The Killer of Pilgrims

Chapter 9

Bartholomew and Michael were silent as they continued to walk along the High Street, each pondering the questions they had failed to answer. There were too many, and Bartholomew did not think he had ever been involved in an investigation that was so full of people he could not read.

The streets were still busy, and he was alarmed by the proliferation of students who had taken to wearing blue or red. Heltisle, the haughty Master of Bene’t, waylaid Michael to complain about it.

‘We were managing to stay aloof from the dispute, but then Kendale announced his camp-ball game, and now our lads feel compelled to take a stand. I cannot imagine what possessed you to give him permission to hold such an event, Brother. It was hardly sensible.’

‘I did everything I could to stop it,’ countered Michael irritably. ‘But some things are beyond even the power of the Senior Proctor.’

‘Then let us hope that keeping the peace on Tuesday is not one of them,’ said Heltisle acidly.

They were delayed yet again when Michael was obliged to quell a quarrel between Ovyng Hostel and the Hall of Valence Marie – another two foundations that had only recently entered the feud. It was confined to a lot of undignified shoving, but Essex Hostel was not far away, and so was King’s Hall – two places that loved a skirmish – and Bartholomew suspected they would have joined in, had the spat been allowed to continue.

It was late afternoon by the time he and Michael eventually arrived at Emma’s house, and the family was dining. Celia Drax was sitting next to Heslarton, neat, clean and elegant. She picked delicately at a chicken leg, stopping frequently to dab her lips with a piece of embroidered linen. By contrast, Heslarton tore at his hunk of beef with his few remaining teeth; grease glistened on his face and ran down his brawny forearms. Odelina, still clad in her tight red kirtle, ate like her father: not for her the dainty appetites of the ladies in the ballads.

Emma, meanwhile, all fat black body and shiny eyes, appeared slightly feverish. Her plate was full, but she only picked at what she had taken, and when she did raise a morsel to her lips, it was to chew with obvious discomfort.

With cool aplomb, Michael perched on a bench and reached for the breadbasket. Odelina and the servants gaped their astonishment at his audacity, although Heslarton gave him an amiable, oily-handed wave of welcome. Emma merely gave a curt nod to say Bartholomew should join them, too.

‘Yes, come and sit here.’ Odelina patted the space next to her. ‘It is me you have come to see.’

‘Is it?’ asked Heslarton, regarding her in surprise. ‘How do you know?’

‘A woman can tell these things,’ purred Odelina.

She stood and stalked towards the physician. He took several steps away, but the room was crowded, and there was nowhere to go, so it was comparatively easy for her to grab his hand. He tried to disengage it, but Odelina’s fingers tightened and he could not free himself without a tussle – and he did not want to use force while a protective father was watching.

‘You are thin,’ said Odelina, pinching his arm as a butcher might test the quality of meat. ‘Sit with me, and I shall cut you a selection of the fattiest bits of meat.’

‘We cannot stay,’ said Bartholomew, shooting Michael a desperate glance. But the monk was more interested in the food than the plight of his friend. ‘We are very busy.’

‘Then I am doubly flattered that you are here,’ crooned Odelina. ‘Come upstairs, so we can talk without being overheard.’

‘Talk about what?’ asked Bartholomew in alarm.

‘Yes, what?’ demanded Heslarton, a little aggressively.

‘My health,’ said Odelina, giving Heslarton the kind of look all fathers knew to distrust. ‘I do not want to air personal information in public, but he needs my secrets to calculate a horoscope.’

She began to haul on Bartholomew’s sleeve. He resisted, and there was a ripping sound as stitches parted company.

‘Was that you or me?’ asked Odelina, inspecting her gown in concern.

‘It had better be him,’ muttered Heslarton darkly.

‘He is a warlock, Odelina,’ said Celia, watching her friend’s antics with aloof amusement. ‘You should be wary of making him uncomfortable, lest he disappears in a puff of toxic smoke.’

It was enough to make Odelina loosen her grip, enabling Bartholomew to slither free. Celia came to her feet when the younger woman began to advance again, making a gesture to Heslarton to say she had the situation under control. She intercepted Odelina and led her to a corner, where they began whispering, hands shielding their mouths. They looked like a pair of silly adolescents, thought Bartholomew, watching in disgust.

‘My daughter will be a wealthy woman one day,’ said Heslarton, giving the physician a hard look. ‘Many men pay court to her, but I shall not let her go to anyone who is not worthy.’

‘And a poverty-bound scholar is not his idea of a good match,’ said Emma with a smirk that was impossible to interpret. ‘I see his point. I have other ambitions for my only grandchild, too.’

‘Why are you here?’ Heslarton asked. ‘To tell us about Gib, or to ask after my mother’s teeth?’

‘Meryfeld tells me his remedy is working, but I am still in agony,’ said Emma, before either scholar could reply. ‘I have reached a decision, though. He has until Wednesday, and if I am not better by then, you may remove my tooth, Doctor. Meanwhile, you can give me some of that strong medicine.’

‘Actually, I cannot,’ said Bartholomew, uncharacteristically pleased to be able to refuse her. ‘It may react badly with whatever Meryfeld has prescribed.’

Heslarton stood suddenly, one greasy hand resting on the hilt of his sword, and for a brief moment Bartholomew thought he was going to take the tonic by force.

But Heslarton merely smiled at Emma. ‘We must listen to him, mother. We do not want you made worse.’

