The Killer of Pilgrims

Chapter 11

Meadowman, Neyll and Ihon dashed forward to see what Cynric had found. Ihon jerked away in revulsion, although Neyll was made of sterner stuff, and poked Yffi with his finger. Meadowman took one look, then shot up the stairs to fetch Michael.

‘I understand your plan now, College man,’ snarled Neyll, regarding Bartholomew with utter loathing. ‘You planted that ugly little box, so the Senior Proctor would come. And then you offered to search our cellars knowing exactly what would be found, because you put this corpse here, too. It is Michaelhouse’s revenge for the gates!’

‘We do not tamper with corpses, boy,’ said Cynric reproachfully. ‘Especially in a place like this, where demons lurk. It would be too dangerous.’

Bartholomew tried to rally his befuddled wits. ‘Are you saying you did not murder Yffi?’

‘Of course we did not!’ snapped Ihon. ‘We are the victims of a monstrous plot, and we were fools to think we could study here safely. We should leave while we can. Now.’

‘But if we do – especially today, when the camp-ball is on – they will think we are guilty for sure,’ said Neyll angrily. ‘They will say we arranged the game as a diversion, to let us escape.’

There was a clatter of footsteps on the stairs, and Michael arrived, followed by Kendale and his students, with the beadles bringing up the rear. It was a tight squeeze in such a small chamber. Bartholomew watched the Chestre men peer into the crate one by one, only to recoil with shock, revulsion or horror when they saw what lay within. He was as sure as he could be that none of them had known what was there, not even Kendale.

‘Well?’ asked Michael, folding his arms. ‘I think this warrants an explanation.’

‘Michaelhouse put him here,’ shouted Neyll. ‘Who else could it have been?’

But Kendale shook his head. ‘The Michaelhouse men are villains to a man, but I do not see them playing pranks with corpses. Even Langelee would not stoop that low.’

‘Well, if not Michaelhouse, then another of our enemies,’ yelled Neyll, as Bartholomew and Cynric lifted the mason from the chest and laid him on the floor. ‘Emma de Colvyll–’

‘Emma?’ interrupted Kendale. ‘But she provided us with the wine that you have been downing so merrily. She means us no harm.’

Bartholomew listened to the ensuing discussion while he inspected Yffi. The cause of death was obvious: the mason had been stabbed. He began to look for other clues as to what had happened – ones that would either exonerate Chestre, or prove once and for all that they were killers.

‘Why should she be generous to us?’ persisted Neyll, tears of impotent rage in his eyes. ‘We have nothing she wants. And she does not like us, or she would have funded that scholarship.’

‘Why must you always be so suspicious?’ sighed Ihon. ‘Some folk are decent, and do mean us well. When we first arrived, Michaelhouse tried to make friends, but your surliness drove them off. I wish we had not let it, because we might have been living in peace now if–’

‘Peace?’ howled Neyll, livid. ‘I do not want peace with a College! And I was right to be wary, because look where we are now – on the brink of being charged with crimes we did not commit.’

‘I abhor the Colleges too,’ interjected Kendale, raising his hand to quell the debate. ‘And you were right to reject Michaelhouse’s sly advances, Neyll. However, you are wrong about Emma, because we have something she wants very much. Namely our collection of hunting trophies.’

‘Hunting trophies?’ blurted Bartholomew, startled.

‘She thinks they will look nice in her solar, and wants to buy them,’ explained Ihon.

‘So she gave us claret, in an effort to convince us to sell,’ said Kendale. He turned to the rest of the students. ‘Who else means us harm? And do not recite a list of the Colleges, because that will not convince the Senior Proctor. I want names and believable motives. Think, because our lives depend on your answers.’

‘Clearly, the real thief is the culprit,’ said Ihon, after a moment during which the cellar was totally silent. ‘The man responsible for killing Drax, Alice and Gib, and stealing all those pilgrim badges. One of the missing signacula was in the “evidence” box, so–’

‘That much is obvious,’ snapped Kendale. ‘But who is it? Why does he bear us so much malice? I heard a rumour that it is a scholar, but which of the Colleges is home to such a ruthless villain?’

