The Killer of Pilgrims (7 page)

‘Yes – there were several visitors,’ replied Blaston, reassured. ‘Walter will give you a list.’

‘Unfortunately, he has a habit of loitering in the latrines,’ said Michael. ‘I doubt he can help.’

‘Well, then.’ Blaston scratched his head. ‘There was a delivery of more sand for the mortar. Those pilgrims poked their heads
round the door – Prior Etone was showing them the town, and they were being nosy. Then Agatha the laundress’s cousin arrived,
wanting kitchen scraps.’

‘He must be desperate,’ muttered Michael. ‘Our leftovers are left because they are inedible.’

‘Folk
are
desperate, Brother,’ said Blaston quietly. ‘It is a terrible winter.’

Michael nodded slowly. ‘Yes, it is. I hate to mention this, Blaston, but did you hear what Yffi and his lads were saying about
your wife?’

Blaston nodded, and an expression of immense pride
suffused his face. ‘Yolande is an incredible woman, and it pleases me to know folk admire her talents. I heard everything,
and she will be very flattered when I repeat it to her.’

Michael’s jaw dropped, but Bartholomew was not surprised. He had heard Blaston say as much on previous occasions, and knew
exactly what the carpenter thought of his wife’s abilities in other men’s bedchambers. Before the monk could make some remark
that might detract from Blaston’s pleasure, Bartholomew gestured for Yffi and his apprentices to approach.

‘We need to know what you saw today,’ he told them.

‘Nothing,’ replied Yffi with a shrug. ‘We have been on the roof all day, and it is difficult to see down into the yard from
up there. We all went to peer over the edge when Agatha started chasing that dog, but it was the only time
I
looked down all day.’

‘What about the rest of you?’ asked Michael. Yffi’s assistants were all undersized youths in baggy leggings and grimy tunics.
‘Surely, one of you must have climbed down at some point for more supplies? Or even stood for a moment to stretch and take
a breath?’

‘We did come down from time to time,’ acknowledged one called Peterkin. ‘But we were in a hurry, so did not waste time gawking
around. All I can say is that there was no body behind our tiles at dawn this morning, because I went behind there to pee.
And I would have noticed.’

‘Someone entered our College and hid a corpse among your supplies,’ said Michael, rather accusingly. ‘In broad daylight. Surely,
one
of you must have seen something to help us find out who did it?’

There were a lot of shaken heads and muttered denials. ‘You cannot let your mind wander on roofs,’ said Peterkin, rather sanctimoniously.
‘It is asking for accidents.’

Michael sighed his exasperation, and tried a different tack. ‘Did any of you know Drax?’

‘Not really,’ replied Yffi. ‘We all drink in the Griffin, which he owned, but we rarely spoke.’

‘I did not like him,’ said Blaston unhappily. ‘He knew this winter has been hard, and that decent men are struggling to make
ends meet, but he still charged top prices for his wares.’

‘That is true,’ said Yffi, while his lads nodded agreement. ‘Why do you think he bought prayers from Michaelhouse? His conscience
plagued him, and he needed your masses to salve it.’

‘But none of us were angry enough about it to kill him,’ added Peterkin hastily.

Michael asked a few more questions but they elicited nothing useful, so he ordered them back to work. When they had gone,
he stood next to the stack of tiles and squinted at the roof.

‘If Yffi and his boys
were
all up there, they would
not
have been able to see down here – although we would still have been able to hear their banter. So they may be telling the
truth.’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘Drax was not a large man, so it would not take many moments to haul him here and deposit him. The killer
could well have done it while Yffi and his apprentices were on the roof and Blaston was in the stables. Of course, he would
have to hope none of our students happened to be looking out of the window at the time.’

‘But it could have happened when they were transfixed by Yffi’s lewd banter,’ mused Michael. ‘I was interested to hear that
those pilgrims were nosing around at the salient time, though, especially that pardoner. You know what I think of pardoners.
Perhaps Fen saw our home and
decided it looked like a good repository for the body of his victim.’

‘Why would he do that?’ asked Bartholomew, startled by the assertion. ‘If he did kill Drax, why risk capture by toting the
corpse around?’

‘Pardoners are an unfathomable breed,’ declared Michael, never rational where they were concerned. ‘Who knows what passes
through their sly minds? But I shall find out when I interrogate Master Fen later. I do not want you with me, though. You
are too willing to see the good in people, and he will use your weakness to his advantage.’