‘The real purpose of our visit is to discuss Gib,’ said Michael, unwisely giving the impression that he did not much care about the state of Emma’s well-being. ‘Who may be your yellow-headed thief.’

‘He is.’ Emma smiled at his surprise, a rather nasty expression with more glittering of the eyes than usual. ‘I went to view his mortal remains when Odelina gave us the news. Gib was the villain.’

‘You knew him,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He brought messages from Chestre when you were thinking of sponsoring a scholarship. So why did you not recognise him when he stole your box?’

‘I do not associate with mere students,’ said Emma in disdain. ‘He delivered his missives to my servants, and I never met him in person. However, the boy in St Clement’s was the villain who invaded my home. He was missing his yellow hair, but his great paunch is distinctive.’

Bartholomew did not recall an ale-belly as he had chased the culprit up the High Street, and again found he was not sure what to believe about Gib. Or about Emma, for that matter.

‘We live in a wicked world,’ she went on softly. ‘I thought your University would be gracious to me, after I spent so much money on your College. But now I learn it was a scholar who broke into my home and left poison for my beloved granddaughter.’

‘We are sorry,’ said Bartholomew, wondering why she had not asked the obvious question: whether her box was in the dead man’s possession. The omission was suspicious, to say the least.

‘You do not need to apologise to me,’ she said, reaching out to pat his cheek. It was all he could do not to cringe away. ‘It is not your fault students are such devious creatures.’

Bartholomew was ready to leave after Emma had identified Gib – Celia had disappeared, muttering something about going to organise a feast to celebrate her late husband’s life, which meant Odelina was on the loose again – but Michael still had questions.

‘Did you hunt the killer-thief again today?’ he asked Heslarton, while Bartholomew backed around the table and took refuge behind Emma’s chair. Odelina started to follow, but sank down on the bench at a warning glare from her grandmother.

‘No,’ replied Heslarton. ‘He is dead, so there was no need for me to scour the marshes. Of course, now I learn the villain was in the town all the time, safely inside a hostel.’

Bartholomew pounced on the inconsistency. ‘You could not have known he was dead until the body was found, which was mid-morning. And if you had intended to “scour the marshes”, you would have been gone long before then, to take advantage of the daylight.’

Heslarton shot to his feet a second time, and Bartholomew saw, belatedly, that he should have put the question more succinctly. ‘My horse was lame. Not that it is your affair.’

‘Do you only have one nag, then?’ asked Michael innocently. ‘I assumed you would have lots.’

Heslarton glared. ‘I only have one trained for riding in bogs. The others are too expensive to risk in such perilous terrain.’

‘Gib was killed between midnight and five o’clock,’ said Bartholomew. He struggled to be more tactful this time. ‘We want to exclude as many people from our enquiries as possible, so would you mind telling us where you were?’

‘Surely, you cannot suspect me?’ growled Heslarton dangerously. Emma’s eyes narrowed.

Bartholomew raised his hands defensively. ‘It is a question we are asking all the killer-thief’s victims. Even my sister,’ he added, when the reassurance did not seem to allay Heslarton’s irritation.

‘I was here,’ said Heslarton shortly. He scowled, daring them to pursue the matter. Bartholomew did not think he had ever heard a more brazen lie. But help came from an unexpected quarter.

‘Tell the truth, Thomas,’ ordered Emma briskly. ‘Someone may have seen you out and about, and that may lead Brother Michael and Doctor Bartholomew to draw erroneous conclusions – ones that may work to our detriment.’

Heslarton gazed at her. ‘But it is none of their business!’

‘It is,’ countered Emma. ‘They are trying to solve a nasty crime, and they will not succeed if people mislead them. Tell them what they want to know. It is for the best.’

‘No!’ said Heslarton. He would not meet the eyes of anyone in the room.

‘It is all right,’ said Odelina suddenly. She looked at Bartholomew. ‘My father is reluctant to speak because he does not want to hurt me. But the truth is that he spent the night with Celia.’

‘It is not what you think,’ blurted Heslarton. He licked dry lips, and his eyes were distinctly furtive. ‘It was her first night alone in the house without Drax – she has been staying here since his death – and she was nervous. We read a psalter all night.’

‘Your wife is barely cold,’ said Michael with monkish disapproval. ‘Drax, too.’

‘Nothing untoward…’ blustered Heslarton. Emma was regarding him with wry amusement, indicating the affair was no news to her. ‘She was lonely and unsettled. I did the Christian thing.’

‘Celia lives by the Great Bridge,’ said Michael pointedly. ‘Where Gib died.’

‘I stayed in her house all night,’ said Heslarton firmly. ‘And she can verify it, although I would rather you did not ask her. I do not want her reputation sullied.’

‘We can be discreet,’ said Michael.

‘I am sure you can,’ said Emma. ‘But there is no need to pursue the matter further. Thomas has shared his secret with you, and that should be enough to satisfy your curiosity.’

‘Has your box been returned?’ asked Bartholomew, deciding to come at the matter from a different angle. ‘Or is it–’

Emma’s expression was distinctly unfriendly. ‘I do not object to you questioning Thomas, or even toying with the affections of my foolish granddaughter, but that question was an insult to me. It implies I had something to do with the death of this thief – that I arranged his demise, and removed my property from his person. And that is plain rude.’

‘Far from it,’ countered Michael hastily. ‘He was actually going to ask whether you want us to look for it when we search Gib’s home.’