While they debated, Michael crouched next to Bartholomew, eyebrows raised questioningly.

‘Yffi was killed by a single wound to the chest,’ the physician replied. ‘The shape of the injury is indicative of a knife, rather than a dagger, but that does not help – every man, woman and child in Cambridge owns a knife.’

‘Is there nothing else?’ asked Michael, disappointed.

Bartholomew nodded, then pointed to several places where Yffi’s clothes were torn. There was also a deep abrasion on his stomach, where pieces of wood had embedded themselves in the skin.

‘This did not bleed much,’ he said. ‘Which indicates it happened after he died.’

‘You mean when he was stuffed in the crate?’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘You can see for yourself that there are no jagged edges on it. However, if you look closely at the wound, you will detect flecks of red. And Cynric said the broken window in Chestre’s scullery was red.’

Michael stared at him. ‘In other words, Yffi was killed elsewhere, and his body was brought into Chestre via a window?’

‘The evidence seems to point that way. But the Chestre men would have no reason to manhandle Yffi through a window – they would use a door. Ergo, I think they are telling the truth. Someone has left a body in their domain in the hope that they will be accused of murder. It is not the first time someone has done it – Drax was left in Michaelhouse, do not forget.’

There was a sudden clatter of footsteps on the stairs, and one of Tulyet’s soldiers arrived.

‘Trouble, Brother,’ he called. ‘Bene’t College is marching on Batayl. And Maud’s, Ovyng and Cosyn’s hostels are empty. We think they are planning a joint assault on King’s Hall.’

‘You see what you have done?’ Michael rounded on Kendale. ‘All this unrest is your doing – the rivalry between hostels and Colleges was never so bitter until you came along.’

‘Oh, yes, it was,’ snapped Kendale. ‘Only you, being from a College, never paid heed to it. I am right to encourage the hostels to stand up for themselves. It is grossly unfair that the Colleges should wallow in riches while the hostels are poor, and it is high time the inequity was removed.’

‘Michaelhouse is not wealthy,’ said Bartholomew quietly. ‘Sometimes, there is barely enough to eat, and we have debts. Why do you think Langelee accepted Emma’s charity? Because we are desperate. We could never afford wine and ale for the whole town after a camp-ball game.’

Kendale stared at him. ‘Well, that is not how it appears.’

‘We prefer people not to know,’ said Michael stiffly, shooting Bartholomew an angry glance for his indiscretion. ‘But enough of this. I want you to cancel the camp-ball game, and–’

‘No,’ said Kendale. ‘I could not, even if I wanted to. The town is expecting entertainment and free refreshments, and will attack the University if we renege. And even if they managed to restrain themselves, the Colleges would attack the hostels for breach of promise. Calling off the game is not the way to avert trouble. Not now.’

‘He is right,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Your best hope for peace is a short game, and enough food and drink to appease all the would-be rioters.’

‘I shall see what can be done about both,’ offered Kendale. ‘But only if you acknowledge our innocence of these crimes. It is obvious that someone is trying to frame us.’

The soldier coughed meaningfully – there was no time to debate the matter. Reluctantly, Michael nodded, and his capitulation was greeted by a chorus of triumphant jeers from the Chestre students. The heckling continued until he was outside. The moment the door closed behind him, there was a clink of jugs on goblets and a rousing cheer: Kendale and his lads were going to celebrate their deliverance from what had initially appeared to be a hopeless situation.

Michael glowered at the building with its lopsided leer, while Bartholomew leaned against a wall and wished he had been more forceful in voicing his reservations earlier, because it was not going to be easy living with Kendale’s righteous indignation.

‘I hate them,’ muttered Meadowman venomously. ‘And I do not think they are innocent, no matter how clever they were with their logic and their explanations.’

‘There you are, Doctor,’ shouted Valence, flushed and breathless. ‘I have been looking for you everywhere. Emma de Colvyll has fallen into a terrible fever, and you are needed to cure her.’

‘She is Meryfeld’s–’ began Bartholomew.

