The Killer of Pilgrims

Chapter 8

‘My efforts to prevent the hostels going to war with the Colleges are interfering with my hunt for the killer-thief,’ said Michael the following day, as he and Bartholomew walked home from the church after dawn prayers. It was Sunday, which meant the ceremonies had lasted longer than usual.

Bartholomew yawned. It had been another dismal night, with the wind whipping through the missing window and water continuing to ooze through the missing roof despite Langelee’s declarations that there would be trouble if they were not mended. As a result, he had slept badly again, and his wits were still sluggish.

‘That is unfortunate,’ he said, ‘because Drax’s murder should not be too difficult to solve, when you think about it. A corpse was brought to our College in broad daylight, so someone must have noticed it being toted around. It is almost certainly just a case of locating a witness.’

‘You are right,’ said Michael, after a moment of serious reflection. ‘We will talk to Blaston.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew immediately. ‘Not Blaston. Leave him alone.’

‘I shall not accuse him of anything, but he was closer to where Drax was left than anyone else. There may be a detail he forgot to mention that will allow us to solve this case. Will he be at home, do you think?’

‘No,’ repeated Bartholomew, sure the monk would not confine himself to innocuous questions, and Blaston was a friend. ‘Please, Brother. You hurt his feelings the last time we spoke.’

‘I said nothing that was not true, and it is our duty to explore the matter fully – to clear his name of any suspicion, if nothing else.’

‘Very well,’ said Bartholomew reluctantly. ‘But take care not to offend him, or you may find yourself with leaking windows in revenge. And it would serve you right.’

‘Do not jest about leaks,’ said Michael, following him towards the High Street, where Blaston owned a house that was far too small for his enormous family. ‘You can stay with your sister, should life at Michaelhouse become unbearable, but I have nowhere else to go.’

‘You have plenty of refuges,’ said Bartholomew, wondering why he had not thought of Edith the previous night. ‘Your Benedictine brethren at Ely House are always pleased to see you, and you have friends in other Colleges.’

‘And let people know Michaelhouse is below par?’ sniffed Michael. ‘That would be disloyal.’

‘There is Edith,’ said Bartholomew, when he saw his sister walking towards them with her husband. ‘She was at the camp-ball game yesterday, but I was too busy to talk to her.’

‘I was not – she is an observant lady, and I hoped she might be able to tell me who killed Poynton. Unfortunately, she could not. She is carrying a parcel. I wonder if there is any food in it.’ The monk surged forward. ‘Edith! What a pleasant surprise! Is that a pie in your–’

‘It is for Matt,’ said Edith, jerking the package away from his questing fingers.

‘We are worried about him,’ explained Stanmore. ‘He is always thin and pale these days – a combination of too much teaching, too many patients, and the slop your College claims is food.’

‘There is nothing wrong with me,’ said Bartholomew tiredly, wishing they would not fuss so.

‘You will take this pie, and eat it all yourself,’ instructed Edith, pressing it into his hand. ‘No sharing with greedy Benedictines. Do you promise? And there is something else, too. You know Oswald and I went on a pilgrimage to Walsingham last year?’

‘To see what the Blessed Virgin could do about the fact that your son seduced the Earl of Suffolk’s daughter,’ said Bartholomew, wondering what was coming next.

Edith’s expression hardened. ‘She was the one who did the seducing, but that is beside the point. Which is that my badge has been stolen. I only left my cloak – the nice dark red one – unattended for an instant, but when I turned around, it had gone. And the token was gone with it.’

‘We believe the culprit is a scholar,’ Stanmore went on. ‘That is why we were coming to see you. At first, in the interests of town–University relations, we decided to overlook the matter, but then we heard that others have fallen victim to his light fingers, so we thought we had better mention it.’

Michael blanched. ‘I sincerely hope you are wrong! What led you to this conclusion?’

‘Because the theft took place in the Gilbertines’ chapel,’ explained Edith. ‘The only townsfolk present, other than us, were Emma, Gyseburne and Meryfeld. None of them are likely to steal a cloak, so the thief had to have been a member of the University – a student or a cleric.’