Emma nodded slowly. ‘My apologies, Doctor. And yes, my box is still missing.’

‘It will have been opened and ransacked by now,’ said Michael. ‘Will you give us a precise description of its contents, so we can identify any individual pieces? You declined to do so before, but if you want them back, we must have some idea of what to look for.’

Emma was silent for a moment. ‘Letters of affection from my husband, a lock of his hair, and three pewter pilgrim badges from the shrine of St Thomas Cantilupe of Hereford.’

‘Is that all?’ asked Michael, disappointed. ‘I thought it held something valuable.’

‘These are valuable,’ said Emma, turning her black eyes on him. ‘They are worth more than gold to me. If you find them, I shall reward you handsomely. I will even order Yffi to finish your College roof before building the Carmelites’ shrine.’

Bartholomew left Emma’s lair confused and uncertain. ‘We learned nothing,’ he said in disgust. ‘Well, we confirmed that Heslarton and Celia are lovers, but that is about all. And the camp-ball game is the day after tomorrow – we are running out of time if we are to present a culprit for these crimes in the hope that it will defuse any trouble.’

Michael nodded although the anxious expression on his face said he was not sure whether having a culprit would help the situation. ‘So we shall have to speak to Celia, to see whether Heslarton was telling the truth about his whereabouts. We had better hurry, though, because time is passing, and I have a bad feeling I shall be needed to quell more hostel–College squabbles tonight.’

‘But Celia lies,’ said Bartholomew morosely. ‘So even if she does corroborate Heslarton’s tale, I am not sure we should believe her. And, before you say it, my antipathy towards her has nothing to do with the fact that she likes to tell everyone that I am a warlock.’

‘Perish the thought. But I wonder what an elegant, attractive lady sees in an ignorant lout like Heslarton.’

‘Perhaps he has hidden depths. And he is infinitely preferable to the rest of his family. But more to the point, why does Celia want the company of a sinister hag like Emma, or whisper and giggle with the brainless Odelina? I have not forgotten the pharmacopoeia in her house, either.’

Michael nodded. ‘You believe Celia poisoned Alice, because her own spouse was dead, and Alice stood in the way of her relationship with Heslarton. It is possible, I suppose. But does that mean she killed Drax and has been stealing pilgrim badges, too?’

Bartholomew shrugged. ‘Well, we know she and Drax were not a happy couple, and she illustrated her penchant for signacula when she ordered us to strip his body. But then what? Did she and Heslarton kill Gib, and tie a yellow wig on him to make you think the case is closed?’

‘It would make sense. However, I have seen Heslarton’s amorous glances, and it sounds as though last night was the first time they have been alone together since Drax died. Would he really have gone out a-killing when he could have been doing something rather more enjoyable?’

‘He might, if she told him that murdering Gib was the price of her favours. However, the two of them may be innocent, and we should not let our suspicions blind us to our other solutions.’

Michael nodded agreement. ‘Incidentally, Kendale asked the Gilbertines if he can use their field for his camp-ball game. I told Prior Leccheworth to refuse, but Thelnetham argued against me.’

Bartholomew looked at him sharply. ‘Thelnetham? What business is it of his?’

‘He said cancelling the game would cause ill feeling in the town, because Kendale has promised free ale and wine afterwards. He is afraid the resulting disappointment will be turned against the Gilbertines. He has a point, of course.’

‘So, we can expect trouble no matter what Leccheworth decides,’ said Bartholomew heavily. ‘It will be between the Colleges and hostels if the match goes ahead, and it will be between the University and town if it does not. Kendale has a lot to answer for.’

‘He has managed the situation with diabolical skill,’ agreed Michael. ‘He masquerades as the open-handed philanthropist, while I am the villain who wants to deprive the town of fun and free refreshments.’

‘How will he pay for it? Ale and wine in that sort of quantity will be expensive. Or do you think he intends to hawk a few stolen signacula to cover his costs?’

‘He might.’ Michael closed his eyes in sudden despair. ‘I do not see how we will ever get to the bottom of this case, Matt! I am at my wits’ end!’

‘You mean some murdering, thieving scoundrel has bested the Senior Proctor?’

Gradually, resolve suffused Michael’s chubby features. ‘No. Not yet, at least. But we need evidence if we are to make progress, and the situation is now so desperate that we must do whatever it takes to acquire some.’

‘How will we do that?’

‘You will slip into Chestre Hostel tonight, and ascertain why Kendal and Neyll were so determined that we should not examine Gib’s belongings.’

Bartholomew gaped at him. ‘What?’

‘You have done it before, so do not look so appalled. It has to be you – I will not fit through their tiny windows. And I cannot send a beadle on such a sensitive mission.’

‘No, but you can send Cynric.’

Michael smiled his relief. ‘Cynric, yes! Why did I not think of that?’

Bartholomew shrugged. ‘Corpse Examiners are useful in more ways than one.’

Before Bartholomew and Michael could reach Celia’s house, the monk was called to mediate in a dispute between Peterhouse and Maud’s Hostel – a silly argument regarding a horse that he learned Kendale had engineered – while the physician received a summons from a patient. The patient was an elderly man whose death was not unexpected, but the physician hated standing among distraught relatives while a loved one slipped away, and was in a bleak frame of mind as he walked home to Michaelhouse. Dusk had faded to night and the streets were cold, foggy and damp.