‘He has been dismissed,’ said Valence. ‘They want you, because they fear she is dying.’

Bartholomew ordered Valence back to Michaelhouse, unwilling for his student to be out when the town felt so uneasy. The lad was reluctant to be deprived of excitement, but did as he was told.

‘Stay with Michael, Cynric,’ said Bartholomew, aiming for the High Street. ‘He will need you.’

‘So might you,’ argued Cynric. He glanced up at the sky, which was beginning to lighten almost imperceptibly. ‘It will be dawn soon, and I do not like what the day promises.’

Neither did Bartholomew. ‘We are back to the beginning as regards suspects,’ he said in frustration, breath coming in short gasps as he ran. ‘We have been up all night, but have gained nothing – and I doubt Kendale’s measures will see the game pass off peacefully.’

‘They might help,’ said Cynric, although with scant conviction. ‘I was certain he was the villain, but now I am not even sure the culprit is a scholar, as we have been led to believe these last few days.’

He hauled the physician into a doorway when a gaggle of lads from Ovyng Hostel appeared. Bartholomew did not think they would harm him, given that he was their physician, but he was wearing a tabard that said he was from Michaelhouse, and there was a risk they might punch first and ask for names second. Nevertheless, he fretted at the moments that ticked away as Ovyng sauntered past – moments that might mean the difference between life and death for Emma.

‘The only evidence that the villain is a scholar comes from the fact that your sister’s token was stolen during an event that comprised mainly members of the University,’ whispered Cynric. He sensed his master’s agitation and was keen to take his mind off it, lest he decided to bolt before it was safe. Bartholomew tended to be single minded when it came to his patients’ welfare.

‘An event at the Gilbertine Priory,’ said Bartholomew, trying to concentrate on what Cynric was saying. ‘But the canons’ guests included all the Carmelites, the Chestre men, my medical colleagues, Ayera, Emma and the pilgrims. With that many people, it would have been easy to don a disguise and walk about unnoticed.’

‘In other words, the culprit might be anyone,’ said Cynric, nodding to indicate they should begin running again. ‘He might even be someone we have never met – a visitor to St Simon Stock’s shrine, who considers our town fair game for his villainy.’

‘No, he must be a local,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘A stranger would have no reason to poison Emma’s wine – or put Drax’s body in Michaelhouse.’

When they reached Emma’s house, it was mostly in darkness, in stark contrast to the other High Street homes, which were brightly lit. Some residents, anticipating trouble, had boarded up their windows and barricaded their doors, but Emma had taken no such precautions. Bartholomew wondered why, when she was by far the most unpopular person in the town, and so most likely to be targeted for mischief. Was it because she thought no one would dare? He rubbed his head, simply too tired to think about it.

‘We should go around the back,’ said Cynric, setting off in that direction. ‘Banging on the front door will wake the entire household, and I would sooner Heslarton stayed in bed.’

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew, trotting after him. ‘You do not like him? He is not our killer-thief, because he has an alibi for Drax’s murder – one that has satisfied the Sheriff.’

‘I like him well enough,’ replied Cynric. ‘He is a soldier, like me – honest and uncomplicated. But he is protective of his mother-in-law, and you will find it easier to work when he is not there.’

Bartholomew was not sure he would have described Heslarton – or Cynric, for that matter – as honest and uncomplicated. He reached the back gate, and stepped through it.

He was surprised to find the yard busy, with horses saddled and a cart loaded with chests and furniture. A number of servants moved around them, although none spoke. One stumbled in the gloom, and he wondered why they did not light torches, because Emma could certainly afford them. Cynric jerked him roughly into the shadows.

‘What are you doing?’ Bartholomew demanded, freeing himself irritably. ‘There is no need to–’

‘None of Emma’s family have mentioned a journey,’ hissed Cynric urgently. ‘So why are they loading up so softly and secretly – and in the dark? Moreover, all the servants seem to be up, so why are there no lamps lit in the house?’

‘Perhaps they do not want to disturb Emma,’ replied Bartholomew impatiently. ‘Her fever–’

‘No,’ whispered Cynric, doggedly determined. ‘It is something more. We should leave.’