‘We said nothing to Prior Leccheworth, of course,’ added Stanmore. ‘We did not want to offend him by denouncing one of his guests as a scoundrel. But it was distressing to fall victim to a crime that took place on holy ground – a betrayal of trust.’

‘Can you remember who else was there?’ asked Michael unhappily.

‘Yes,’ replied Edith. ‘All the Gilbertines and all the Carmelites, the scholars from Chestre … although I cannot imagine why they were invited, because they are a surly crowd.’

‘They were included because the Gilbertines have taken the hostels’ side in the University’s latest quarrel,’ explained Stanmore. ‘And Chestre is very vocal against the Colleges.’

‘Those four pilgrims were present, too,’ Edith went on. She frowned. ‘Of course, they are not members of the University, so perhaps we are wrong to accuse a scholar of the crime…’

‘You mean Fen?’ pounced Michael eagerly. ‘The pardoner?’

Edith nodded. ‘And finally, Thelnetham had invited Ayera. And that was all – there was no one else. But the most important fact is yet to come. Tell them, Oswald.’

‘We saw a man with yellow hair,’ announced Stanmore. ‘We thought nothing of it at the time, but then we heard the description of the villain who robbed Emma, the Mayor, Welfry, Celia Drax, Poynton and God knows who else.’

‘It was definitely a wig,’ added Edith. ‘And we suspect one of the guests shoved it on his head to disguise himself while he stole my badge. He may have pilfered other things, too, then reverted to his normal appearance to shake hands and smile at his hosts as he left with his ill-gotten gains.’

Michael groaned. ‘A scholar stealing signacula and murdering townsfolk! We shall have a riot for certain, and the University is already in turmoil with the hostels at the Colleges’ throats.’

‘We shall say nothing, Brother,’ said Stanmore quietly. ‘You see, we have just been to visit Emma, and we do not want to be responsible for her making war on scholars for stealing her box.’

‘We did not want to go,’ added Edith. ‘But she summoned us, and we did not dare refuse.’

‘Really?’ asked Michael, still dazed from what he had been told. ‘Why?’

‘Because she is powerful,’ explained Stanmore. ‘I am happy to ignore the orders of others I find objectionable, but there is something about her that makes me want to stay on her good side.’

‘Actually, I meant why did she summon you,’ said Michael. ‘You do not need to justify your reluctance to annoy her, because I feel the same way.’

‘She wanted to talk to us about Matt,’ said Edith. ‘Because he saved her granddaughter from poison, and she was eager for his family to know his efforts were appreciated.’

‘I did very little,’ said Bartholomew, startled. ‘Gyseburne and Meryfeld were there, and–’

‘And stood by while you did all the work,’ interrupted Stanmore. ‘We had the tale from her own lips. But this is bad news! It is risky to offend her, but it is equally risky to earn her affection. She intends to dismiss Meryfeld and rehire you, because she thinks you are more likely to cure her.’

‘The only way that will happen is if a tooth is removed,’ said Bartholomew.

‘Do not extract her fangs!’ cried Stanmore in horror. ‘First, tooth-pulling is the domain of surgeons, and you should not perform such lowly tasks. And second, if anything goes wrong, I doubt she will be very forgiving.’

‘But it must come out,’ said Bartholomew, tired of explaining the obvious. ‘It is rotting, which means it will release bad vapours into her blood. I have seen such cases turn fatal.’

Stanmore glanced behind him, to ensure he could not be overheard, then lowered his voice. ‘Would that be such a terrible thing? The woman is evil – I feel it with every bone in my body. Perhaps you should let nature take its course.’

The Blaston home was a chaos of noise when Bartholomew and Michael arrived. At least four children were crying, several were enjoying a game that involved slamming pots against a table, and the rest were engaged in a furious argument about whose turn it was to go for water. It was colder inside the house than out, and there was no evidence that a fire would be lit for dinner. One child was sobbing more from distress than demands for attention, so Bartholomew picked it up.

‘There is something wrong with him,’ said Yolande, watching. Her usually hard face was tender. ‘He will not stop grizzling.’

‘He is hungry,’ said Bartholomew, noting the bloated belly and overly large eyes.

‘Poor mite,’ murmured Michael, not liking the sound of that.