He went to his room, and stared at the puddles that covered the floor. His students had cleared everything out, except the desks, which were covered in oiled sheets. They had done the same with his medicine store, although the two locked chests that contained his most potent remedies had been left, and so had the mattress on which he slept. He slumped wearily on to one of the boxes, his thoughts full of the old man he had been unable to save.

‘There you are,’ said Michael, coming in a few moments later. He glanced around. ‘My quarters look just as bad, although at least you still have a ceiling.’

‘For the moment,’ said Bartholomew, wondering how long it would take Michael’s floorboards to rot from damp and exposure, and come crashing down on top of him.

‘I had just resolved that ridiculous spat between Peterhouse and Maud’s, when there was yet more trouble,’ Michael went on. ‘And this time blood was spilled – three scholars from Bene’t were injured when stones were lobbed by Maud’s. It was over the rumour that Jolye was murdered by the hostels.’

‘There is a similar tale that says Gib was dispatched by the Colleges. I heard it as I was coming home. They are calling him the Martyr of the Hostels.’

Michael gazed at him in horror. ‘No! That will make the situation infinitely worse – and it is already dire! I was expecting everything to come to a head on Tuesday at the camp-ball game, but perhaps it will explode sooner.’

They were silent for a moment, each reflecting on the events that had plunged the University into so much unnecessary disorder.

‘I heard about your patient,’ said Michael eventually. ‘And I am sorry: he was a good man. So, because I anticipated that you might not be in the mood for tackling Celia straight away, I arranged something nicer first: an invitation to dine with Dick Tulyet. It will cheer you up, and we can question Celia afterwards.’

‘I am not visiting the Tulyet house,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘Dickon might stab me again.’

‘It will be in the Brazen George, and Dickon will not be there, thank the good Lord. Dick wants a report on our findings, and has information to give us in return.’

A short while later, they were ensconced in the cosy comfort of the tavern, being presented with roasted chicken, salted beef, a dish of boiled vegetables and a basket of bread. Tulyet paid the landlord, who left with a bow, closing the door behind him. Bartholomew was not hungry, and picked listlessly at the meat Michael shoved towards him.

‘What is wrong?’ asked Tulyet, watching him. ‘You have barely spoken since you arrived.’

‘Like me, he is despondent because every time we think we have solved the case, something happens to make us question whether we are looking in the right direction,’ said Michael before Bartholomew could reply for himself. ‘I cannot recall ever feeling so frustrated.’

‘Unfortunately, we do not have time to chase around in circles,’ said Tulyet worriedly. ‘There are rumours that the killer-thief is a scholar – and the town is incensed at the notion. We must apprehend him before Kendale’s damned camp-ball game, or your warring hostels and Colleges will be the least of our worries.’

Michael outlined what more had been learned since the last time they had spoken, and it was clear from Tulyet’s face that he was disappointed by their progress.

‘You are wrong to think Heslarton and Celia might have killed Drax,’ he said. ‘My wife told me yesterday that they have been frolicking for years, and were content with the situation as it was – neither had any desire to murder the other’s spouse. Dickon knew about their relationship, too. He said Heslarton often visited Celia while Drax was out.’

‘I do not suppose he noticed Heslarton paying her court last night, did he?’ asked Michael hopefully. ‘Heslarton claims he was with Celia when Gib was killed, but I am unconvinced.’

‘I will ask,’ said Tulyet. ‘And now I shall tell you my news. Yffi’s apprentices are in something of a state, because he went out this morning and failed to return.’

‘He was among the crowd when Gib’s body was retrieved,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I saw him.’

Tulyet nodded. ‘Afterwards, he told them to keep working on the Carmelites’ shrine until he returned at noon. But he did not return at noon, and was still missing when I left to come here.’

‘What do you mean by missing?’ asked Michael. ‘Do you think he has fled the town?’

‘No, I think something has happened to him. His lads say he never leaves them unsupervised for more than an hour or two, and they are genuinely concerned. Moreover, I think it odd that this should have happened so quickly after the discovery of Gib’s corpse.’

Bartholomew was bemused. ‘Are you saying Yffi killed Gib, and has been dispatched in his turn?’

Tulyet shrugged. ‘The thought has crossed my mind, certainly.’

Michael was thoughtful. ‘Kendale and his students were suspiciously calm about Gib’s death. Perhaps it was because they knew that justice had already been served.’

‘They are an unruly crowd,’ agreed Tulyet. ‘My soldiers say they are always creeping about at night. Meanwhile, you saw them arguing with Drax not long before he was killed, and they are refusing to let you search their hostel. It all adds up to something very suspicious.’

They talked a while longer, then Tulyet stood to leave, saying he was going to spend a pleasant evening in the company of his son, although Bartholomew wondered how he thought he was going to do both. They walked to Bridge Street together, where the two scholars aimed for Celia’s home and Tulyet for the golden, welcoming lights of his comfortable mansion.

‘I will not have Dickon much longer,’ said Tulyet with a sad sigh. ‘It is almost time for him to begin his knightly training – assuming I can find someone good enough to take him. I half hope I fail, because I shall miss him terribly when he goes. Everyone will. He is such a good-natured boy.’

‘I am tempted to consult a witch about Dick,’ said Michael, as he rapped on Celia’s door. ‘Someone must have put a spell on him, because his opinion of that little hellion is not normal. Of course, if Celia is right, I could ask you to do it, and save myself some money.’