‘As you wish,’ said Bartholomew, relieved to be spared the ordeal.

Cynric had been busy while Bartholomew and Michael had been talking to the workmen, and not only had he arranged for servants
to carry Drax to St Michael’s Church, but he had conducted a systematic search of the College buildings, too, and was able
to report that there were no signs of blood or a struggle in any of them.

‘What about the grounds?’ asked Michael. ‘In the orchard or around the vegetable plots?’

Cynric shook his head. ‘The grass would have been trampled if a murder had occurred in the wilder parts, while I would have
seen blood around the bits that are more carefully tended. Drax was not killed in the College, Brother. I am sure of it.’

‘So you
were
right, Matt,’ said Michael. ‘Drax was killed elsewhere and was dumped here. But why? The tiles will go on our roof soon,
so he was not going to remain undiscovered for long. And why pick on us, anyway?’

‘Could it be anything to do with the College–hostel dispute?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘It would represent a rather horrible turn
in the rivalry, but having a murdered taverner
on our property will certainly not endear us to the town. It may even encourage them to attack us.’

‘I cannot believe that is the answer,’ said Michael, although with more hope than conviction. ‘Because it
would
represent a rather horrible turn – one that is not in keeping with carts on roofs, cunningly balanced boats, or filling halls
with roosting chickens. We shall bear it in mind, but I feel certain you are wrong.’ He sighed tiredly. ‘You had better inspect
Drax’s corpse again now.’

‘Why?’ Bartholomew wanted to return to his teaching. ‘I have already told you all I can.’

‘I doubt you conducted a thorough examination with Ayera and Thelnetham snorting their disapproval behind you,’ said Michael
tartly. ‘So you will go to St Michael’s Church and do it properly. And if you refuse, I shall withhold the fee you will be
paid as my Corpse Examiner.’

The threat was both unfair and unkind. As Corpse Examiner, Bartholomew was paid three pennies for every cadaver he assessed,
and he needed the money badly, because prices had risen sharply since the beginning of winter. Michael knew he was struggling
to buy the medicines necessary for those of his patients who could not afford their own.

‘I will not be able to tell you anything else,’ he grumbled, as they walked up St Michael’s Lane. ‘And you should think of
Drax’s wife. It would be dreadful if someone like Yffi got there with the news first, because I doubt he has a gentle way
with words.’

‘I know,’ replied Michael. ‘So you can paw the cadaver, while I visit the widow.’

‘We saw her earlier today,’ said Bartholomew, sorry for the unpleasant shock she was about to receive. ‘She is a friend of
Emma’s granddaughter – Odelina – and was at Emma’s house.’

‘So she was.’ Michael’s eyes narrowed. ‘So I had better ask whether she stayed there all morning. It would not be the first
time a wife dispatched an unloved husband, after all.’

‘You cannot investigate this case,’ said Bartholomew, seeing the monk had the bit between his teeth. ‘Drax was not a scholar,
and there is nothing to indicate he died on University property, either.
Ergo
, his death falls under Dick Tulyet’s jurisdiction. He is the Sheriff.’

‘Dick will have far more important business to attend,’ predicted Michael. ‘Besides, Drax was found in my College, so I have
a right to find out what happened to him.’

‘Actually, Dick told me only last week that there is not much to do these days, because Emma has frightened all the petty
criminals away. He spends all his time on administration, and he is bored. You may find he is less willing to relinquish the
matter than you think.’

‘Then we shall have to work together. However, I would rather work with you than him, and—’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘I do not have time, especially with Emma summoning me every time she feels a twinge in her
jaws.’

‘You cannot be that busy,’ argued Michael. ‘Two new physicians arrived in Cambridge a few weeks ago and relieved you of some
of your patients. You should have plenty of spare time.’

‘It is a bad winter, Brother. Even with Gyseburne and Meryfeld here, we can barely keep up with the demand for consultations.’

‘You can find the time to help me. You must, because this concerns your College – your
home
. But here we are at the High Street, where you turn right to the church, and I turn left for the Drax mansion. I shall expect
your report later.’