‘But he vomits up the stew I feed him,’ said Yolande in frustration. ‘He will not keep it down.’

‘Because he needs milk sops,’ explained Bartholomew. ‘Valence will bring him some later.’

‘We do not accept charity,’ said Blaston stiffly.

‘It is not charity,’ countered Bartholomew shortly. ‘It is medicine.’

Blaston sat at the table and put his head in his hands. Yolande went to stand next to him, resting her hand on his shoulder. Suddenly, the older children stopped arguing, the middle ones ended their assault on the table, and the babies ceased bawling. The silence was eerie.

‘I do not know how we will survive,’ said the carpenter brokenly. ‘Summer is a long way off still, and work is scarce.’

‘Not for me,’ said Yolande comfortingly. ‘I can get plenty of new clients. Do not fret, Rob. Doctor Rougham is giving me an extra shilling tonight, and Alfred earned three pence by running errands for Master Walkot at King’s Hall yesterday.’

‘And I will pay you for information,’ added Michael. ‘I need you to think really carefully about what happened when Drax died. You said you were in the stable, but did not see anything.’

‘Not again, Brother!’ whispered Blaston, fixing him with haunted eyes. ‘How many more times must I tell you that it had nothing to do with me?’

‘We know,’ said Bartholomew soothingly. A rather dangerous expression was creeping across Yolande’s face; she would not stand by quietly while her husband was harassed. ‘But you are our best hope for a clue as to the killer’s identity. You were closer to where Drax was dumped than anyone else.’

Blaston scrubbed at his cheeks. ‘The business has plagued my thoughts ever since, and I have replayed it again and again in my mind.’

‘And?’ prompted Michael, when the carpenter hesitated.

‘And I may be wrong, but I think I heard Drax being dragged into the College.’

Michael laid several coins on the table, although the information was hardly worth them. ‘I knew you would remember something.’

‘There is more. I am fairly sure I heard footsteps, too. Two sets. In other words, two men came, carrying Drax between them. They could have left him out in plain sight, but instead they hid him behind the tiles and made sure he was under that sheet. I think they did it to confuse you.’

‘Explain,’ ordered Michael.

Blaston raised his hands in a shrug. ‘To make you appreciate that someone cunning is behind the affair. Not some spur-of-the moment killer, who struck out blindly, but someone with an agenda.’

Michael nodded wearily. ‘You are almost certainly right.’

‘I thought at first that Yffi did it, because they were his tiles. I assumed he had intended to keep the corpse hidden until he could find somewhere more permanent for it – a plan thwarted by Agatha and the dog. But then I heard Drax was killed in Physwick’s dairy, and my theory made no sense – the dairy is a much better place for storing bodies. So I reconsidered. The villain must be from the hostels, and he left a corpse in Michaelhouse because it was the nearest available College.’

‘Speaking of Yffi, why is no work being done on our roof today?’ asked Michael. He had already reasoned as much himself, and did not need to hear Blaston’s speculations on the matter. ‘I know it is Sunday, but we were awash again last night, and this is an emergency.’

‘I wish I could finish the work for you,’ said Blaston tiredly. ‘But I am a carpenter, not a mason.’

‘I shall have another word with Emma,’ said Michael. ‘She will encourage him back to work.’

‘I doubt it. It is she who is paying for St Simon Stock’s new shrine, and I imagine she thinks completing that will earn her more favour with God than mending your roof.’

‘I did not know that,’ said Michael grimly. ‘Thank you.’

It was raining again when Bartholomew and Michael left Blaston. The monk went to petition Emma, while Bartholomew returned to the College and gave the last of his money to Valence, to buy milk and bread for Yolande’s baby – Edith’s pie had ‘accidentally’ been left behind for the others. Then he went to his room where Edith, knowing her brother well enough to predict what would happen, had arranged for a replacement pie to be sitting on his desk. He could not have eaten it to save his life: the plight of the Blaston family had sickened him. He sank down on a chest, put his head in his hands, and was still sitting so when Michael returned. The monk went straight to the parcel and unwrapped it.

‘Beef!’ he exclaimed in pleasure. ‘And Lombard slices, too. They are my favourites, so clearly she packed them for me.’

‘Actually, she told me not to share them with greedy Benedictines.’