‘Do not jest about such matters, Brother,’ said Bartholomew wearily. ‘It is not funny.’

‘It is very late for callers,’ said Celia, opening her door a crack, and making it clear that the scholars were not to be permitted inside. ‘What do you want?’

‘To talk to you,’ said Michael. Like Bartholomew, he had noticed a shadow in the room beyond: she was not alone. ‘May we come in? It is cold out here.’

‘I am not letting a warlock in my house after sunset,’ said Celia. ‘It would be asking for trouble.’

‘Let them in, Celia,’ came a girlish voice from behind her. Bartholomew’s heart sank when he recognised it as Odelina’s. ‘We do not want the poor Doctor to catch a chill.’

‘Or the poor Senior Proctor,’ added Michael, shoving past Celia to step inside. She staggered.

There was a fire burning in the hearth, and two goblets stood on the table. So did two sets of sewing, and if Heslarton had been there, they had been very quick to eliminate the evidence.

‘We shall not take much of your time,’ said Bartholomew, ducking behind Michael as Odelina surged towards him. ‘We want to know what you did last night.’

Celia raised her eyebrows. ‘Why, Doctor! Is that any sort of question to ask a lady, when you have been told she entertained her lover? Do you want details of our intimate activities, then?’

‘But my father said you spent a romantic but chaste night looking at a psalter,’ objected Odelina, regarding her friend uncertainly. ‘Him on one side of the hearth, and you on the other. He said he would not do anything … improper until a decent amount of time had passed.’

‘Of course,’ said Celia, eyeing her pityingly. She smiled at Bartholomew. ‘So there you are. We spent the night with a book. However, I would appreciate a little discretion. People talk, and I do not want a reputation.’

‘It is a little late for that,’ said Michael bluntly. ‘You have been seen with Heslarton on previous occasions, too, especially ones when Drax happened to be away on business.’

Celia’s pretty face creased into something ugly. ‘Dickon! He is always spying, and you are friends with his father. I should have left the little beast to the bees.’

‘So are you saying you read here all last night?’ asked Michael, treating her to a searching look. ‘Neither of you left the house for any reason?’

‘Why should we?’ said Celia shortly. ‘There is much here to occupy us. And now, if that is all…’

‘This is an impressive library,’ said Michael, ignoring her dismissal and indicating the collection of books with a flabby hand. ‘Are they all yours?’

‘I have been through this with the warlock,’ replied Celia irritably. ‘They belonged to my husband. He could read, I cannot.’

‘Then how did you peruse this book with Heslarton?’ pounced Bartholomew, recalling that Agatha had claimed it was the other way around. ‘He cannot read, either – he has already told me he has no Latin. Surely, it would be tedious for you both to stare at words neither of you understand?’

‘That particular tome is very prettily illustrated,’ replied Celia icily. ‘It was prepared in the Carmelites’ scriptorium, and–’

Whatever else she had been about to say was lost, because there was another knock on the door. The two women exchanged an uneasy glance, and Bartholomew wondered if they were afraid it was Heslarton, come to pay suit to his woman, and that he might contradict the tales they had told. But it was Cynric, who always seemed to know where his master was.

‘You are needed urgently at Trinity Hall,’ he said without preamble. ‘And then at the Swan tavern in Milne Street, where there has been a fight and there are wounds that need stitching.’

Bartholomew shrugged apologetically at Michael and took his leave.

Bartholomew walked briskly towards Trinity Hall, where two scholars had been injured by flying glass when rocks had been tossed through their chapel windows. The stones were believed to have been thrown by a contingent from Batayl Hostel.

‘They want to murder us,’ said the one of the wounded resentfully. ‘In revenge for Gib.’

‘There is nothing to suggest that Gib was killed because he belonged to a hostel,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘This madness must stop.’

‘That is what we said, but Batayl would not listen,’ said another student bitterly. ‘But they will not get away with it – we will have our revenge.’

Bartholomew tried to reason with them, but could tell his words were falling on deaf ears. He left feeling anxious and unsettled, and his peace of mind was not much helped when he reached the Swan tavern, which stood opposite the Carmelite Friary. Apparently, a gang of youths wearing hoods and red ribbons had stormed the place, and engaged in a vicious fist fight with several lads from Bene’t and Clare colleges. Townsmen had joined the mêlée, and the invaders had fled when they saw they were outnumbered.

People were milling about in the street, as they always did after an incident, and voices were raised in excitement. A dog barked furiously on the other side of the road, and as Bartholomew glanced across at it, he saw the friary gate was ajar. He was surprised, because it was usually kept locked after dark. As no one at the Swan seemed to need him urgently – the remaining combatants were more interested in quarrelling with each other than in securing his services – he walked towards the convent, Cynric at his heels.

‘There!’ hissed the book-bearer urgently, peering through the gate and stabbing his finger into the darkened yard. ‘I see three shadows lurking.’

‘They are heading for the shrine,’ said Bartholomew.

‘Thieves,’ said Cynric grimly. ‘After St Simon Stock’s scapular again, I imagine. What shall we do? Catch them ourselves, or sound the alarm?’

‘Sound the alarm. Ring the bell by the chapel, while I make sure they do not escape.’

He crept forward. There was a lamp in the shrine, kept burning as a symbolic presence of the saint. He pushed the door open further, but it issued a tearing creak. By the altar, there was a brief exclamation of alarm, and the light was promptly doused. Without it, the building was pitch black.