* * *

St Michael’s was a pretty building with a low, squat tower and a huge chancel. It was a peaceful place, because its thick
walls muted the din of the busy street outside, and the only sound was the coo of roosting pigeons. Bartholomew aimed for
the little Stanton Chapel, named for the wealthy lawyer who had founded Michaelhouse and rebuilt the church more than thirty
years before.

When he arrived, he stared at Drax for a moment, then began to remove the taverner’s blood-soaked clothing. It did not take
long to confirm his initial findings: that the wound in Drax’s stomach would have been almost instantly fatal, while the stiff
jaws indicated it had happened hours before. The location and angle of the injury made suicide unlikely.

As he replaced the clothes, he thought about Drax. He had not known him well, although he had met him when Drax had made much-needed
donations to the College. The taverner had not been particularly generous, but every little helped, and Michaelhouse was grateful
for his kindness. In return, the College’s priests had said masses for his soul. Langelee was scrupulous about ensuring this
was done, which was why people like Drax and Emma were willing to do business with him.

Bartholomew recalled seeing Drax earlier that day, quarrelling with Kendale. It had been just after dawn, and although estimating
time of death was an imprecise business, he suspected the taverner had died not long afterwards. Had the argument escalated
once Kendale had pulled Drax down the alley? But if so, why would Kendale dump his victim’s corpse in Michaelhouse? Why not
just tip it in the river, or stow it in a cart, to take to some remote spot in the Fens?

Feeling he had learned all he could, Bartholomew lifted Drax into the parish coffin – it did not seem decent to
leave his tile-crushed face on display – and he was just fastening the lid when he heard footsteps. It was Celia. Odelina
was with her, still crammed into her unflatteringly tight dress. She was breathless – she was not as fit as the older woman
– and Celia had clearly set a rapid pace from her Bridge Street home. Behind them, struggling to keep up, was Michael.

‘Where is my husband?’ demanded Celia. Her imperious gaze settled on the coffin. ‘You have not shoved him in there, have you?’

‘Well, yes,’ said Bartholomew uncomfortably. ‘I am sorry. It did not—’

‘No matter,’ Celia interrupted briskly. ‘But show me his face. It may not be John, and I do not want to invest in mourning
apparel if you have the wrong man.’

‘Perhaps you might inspect his hand instead,’ Bartholomew suggested tactfully.

‘Why?’ asked Celia coldly. ‘Have you performed some dark magic that has changed his appearance? Your fondness for witchery
is why I am no longer your patient, if you recall.’

‘Your husband’s fingers,’ whispered Odelina, before Bartholomew could reply. ‘Robin the surgeon chopped them off after that
accident with Yffi, and Doctor Bartholomew obviously thinks that identifying them will be less distressing than looking on
his poor dead face.’ She looked away quickly. ‘This is all very horrible!’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Celia, relenting. ‘I had forgotten his missing digits. Yffi’s blood money allowed us to buy the Griffin tavern.
Then we used its profits to buy more inns, so we now have seven.
And
three lovely houses, including the big one we lease to Kendale – he calls it Chestre Hostel.’

‘The Griffin,’ mused Bartholomew, recalling it was where
the yellow-headed man had fled after stealing Emma’s box. It seemed a strange coincidence.

But Celia was becoming impatient, so he reached under the lid and extracted the pertinent limb, thinking she seemed more annoyed
than distressed by her spouse’s demise. Odelina was pale and shaking, but her grandmother and father were protective of her,
and he doubted she had encountered many corpses. He saw her look studiously the other way as Celia bent to examine Drax’s
hand.

‘I always thought it odd that these two women should be such great friends,’ whispered Michael, as the two scholars stepped
away to give them privacy. ‘But then Langelee explained it to me: the beautiful Celia is the heroine in the romantic ballads
that Odelina so adores.’

‘Odelina does seem to worship her,’ agreed Bartholomew, watching them together. ‘But what does Celia gain from the association?’

‘According to Langelee, a warm welcome in the house of the town’s most influential businesswoman. There is a lot a resourceful,
ambitious lady like Celia can learn from Emma.’

Before he could say more, Celia began to haul on the ring that still adorned one of Drax’s two remaining fingers. Unfortunately,
it was a tight fit, and she could not twist it free. After a few moments, during which Bartholomew was obliged to make a lunge
for the coffin, to prevent it from being yanked off its trestles, she turned to him.