‘Well, there you are then,’ said Michael with a shrug. ‘I am not greedy, so she cannot have been referring to me. Eat something, Matt, and I shall join you. It will eliminate the nasty taste in my mouth, after begging Emma to order Yffi back to work and hearing her say she will not interfere.’

‘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.’

It was a good idea, and Bartholomew hastened to do as he was bidden.

‘Yffi has just told us what happened,’ said Fen as he approached. ‘Have you found Poynton’s stolen signaculum on this villain’s person?’

‘We have not examined the body yet,’ said Michael coolly. ‘Earthly baubles are not my first consideration when discovering a corpse.’

‘This was not an earthly bauble,’ snapped the fat little nun called Agnes, although Fen flushed at the monk’s implied criticism. ‘It was a valuable token from the Holy Land. Let me see him, Brother. I want to look on his treacherous face.’

‘Certainly,’ said Michael, gesturing to the corpse with a courtly sweep of his hand. Bartholomew hid the wig behind his back. ‘Look all you like.’

‘That is him,’ Agnes declared immediately. ‘I would know that evil visage anywhere.’

‘You are wrong,’ countered Margaret. ‘His hair is different.’

‘There is something familiar about him,’ mused Fen. ‘But I am uncertain…’

‘Put the wig back, Matt,’ ordered Michael. ‘Let us see what difference that makes.’

‘Yes!’ exclaimed Margaret, when the headpiece was in place. ‘That is him!’

‘Actually, now I think it is not,’ countered Agnes. ‘I have changed my mind.’

Fen stared at the body for a long time. ‘I am sorry,’ he said eventually. ‘I still cannot be sure.’

Michael watched them walk away. ‘We can dismiss the nuns’ testimony as nonsense – they do not seem entirely rational to me. But Fen is another matter. He knows something, yet declines to share it. He probably wants to assess the pitfalls and advantages to himself before–’

‘Stop,’ interrupted Bartholomew. ‘Wild claims will not help us solve this case. We need to review the evidence logically, not invent theories based on personal prejudice.’

‘I noticed you did not find it easy to remove the wig,’ said Michael, changing the subject rather than admit Bartholomew was right. ‘It was tied on very securely.’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘Very. I suppose it was either because Gib thought he might have to run, and he did not want it to fall off and reveal his true identity. Or because someone else wanted to make sure it remained in place for the whole town to see.’

Michael sighed his exasperation. ‘So even a simple thing like the tying of the wig cannot yield an unambiguous clue!’

‘Then let us consider the murders for a moment,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Assuming Gib is the killer-thief, I understand why he left poison in Emma’s house – she and her family are universally unpopular. And his reason for killing Drax is obvious, too – Drax was going to raise Chestre’s rent, and Kendale quarrelled with him about it.’

‘Blaston heard two sets of footsteps when the body was dumped, suggesting Gib had an accomplice. It must have been Kendale, whom Walter saw peering through our gates earlier that day. Chestre hates the Colleges, so they left the corpse at Michaelhouse – the nearest one to the dairy where the murder was committed – in the hope that it would see us in trouble with the town.’

‘It all fits very nicely,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Yet…’

‘Yet what?’

‘Yet I have the distinct feeling that we are being pointed in a way some devious mind wants us to go. And the notion that anyone can tie a wig on a corpse bothers me.’

‘What are you saying? That Gib is not the culprit?’

‘I have no idea whether he is our villain or not,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘Perhaps I am looking for overly complex solutions, and we should simply accept what seems obvious.’

‘No,’ said Michael. ‘Because I have an odd feeling about this case, too. And I have learned not to ignore my instincts. Or yours.’

St Clement’s Church was a spacious, airy building, and its vicar, William Heyford, was famous for preaching colourful sermons that attracted enormous crowds of people. Bartholomew had attended one once, but had found it sensational and lacking in logic.

‘I most certainly shall not house a corpse in my chancel,’ Heyford declared indignantly, when Michael told him what he wanted. ‘I am holding a mass in an hour, and I do not want the congregation to stay away because the place is stuffed with cadavers.’

‘One body hardly equates to a stuffing,’ Michael objected.