Then the bell began to clang. Whoever was in the shrine bolted and, either by design or accident, Bartholomew was bowled from his feet. Then he was struck a second time as two more people hurtled past. He grabbed the hem of a flying cloak, but it was moving too fast and he did not have it for long. Then there were running footsteps and the yard was full of flickering lanterns as friars, lay-brothers, visitors and servants poured out of the buildings to see what was going on.

‘What happened?’ cried Prior Etone, leaping over the prostrate physician to dash into the hut.

‘Thieves,’ explained Cynric tersely.

‘No!’ wailed Etone as he reached the altar. ‘The scapular! It has gone!’

‘Are you sure?’ asked Fen. The pardoner’s face was white, and he was breathless. The two nuns stood behind him, their clothing awry.

‘Of course I am sure!’ shrieked Etone. ‘Look for yourself. The reliquary is empty.’

There was immediate consternation, and the convent’s residents began to hunt wildly and randomly around the yard. Etone dropped to his knees, and began to sob.

‘Even without the scapular, this is a holy place,’ said Fen comfortingly. ‘Pilgrims will still come.’

‘But not so many,’ wept Etone. ‘And probably not such wealthy ones, either.’

‘Brother Michael wanted me to burgle Chestre tonight,’ whispered Cynric in Bartholomew’s ear. ‘But I think we had better see what can be done to find this relic instead. I do not like the notion of such a holy thing in the hands of felons – the saint may be angry with us for failing to protect it.’

He and Bartholomew organised a systematic search of the convent’s buildings and grounds that lasted well into the night, but it was to no avail. Thieves and scapular had gone.

The following morning was so dark with rain clouds that Walter misread the hour candle, and was late sounding the bell. But even with the extra hour in bed, Bartholomew was still tired. As he struggled to prise himself away from his straw mattress, he wondered when it was that he had last enjoyed a good, uninterrupted night’s sleep.

The previous evening, Langelee had decided that the physician and his students should sleep in the hall while their own quarters were uninhabitable. It had sounded like a good idea, and Bartholomew was grateful to have somewhere dry to lie down when he had finished hunting for St Simon’s Stock’s relic. But rain thundered on the roof like a drum roll, and he discovered that Thelnetham and Clippesby were in the habit of using the library at night. Their reading lamps kept him awake, and so did the College cat, which insisted on trampling over him.

Michael also slept poorly – Tulyet’s fears about renewed hostilities with the town had unsettled him. Feeling there was not a moment to lose, he rose long before dawn, and discussed the brewing troubles with his beadles. Then he visited the Carmelite Priory. The friars were still distraught, particularly Etone. They clamoured at him, urging and pleading with him to get their treasure back before the villain chopped it into pieces and sold them off.

‘It must be the killer-thief,’ he said unhappily to Bartholomew, as Langelee led the scholars back to Michaelhouse after morning mass. ‘At least, I hope so – I do not have the resources to hunt another audacious felon.’

‘If so, then it is the first time he has worked with accomplices,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps it was Kendale and a couple of his pupils.’

‘Unfortunately, it might be anyone,’ said Michael bitterly. ‘No one can give me a decent description. Not even you, who had actual physical contact.’

‘I am sorry, Brother. It was very dark, and they were no more than shadows.’

‘Incidentally, Fen said they might not have succeeded, had you tried harder to catch them.’

‘He said as much last night, although he went quiet when I said the same applied to him. He arrived very quickly after the alarm was raised, and so did the nuns. None of them looked as though they had been sleeping.’

‘They spun me a tale about praying together in the chapel.’ Michael regarded his friend strangely for a moment, and then looked away. ‘I have something terrible to confess.’

Bartholomew regarded him in alarm. ‘Why? What have you done?’

‘Lost the signaculum you gave me. I was vain enough to wear it in my hat this morning, but the pin must have been faulty. By the time I returned, it had gone.’

Bartholomew heaved a sigh of relief. ‘Is that all? I was afraid it was something dreadful.’

‘It is something dreadful!’ cried Michael, agitated. ‘Not only was it a gift from a man who rarely gives his friends anything other than medicine and impractical advice about diets, it was something I really wanted. It was a beautiful thing, and I feel bereft.’

‘Are you sure it is lost? A lot of people have had theirs stolen.’

Michael’s expression hardened. ‘Fen! He must have taken it when I was at the Carmelite Friary! Or do you see the likes of Etone and Horneby as signaculum thieves?’

‘I would hope not,’ said Bartholomew noncommittally.

Michael was thoughtful. ‘Of course, I bumped into Meryfeld and Gyseburne on my way home, too. Gyseburne reached out to brush a cobweb from my head, but I am sure I would have noticed him removing my badge. No – it was Fen.’

Bartholomew was not sure what to think, so said nothing.

‘He will never be able to sell it here,’ said Michael, still worrying at the matter, ‘because my beadles are circulating its description. Of course, it serves me right for wearing it in the first place – I have not been on a pilgrimage, and it was sheer vanity.’

‘That does not seem to stop anyone else from doing it.’

Michael sighed, then became practical. ‘Come with me to see the Carmelites. The theft of the scapular is serious and urgent, and we must do all we can to retrieve it.’

‘Before breakfast?’ asked Bartholomew in surprise. Michael hated missing meals.

