sympathy, Master,’ said Michael caustically. ‘But you are right. Drax should have stood
up and declared himself when Agatha started to tug on the sheet. Then the tiles would not have fallen on him.’

Seeing Bartholomew about to probe a wound in the corpse’s stomach, Michael ordered all the labourers back to work, lest they
witnessed something that would give credence to the tales regarding the physician’s penchant for sorcery. He dismissed Cynric
and Walter, too.

‘I wonder if he left us anything in his will,’ Langelee was musing. ‘Given his generosity in the past, I have high hopes.
I am sorry Drax is dead, but a legacy will more than console me.’

‘I hope he did not,’ countered Thelnetham. ‘He died in our College, and we already have a questionable reputation, thanks
to Bartholomew’s unorthodoxy, Clippesby’s madness and your previous existence as an archbishop’s hireling. We do not want
rumours to circulate that we kill townsmen for the contents of their wills.’

‘What nonsense!’ cried Langelee, stung. ‘We have a fine, upstanding reputation!’

His Fellows said nothing – they knew they did not.

‘Accidents happen,’ Langelee went on indignantly. ‘No one can blame us for what happened.’

‘It was not an accident,’ said Bartholomew, looking up at last. ‘Drax was murdered.’

There was a stunned, disbelieving silence after Bartholomew had made his announcement. It was Michael who found his voice
first. ‘How do you know?’

Bartholomew hesitated, loath to provide too much information lest it should lead to renewed accusations of sorcery from William.

‘You can tell us,’ said the Franciscan gruffly, guessing the reason for Bartholomew’s reluctance to speak. He was not normally
sensitive, but his recent banishment had encouraged him to be a little more sympathetic to the feelings of others. ‘I will
not make disparaging remarks about your hideous trade, because you cannot help being a physician. Not everyone can specialise
in theology.’

‘You are too kind, Father,’ murmured Bartholomew, aware of smirks being exchanged between Thelnetham and Ayera, the College’s
newest member. Neither liked the Franciscan, despising him for his weak intellect, his filthy robes and the narrow-mindedness
of his opinions.

‘Matt and I will take Drax to the church, and he can explain his theory to me there,’ said Michael, knowing exactly why his
friend was reluctant to elaborate. ‘The rest of you can return to your teaching. Our students’ day has been interrupted long
enough.’

‘No,’ argued Langelee. ‘He can tell us here. If Drax
has
been murdered, we need to know.’

‘I disagree,’ said Thelnetham, flicking imaginary dust from his immaculate habit. ‘I have no desire to be regaled with ghoulish
details. It was bad enough overhearing his lecture on fractured skulls the other day. It made me quite queasy, and I had to
be escorted outside for air.’

‘Thank God anatomy is illegal in our country,’ added
Ayera. ‘Or he would be waving entrails around to demonstrate his points.’

Usually, Bartholomew liked Ayera, a tall, intelligent geometrician who shared Langelee’s fondness for outdoor pursuits and
Bartholomew’s own love of teaching, but there were times when the man annoyed him. One was whenever the subject of anatomy
was raised – Ayera disapproved of it with a passion Bartholomew found difficult to fathom. And Thelnetham had a nasty habit
of encouraging Ayera’s irritating condemnation.

‘There is no “waving” of organs in anatomy,’ he snapped, unable to help himself. He had attended several dissections when
he had visited the universities in Padua and Salerno, and had been impressed by the precision and neatness of the art. ‘It
is all conducted with meticulous—’

‘You mean you have actually seen anatomy being performed?’ interrupted Thelnetham. He crossed himself, appalled.

Bartholomew had yet to gain Thelnetham’s measure, even though they had been acquainted for several months. He opened his mouth
to reply, but then was not sure what to say.

‘So what if he has?’ asked Langelee. ‘It is not illegal in foreign universities, and he has an enquiring mind. It is only
natural that he should make the most of what was on offer.’