‘I do not care: he cannot stay. Besides, I recognise him – he is one of those obnoxious lads from Chestre Hostel. He and his cronies have made a lot of enemies among the Colleges, and his presence here may encourage them to come and do something unspeakable.’

‘Our students are not in the habit of doing unspeakable things to the dead,’ protested Michael.

‘Your Corpse Examiner is, though,’ countered Heyford. ‘And I am not having it, not in my church. It is a holy place, and I do not permit the mauling of mortal remains.’

‘If you let Gib lie here, I will arrange for you to do the funeral,’ cajoled Michael. ‘You will be well paid.’

‘All right, then,’ agreed Heyford, capitulating with a speed that had even Michael blinking in astonishment. ‘You should have said that money was involved.’

‘Matt will see him settled,’ said Michael, indicating that Bartholomew should follow the bier-bearers inside the church.

Bartholomew rolled his eyes, knowing the monk wanted him to examine Gib while he kept Heyford busy outside. It was sordid, and if he was caught it would make him appear even more sinister than ever. But he could not argue when Heyford was there, so he did as he was told, muttering something vague about making sure Gib was decently laid out.

He did not have much time, so as soon as the pallbearers had gone, he began his work. There was a single ligature mark around Gib’s neck, and no indication that he might have been throttled before he went over the bridge. His arms bore several signs of violence, including the break Bartholomew had noticed earlier. There were also five distinct bruises, where it appeared he had been restrained by someone with powerful fingers. And there was a sizeable lump on his head.

Bartholomew considered his findings carefully. They told him that Gib had been grabbed with some vigour, and that he had fought back. A blow to his head had subdued him at some point. Then a rope had been tied around his neck and he had been tipped over the bridge. Unfortunately for Gib, the drop had not broken his neck, and the cause of death was strangulation. There was no longer any question in the physician’s mind: Gib had been unlawfully killed. He put all to rights, and left.

Outside, Heyford regarded him suspiciously. ‘You took a long time.’

Bartholomew brandished the wig. ‘It took me a while to undo the knots.’

He could not look the priest in the eye, and was acutely aware that he probably looked very furtive. Silently, he cursed Michael for putting him in a position where lies were required.

Heyford continued to look doubtful. ‘They did not look that firmly tied to me. And why not cut them with one of the many knives you carry for surgery?’

‘Evidence,’ supplied Michael, when the physician had no answer. ‘Small details like knots are important, and may be the clue that leads us to the killer.’

‘Killer?’ asked Heyford, very quick on the uptake. ‘You mean he was murdered?’

‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew, when Michael raised questioning eyebrows. ‘I am sure of it.’

‘We had better inform Chestre,’ said Michael unhappily. ‘Thank you for your help, Heyford.’

‘You are welcome,’ replied Heyford. ‘But I shall hold you to your promise: I want this funeral.’

‘Well?’ asked Michael, when the venal vicar had been left behind, and he and Bartholomew were walking towards the town’s centre. ‘What did you learn?’

‘That Gib did not go easily. He was a large man, and strong, so I imagine he was dispatched by more than one assailant.’

‘And what about the wig? Did he tie it on himself? Or did someone else do it for him?’

‘I could not tell, Brother. I am sorry.’

Michael looked worried. ‘We had better hurry – it will not take long for word to reach Chestre, and we cannot have them taking matters into their own hands. They may wreak revenge on some hapless scholar from a College.’

‘Take some beadles with you,’ advised Bartholomew.

‘Take some beadles with us,’ corrected Michael. ‘Kendale is extremely clever – he may know exactly why his student was murdered, but may be disinclined to say. I need you to watch him, to assess whether he is telling the truth. And then we shall compare notes.’

Bartholomew dragged his feet as he and Michael walked down Bridge Street. Regardless of whether Kendale and his students had had a hand in what had happened to Gib, they would make a fuss, and he was tired and dispirited, not in the mood for confrontation. Worse yet, they might decide to honour Gib’s memory with more of their claret, and he felt his stomach roil at the notion of swallowing anything so potent.

‘There is Welfry,’ he said, pointing as they passed St John’s Hospital. ‘What is he doing?’