The monk nodded, and his expression was sombre. ‘As I said, it is serious and urgent. The camp-ball game is tomorrow, and time is running out far too fast.’

Michael set a brisk pace to the convent, where friars stood in huddled groups and there was an atmosphere of shocked grief, as though someone had died. Etone was so distraught that Bartholomew was obliged to prepare him a tonic, to soothe him.

‘Find it, Brother,’ the Prior whispered brokenly. ‘Please find it.’

Michael muttered some reassurances, patted his hand, and left him to Bartholomew’s care. The physician did not leave until Etone slept, at which point one of his novices came to sit with him. When Bartholomew walked into the yard, he found Michael talking to Horneby, Fen and the two nuns. The women were rosy cheeked and seemed well rested, although Fen was wan.

‘I shall assume the role of Prior until Etone has recovered,’ Horneby was saying. ‘God knows, I am no administrator, but no one else is willing to step into the breach, and we cannot be leaderless at such a time.’

‘Well, you need not worry about accommodating us much longer,’ said Fen kindly. ‘We intend to leave soon – Poynton’s family must be informed of his death as quickly as possible.’

They all looked around as the gate was opened, and Seneschal Welfry stepped inside. The Dominican saw Horneby, and ran towards him, his face a mask of shock.

‘I am so sorry! When Prior Morton told me what had happened, I thought it was his idea of a joke. I would have come last night had I known – I could have helped search for these vile scoundrels.’

‘It would have made no difference,’ said Horneby sadly. ‘We hunted all night and found no trace of them – and we had Cynric. If he could not catch them, then no one could.’

‘Cynric is the physician’s man,’ said one of the fat nuns unpleasantly. Bartholomew thought she was Agnes. ‘Perhaps he did not try as hard as he might have done.’

‘What do you mean by that?’ demanded Michael, hands on hips.

‘What was he doing here in the first place?’ Agnes snarled. ‘It was late, dark and wet. Yet he was lurking around the shrine, unaccompanied by Carmelites. It is suspicious, to say the least!’

‘It is not,’ said Horneby quietly. ‘He and Bartholomew saw the gate ajar and came to investigate. And thank God they did, or we would not have known the scapular was missing until this morning. Besides, they did their best to tackle the invaders.‘

‘Did they?’ sneered the other nun – Margaret. ‘Are you sure about that?’

‘Ladies!’ said Welfry sharply. ‘You would be wise to keep such nasty insinuations to yourself. There is no room for them here.’

‘You are right,’ said Fen softly. ‘My fellow pilgrims speak out of turn. Please accept our apologies, Doctor. It has been a long night, and we are all tired.’

‘Yes, you should beg his forgiveness,’ said Horneby firmly. ‘Bartholomew did all he could to prevent the thieves from escaping. I saw him knocked to the ground myself.’

‘Then why did you not give chase?’ demanded Margaret. ‘If you were that close?’

‘I am unwell,’ said Horneby stiffly. ‘Confined to my room, and–’

‘I know you have postponed the Stock Extraordinary Lecture,’ said Agnes, regarding him doubtfully. ‘But you do not look unwell to me.’

‘He is ill,’ said Welfry, indignant on his friend’s behalf. ‘He should not be out of bed now, as a matter of fact, but he has rallied because of this crisis. Please do not rail at him. And do not rail at Matthew, either. He is the last man in Cambridge to steal relics.’

‘I am not so sure about that,’ said Agnes snidely. ‘There are rumours that he dabbles in sorcery, and sacred objects are very useful when performing dark rites.’

‘So we are told,’ added Margaret hastily.

‘You overstep the mark, sisters,’ said Welfry coldly. ‘And although successful physicians attract this sort of from half-wits, I am appalled to hear it from you. You should know better.’

‘Matt said the front gate was open,’ mused Michael, when the nuns seemed unable to think of a reply to the rebuke, and only shuffled their feet. ‘Yet the thieves did not leave that way. Why?’

‘Probably because they were afraid of being seen by the patrons of the Swan tavern opposite,’ supplied Fen. ‘The bell was ringing at that point, and everyone would have been looking over.’

‘Or because they were already home,’ whispered Michael to Bartholomew. ‘In other words, Fen and his two fat nuns had no need to tear out of the convent, because they intended to spend the night in its comfortable guest hall. And now we hear they will soon be leaving.’

There was no more to be learned from the White Friars, so Bartholomew and Michael left them to their grieving and walked towards the High Street. Alice was going to be buried that day, and the monk was so desperate for clues regarding her death that he had already said he wanted both of them to mingle with the mourners, to see what might be gleaned from questions and eavesdropping.

‘Fen and his nuns are scoundrels,’ Michael growled as they walked. ‘I wager they stole the scapular, then tried to have you blamed for the crime, to shift attention from themselves.’

‘It is possible, I suppose,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘Still, assuming the killer-thief – with helpmeets – did steal the scapular last night, at least we can say that Gib was not the culprit. You cannot have a better alibi than being dead. In other words, someone probably did tie the yellow wig on him in order to mislead us.’

‘Our other suspects remain the same, though,’ said Michael grimly. ‘Fen and his nuns at the top of the list, followed by the devious scholars of Chestre, Yffi–’

‘But not Blaston,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘He would never tamper with holy relics. And neither would my medical colleagues, before you think to include them in your inventory.’