Thelnetham sniffed. ‘Well, I do not want to hear about it, and I do not want to hear what he has to say about Drax, either.
If you will excuse me, Master, I would rather teach. At least one of us should, because I can see from here that our students
are throwing things around.’

As one, the Fellows looked towards the hall, where, sure enough, missiles were zipping past the windows. Langelee grimaced,
and started to stride towards them. Immediately,
there was a scraping of benches and a rattle of feet on floorboards, and Bartholomew had no doubt that by the time the Master
arrived the students would be sitting, cherub-faced, in neat rows, and any sign of whatever they had been doing would have
been whisked away.

‘Well?’ asked Michael, when Ayera, Thelnetham, Suttone and Clippesby had followed their Master’s lead, and only he, Bartholomew
and William remained. ‘Explain.’

‘There is a puncture wound in Drax’s stomach.’ Bartholomew lifted the dead man’s tunic so they could see it. ‘It would have
bled profusely, yet there is very little blood where he lies. This suggests he died elsewhere, and his body was brought here
later. I can also tell you that he is cold and slightly stiff around the jaws, both of which suggest he has been dead for
several hours.’

‘Lord!’ muttered Michael, shocked. ‘Are you telling me that someone toted a corpse into our College and shoved it behind the
masons’ supplies?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘I am not sure what to think about the culprit’s choice of hiding place. Was it because he knew it might
be several days before these tiles were uncovered – and Agatha’s assault was just bad luck? Was he hoping to implicate the
workmen? Or
are
the workmen to blame, and they had been planning to remove Drax to a more permanent resting place later?’

‘I do not like that Yffi,’ said William darkly. ‘He has the look of a killer about him. And I know these things, because
I
am a Franciscan friar.’

‘Never mind that,’ said Michael impatiently, unwilling to waste time on William’s odd remarks. He sighed. ‘We had better have
a word with these builders.’

‘I suppose so,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Although bringing a corpse here – especially to the area given over to their supplies –
was a rash thing to have done. Moreover, how
did the killer get it in here in the first place? Not
all
the workmen are likely to have been involved, while our students are always gazing out of the windows. How did the culprit
do it without being seen?’

Michael was thoughtful. ‘But our students were distracted, were they not? With vivid descriptions about the antics of Yolande
de Blaston, which drew all eyes to the roof?’

‘Concerning a handful of chestnuts and a damp cloth,’ provided William helpfully, indicating that the students had not been
the only ones absorbed in the builders’ commentary.

‘Do you think Yffi staged a diversion?’ asked Bartholomew.

Michael sighed. ‘I have no idea. But something untoward is unfolding, and I am not ready to discount anyone as a suspect until
I understand what.’

The masons had not resumed their labours, but were standing in a cluster, discussing what had happened in low, excited voices.
Yffi was doing most of the talking, and his apprentices leaned close to hear what he had to say on the matter. Blaston, who
had no apprentices of his own, was standing nearby, regarding them with undisguised disdain.

‘They think it is a joke,’ he whispered, when Bartholomew and Michael approached. ‘A man is dead, and all they can do is huddle
together and chatter like a flock of crows.’

Bartholomew studied the masons closely but could detect no signs of unease or guilt in any of them. Of course, that meant
nothing – the culprit would have to be bold and fearless, to drag a corpse around inside a well-populated College in the first
place.

‘I do not suppose
you
noticed anything suspicious, did you?’ Michael asked Blaston hopefully.

Blaston shook his head apologetically. ‘I am sorry, Brother. I was in the stable, making new frames for the window shutters.’

‘All day?’

Blaston thought for a moment. ‘No. Not long after dawn, I went out to buy more nails.’

‘Did anyone see you?’

Blaston was alarmed by the question. ‘Well, no, because the smith was away, so I took what I needed and left the money under
his anvil, just like I always do. He trusts me. Why do you ask? Am
I
a suspect for this horrible crime?’

‘Of course not,’ said Bartholomew soothingly. ‘We are just trying to gain a clear picture of who was where. Did you see anyone
wandering about the College, other than scholars and staff?’