Michael glared at the Dominican. ‘Crouching behind water butts is hardly seemly behaviour for a Seneschal. Did I tell you that he has already written to the exchequer, requesting tax exemptions for those of our students who are apes? It made for hilarious reading, as it happens, but you do not jest with the King’s clerks. He will get us suppressed!’

‘I am hiding from Odelina,’ explained Welfry, when they approached. A pained expression crossed his face. ‘She has taken to stalking me of late.’

‘Has she?’ asked Bartholomew, daring to hope it might signal the end of her pursuit of him.

‘She said I remind her of a character in some ballad. It is my hand, apparently – her hero had a withered limb, but a lady kissed it and it grew well again. Odelina has offered to kiss mine.’

‘Perhaps you should let her,’ said Michael, amused. ‘There is nothing wrong with being cured.’

Welfry was shocked. ‘I am a friar, Brother! Besides, the reward for this cure is to marry her. And that would be too high a price, even if I were not wed to the Church.’

‘Here she comes,’ said Michael. ‘But you need not worry, because she seems to have transferred her affections to Valence. God help him.’

‘That means nothing,’ said Welfry gloomily, watching Valence effect a hasty escape. ‘She is quite capable of entertaining a fancy for more than one gentleman at the same time. Please go away. You will attract her attention, and–’

‘It is too late,’ said Michael. ‘She is almost here. Stand up, man, or she will wonder what you are up to. You are our Seneschal, and kneeling behind barrels is hardly dignified.’

Odelina had donned a kirtle with a tight bodice of scarlet. It was identical to one Celia Drax owned, and Bartholomew could only suppose she wore it to emulate the woman she so admired. Unfortunately, it was not a style that suited Odelina’s paunch and generous hips.

‘Well!’ Odelina exclaimed. Her eyes gleamed, and Bartholomew was reminded unpleasantly of her grandmother. ‘Two handsome gentlemen in one place.’

‘Two?’ asked Michael, puzzled. ‘Which of this pair do you consider unattractive, then, because there are three of us here.’

‘I am expected at the Dominican Friary,’ said Welfry, beginning to edge away.

Odelina snagged his arm. ‘Surely, you can spare a few moments to converse with a pretty lady?’

‘You are a pretty lady, mistress,’ said Welfry, gently disengaging his wrist. ‘And one day, you will find a fine husband, who will make you very happy. I shall pray for it to happen soon.’

‘I do like him,’ said Odelina, watching the Dominican scuttle away. ‘And I am sure I could cure his withered hand, if only he would let me kiss it. Love is a powerful thing, you see, and can overcome all manner of obstacles. It is how you saved me from death, Doctor.’

‘Actually, what saved you was vomiting,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It purged–’

‘No, no, no!’ cried Odelina in distaste. ‘That was not it at all. I told you: we share something special, because you snatched me from the grave. But where are you going? To visit my grandmother, and give her a better horoscope than the one Meryfeld has devised?’

‘Actually, we are going to Chestre Hostel, to inform them that one of their students is dead,’ said Bartholomew, supposing Emma’s household would also have to be told the news. ‘He was wearing a yellow wig, but we cannot say for certain yet whether–’

‘You have the villain who poisoned me and my mother?’ whispered Odelina, crossing herself. Her face was suddenly pale. ‘Thank God! Who is he? What was his name?’

‘Gib,’ replied Michael. ‘But we have many questions to ask before we can say for certain that he is the culprit. And we must be sure, before we besmirch his name.’

Odelina swallowed hard, seeming young and rather vulnerable. ‘Gib is the one with the big ale-belly, is he not? There was a time when my grandmother considered funding a scholarship at Chestre, and Principal Kendale used Gib as a messenger. She decided to pay for the repairs to your roof instead, in the end, but Gib certainly knew his way around our house.’

‘Well,’ said Michael, watching her hurry away to inform her grandmother and father of what had happened. ‘The noose around Chestre tightens further still.’

As it happened, Bartholomew and Michael did not need to visit Chestre, because they met Kendale and his students emerging from the Round Church. They all carried wax tablets, indicating they had been attending a lecture there, although most of the tablets were clean – few had taken notes.