Michael sighed. ‘Welfry did you a favour today. A tale that the town’s favourite warlock stole the scapular would have spread like wildfire, but he managed to knock it on the head. He was forceful but polite. Perhaps he will not be as disastrous a Seneschal as I initially feared.’

The churchyard of St Mary the Great was already filling with mourners, most from the town, but some scholars among them. Bartholomew went to stand with Edith and Stanmore, who confided that Alice had had a nasty habit of accusing traders of giving her the wrong change. Then Blaston told him she had been critical of craftsmen and had reduced several to tears. Finally, Isnard claimed she had drunk more wine than the rest of the Colvyll clan put together.

Bartholomew regarded the bargeman thoughtfully. Was this significant? Did it mean the poisoner’s target had been Alice, and wine had been chosen because she was the one most likely to imbibe it? Eager to learn more, he started to ask questions about Emma, but the flow of information stopped abruptly. People were far too frightened to gossip about the old lady.

‘But why?’ asked Bartholomew of his sister. ‘She is not so terrifying.’

‘She most certainly is,’ averred Edith. ‘I cannot recall ever meeting a more evil individual. Do you know what Cynric told me? Not to stand too close when we go inside the church, lest the saints object to her wicked presence and make her explode into pieces.’

‘Lord!’ muttered Bartholomew, struggling not to laugh. ‘Cynric has a vivid imagination.’

Edith did not share his amusement, and turned to another subject. ‘Fen gave Heslarton a signaculum from Rome to put in Alice’s coffin. It was a kind thing to do.’

Michael overheard, and came to join them. ‘I have just looked at it. It is made of tin, although I am sure he has plenty of gold ones. Heslarton should have held out for something better.’

‘That would have been ungracious,’ said Edith reproachfully. ‘And Heslarton may be a ruffian, but he has some manners. But Celia is announcing something. What is she saying?’

‘That everyone is invited to a celebration this evening,’ explained Michael. ‘In her house. It is primarily to honour her husband, but she plans to drink toasts to Alice, too.’

‘Does she mean it?’ asked Bartholomew, looking around. ‘There are a lot of people here.’

‘She means it,’ said Edith. ‘She is very wealthy now Drax is dead.’

Odelina was among the crowd, wearing another of her unflatteringly tight gowns. Welfry ducked hastily behind Prior Morden when she made a beeline in his direction. But despite his determination not to be mauled, his words to her were kind, and it was clear he was doing his best not to hurt her feelings. When she saw she was going to have no success with him, she aimed for Bartholomew.

‘I would rather you stayed away from her, Matt,’ murmured Stanmore. ‘She is looking for a husband, and I do not want my family associated with Emma’s. It will be bad for trade.’

‘You need have no worries on that score,’ said Bartholomew firmly.

‘I bought my mother three general pardons,’ Odelina announced as she approached. ‘I do not believe they will shorten her stay in Purgatory, but my father does, and I like to make him happy.’

‘You are fond of him,’ said Edith. Bartholomew winced when he saw the puzzled expression on her face, indicating she could not imagine why.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Odelina, nodding fervently. ‘He is the gentlest, sweetest man in the world. And if he wants pardons for my mother’s soul, then pardons he shall have.’

‘She might do better with your prayers,’ said Michael piously. ‘Genuine ones.’

But Odelina was not very interested in talking to him. She fixed her gaze on Bartholomew. ‘I knew you would come today,’ she simpered. ‘For me.’

‘You should go to your grandmother,’ he said, unwilling to waste time repelling her when he should be concentrating on catching a killer. ‘She looks unwell.’

‘Her tooth is paining her,’ explained Odelina. ‘It is a pity, because she was looking forward to today. She loves funerals.’

‘Oh.’ Bartholomew blinked. ‘Ask Meryfeld to tend her. He is standing by the church door.’

Reluctantly, Odelina went to do as she was told. The moment she had gone, Thelnetham joined them. Unusually, his habit was plain, and bore none of the flagrant accessories he normally sported.

‘Your medical students are hatching a plot to disrupt this afternoon’s lectures,’ he said, pursing his lips. ‘They plan to infest the hall with rats – and no hall, no teaching.’

Bartholomew groaned. ‘If it is not one problem, it is another.’

‘Go,’ said Thelnetham. ‘I will help Michael eavesdrop on the mourners. I want these thefts and murders solved as much as the next man.’

It was an odd offer, but Bartholomew nodded his thanks and strode quickly to Michaelhouse, where he arrived just in time to see Valence lifting a large rodent from a box. The student dropped it when his master marched into the hall, and it made an immediate bid for escape, heading unerringly for the spiral staircase that led to the yard. Bartholomew folded his arms and raised his eyebrows.

‘It was to test a remedy,’ said Valence defensively. ‘A new one we have devised to … to reverse the course of miscarriage in women.’

‘That is not possible,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And even if it were, you would not prove your case by testing it on that particular rat – it was male. But as you are all here, we may as well start work early. It will give me more time to test you on what you have learned afterwards.’

He saw alarmed looks being exchanged, and grinned to himself, thinking it served the rascals right. He threw himself into the exercise with all the energy at his command, and by mid-afternoon – and he stopped only because Langelee told him the bell had rung a long time before and the servants were still waiting to serve dinner – he felt as though progress had been made.

‘Christ’s blood!’ muttered Valence, watching him head for the high table to join the rest of the Fellows. ‘I have never been worked so hard in my life! Perhaps we should all forget about being physicians, and become lawyers, instead.’