‘What do you want now?’ demanded Kendale, when Michael put out a hand to stop them. His calculating eyes immediately took in the beadles, along with the fact that they were heavily armed. ‘We have indulged in no pranks today, so do not accuse us of it. I have been pontificating on the Aristotelian pre-concept of the mean speed theorem, and all my lads were in attendance.’

‘We have some sad news,’ said Michael. ‘Perhaps we might return to Chestre and–’

‘No,’ said Kendale frostily. ‘You are not welcome there.’

‘I see,’ said Michael, cool in his turn. ‘Did you say all your students attended this lecture?’

‘Yes, and they are keen to discuss it with me. At home. Good afternoon, Brother.’

‘Wait,’ ordered Michael, as Kendale started to move away. ‘I have come about Gib.’

‘He is the most eager of them all,’ snapped Kendale. ‘So if you will excuse us now–’

‘He is dead,’ interrupted Michael. ‘I am sorry to break the news in so brutal a fashion, but you left me no choice. Now, let us go to Chestre, so we can consider the matter quietly.’

Kendale’s face was impossible to read, although it was certainly several shades paler. ‘He is not dead,’ he said after a moment. ‘He is…’

‘He is where?’ asked Michael when he faltered. ‘Not here with the other students, certainly.’

‘He must have slipped away for a moment,’ said Kendale. ‘A call of nature.’

‘That is right,’ said Neyll, equally pallid. ‘None of us noticed, because we were all entranced by Aristotle’s mean theory about speed concepts … or whatever Principal Kendale was talking about.’

‘When did you last see Gib?’ asked Bartholomew, eager to ask his questions and leave. He did not feel easy among the Chestre men; not even with armed beadles at his back.

‘I told you,’ said Kendale. ‘He must have slipped away for a moment. To a latrine.’

‘That is untrue,’ said Bartholomew quietly. ‘He has been dead for hours. I doubt any of you have seen him since five o’clock this morning.’

‘How do you know that?’ demanded Neyll, dark eyes flashing. ‘Have you anatomised him?’

‘Of course not,’ said Bartholomew, aware of several hands dropping to daggers. The beadles tensed, too. ‘But the soldiers on the bridge relax their guard between midnight and five, and it seems likely that was when Gib died.’

Kendale’s expression was still inscrutable. ‘I suppose I have not seen him today, now you mention it. But he was a quiet soul, and I often overlooked his presence. What happened to him?’

‘Is it true that Emma de Colvyll considered funding a scholarship at Chestre?’ asked Michael, unwilling to answer questions until he had been provided with answers he could trust. ‘And Gib acted as your messenger for a while?’

‘Yes, but she elected to mend your roof instead,’ said Neyll unpleasantly. ‘We bear her no grudge, if that is what you are thinking. In fact, we were relieved she decided to post her charity elsewhere, because we were never comfortable about the notion of being in her debt.’

‘That is true,’ agreed Kendale. ‘Indeed, we would not be in Michaelhouse’s shoes for a kingdom. You will be repaying her “kindness” for years to come.’

Bartholomew had a very bad feeling he might be right.

‘So when did you last see Gib?’ asked Michael. ‘And please be honest. I will find the truth eventually, and lies will just waste everyone’s time.’

Neyll shot him a nasty look. ‘He went out last night. He has a whore, you see, and often stays with her, so we thought nothing of it.’

‘Who is the whore?’ asked Bartholomew. She would have to be questioned.

‘Helia, who lives in the Jewry,’ replied Neyll. ‘She is my whore, too, and we see her on alternate evenings. Now Gib is gone, I shall have her all the time.’

Bartholomew stared at him. Had he dispatched his classmate? Spats over women were not uncommon in a town where willing partners were few and far between. Of course, it would have to be a very heady passion that led to murder.

‘Did any of you quarrel with him?’ asked Michael, also studying the students’ reactions intently.

Kendale gave his sly smile. ‘Why would we do that? He lived in our hostel, so we were all the best of friends. It is the Colleges with whom we have arguments.’

‘So you love each other, and Chestre is a haven of peace and tranquillity?’ asked Michael acidly.

Kendale inclined his head. ‘Yes. And if Gib has been murdered – as your questions lead me to surmise – then you must look to a College for the villain. They are the ones who mean us harm.’

‘Any particular College?’ asked Michael.

Kendale met his gaze evenly. ‘The louts at Michaelhouse do not like us.’

‘Speaking of Michaelhouse,’ said the monk, declining to be baited, ‘I have been told that you spied on us on Monday morning.’

‘Yes, I did,’ replied Kendale glibly. ‘Your porter saw me, did he? I thought he might. I was looking for Gib.’

‘Why did you expect him to be in Michaelhouse?’ asked Bartholomew suspiciously.

‘Because he was missing, and I was afraid someone there might have kidnapped him. And I was right to be concerned: less than a week later, he is unlawfully slain.’

Kendale was clever, thought Bartholomew, regarding him with dislike. It was cunning to claim Gib as his reason for sticking his head around Michaelhouse’s gate on the morning Drax had died, because Gib was not in a position to confirm or deny the tale.

‘I do not believe you,’ said Michael.

Neyll drew his dagger, a great, wicked-looking thing that had been honed to a savage point. ‘You accuse my Principal of lying?’

Kendale raised his bandaged hand to stop him. ‘Then ask your porter precisely what he saw,’ he said to Michael. ‘If he is an honest man, he will say I looked briefly around your yard and left. No more and no less. And I have explained exactly why I did it.’

‘Then did you see anything suspicious?’ asked Michael, although his expression remained sceptical. ‘The reason I ask is because Drax’s body was dumped there not long after.’

‘No,’ said Kendale blithely. ‘I did not see Drax, his killer or anyone else.’

‘You quarrelled with Drax not long before his murder,’ said Michael. ‘I saw you myself. Why?’

‘Because he wanted to raise our rent,’ replied Kendale. He laughed suddenly, a humourless, bitter sound. ‘And do you know why? Because he claimed evil spirits inhabit the place with us, and so should pay their share. Have you ever heard anything more ridiculous?’

Bartholomew found himself uncertain whether the ‘ridiculous’ referred to the notion of evil spirits in the building, or the fact that Drax had expected them to pay for their lodgings.

‘May we inspect Gib’s room?’ he asked, supposing that if Gib really were the yellow-headed thief, then the proof would be in the place where he kept his other belongings.

‘No,’ said Neyll immediately. ‘You may not.’

‘I agree,’ said Kendale. ‘It would be most improper. His goods will be parcelled up and returned to his family, without suspicious fingers pawing through them.’

‘What are you afraid we might find?’ asked Michael keenly.

‘We are afraid of nothing,’ snapped Kendale. ‘And all you will find are spare clothes, a psalter, a few rings and a handsome saddle, which we all covet. But I deny you access, so you will just have to take my word for it.’

‘You say you love each other, but you do not seem overly distressed by Gib’s demise,’ remarked Michael, turning his thoughtful stare from Kendale to Neyll, and then around at the others. ‘Why is that? Could it be there is trouble in paradise?’

‘We are men,’ replied Kendale coldly. ‘We do not shame ourselves by weeping. We do not shame ourselves by talking to impertinent College men, either.’ He turned to his scholars. ‘Come.’

‘I could not read them at all,’ said Bartholomew, watching them slouch away. ‘Their evasive answers may have been intended to throw you off the scent of their guilt, but might equally well have been to confound you, because you belong to a College.’

‘Our news about Gib did not surprise them in the slightest, though – I believe they already knew. So the question is, did they know because someone ran to tell them, or because they are his killers?’

‘We spent time at St Clement’s, and with Welfry and Odelina,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘So the tale may well have preceded us. And despite Kendale’s claims of manliness, Neyll had been crying – his eyes were inflamed. Of course, they could have been tears of rage.’

‘And Kendale’s hands were shaking,’ added Michael. ‘They were upset, all right, although they did an admirable task of masking it. Of course, we have no way of telling whether it was guilty fear or innocent distress.’

‘What about the other matter? Kendale’s explanation for spying on Michaelhouse on Monday?’

The monk grimaced. ‘It was a pack of lies – of course he did not expect to see Gib there.’

‘So we learned nothing at all?’

‘It is all grist for the mill,’ said Michael, although he did not look convinced by his own optimism. ‘And now we must tackle Heslarton.’