‘I cannot leave,’ objected Bartholomew, pulling away from him and beginning to walk towards the rear of the house. ‘The pus from Emma’s rotting tooth has finally…’

He faltered when someone materialised in front of him, carrying a lantern. It was Heslarton, but what caught Bartholomew’s attention was the garment he wore. The lamplight showed it to be dark red, and the last time he had seen it was on Edith, when she had donned it for Drax’s funeral. Later, it had been stolen from the Gilbertines’ chapel, and her signaculum with it.

He gazed in shock, as clues and fragments of evidence collided together to form answers at last. Heslarton stared back, then moved fast, and Bartholomew felt himself grabbed by the throat. He struggled hard, dimly aware of Cynric racing to his assistance.

But they were in a yard filled with Heslarton’s retainers, and it was not many moments before they were overpowered. He opened his mouth to shout, knowing that Michael’s beadles and Tulyet’s soldiers were out in force – they would hear him if he yelled loudly enough – but there was a sharp, searing pain in his head, and then nothing.

When Bartholomew’s senses began to return, he found himself lying on a cold stone floor with Cynric hovering anxiously over him.

‘Thank God!’ muttered the book-bearer shakily, as Bartholomew opened his eyes. He crossed himself, then clutched one of his amulets. ‘I thought they had killed you.’

Bartholomew’s vision swirled as he sat up, and he gripped his head with both hands, seized with the illogical conviction that it might split in half if he let it go. It ached viciously, and he felt sick. He explored it tentatively, and discovered a lump at the back, where it had been struck.

‘Where are we?’ he asked.

‘Locked in Heslarton’s stable,’ replied Cynric. ‘It is just past dawn, and I have been trying to wake you for hours.’

‘Not hours,’ corrected Bartholomew. ‘It was already growing light when we were summoned.’

But Cynric was not interested in listening to reason. ‘I told you something odd was going on here,’ he said accusingly. ‘You should have listened.’

‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘I am sorry, Cynric. You were right.’

‘What made you start fighting Heslarton in the first place?’ asked Cynric. He sounded exasperated. ‘You should have controlled yourself, because to attack a man who was surrounded by his retainers … well, it was reckless, boy.’

‘I did not attack him.’ Recollections came in blinding flashes. ‘He was wearing Edith’s cloak. I should have pretended not to notice, but it took me by surprise. And he knew exactly what conclusions I had drawn from it.’

‘That he was the one who stole it? And if he took that, then he must be guilty of all the other crimes, too, including murder?’ Cynric swallowed hard. ‘So we are being held captive by a killer.’

‘But he cannot be the villain, because he has an alibi for Drax’s death.’ Bartholomew’s head ached more when he tried to think. ‘I do not understand.’

‘Oh, it is simple enough,’ said Cynric bitterly. ‘The villain is Emma. She poisoned her own daughter, and murdered Drax, Gib and Yffi. She probably told Heslarton to kill Poynton on the camp-ball field, too. And she is behind the theft of the pilgrim badges. She only pretended to be a victim of the yellow-headed thief, and she has been the real culprit all along.’

‘She is an old lady,’ objected Bartholomew. He recalled why he had been going to see her in the first place. ‘With a fever.’

‘She did not have a fever until today,’ said Cynric. ‘Besides, she is quite capable of sending others to do her dirty work. Heslarton may not have killed Drax, but she has a whole house full of retainers at her beck and call, and some of them are fearsome louts.’

Bartholomew started to object further, but the words died in his throat. Emma certainly possessed the resources to stage such an elaborate deception. She was already wealthy, but that did not mean she would overlook an opportunity to become more so, and some of the pilgrim badges were very valuable. Moreover, she was devious and ruthless enough for such a venture, sitting in her solar like some vile black spider, dispatching minions to do her bidding.

Yet that did not make sense.

‘Why did she summon me, then?’ he asked. ‘She would not have wanted us anywhere near her, if she is this cunning mastermind.’

‘I told you – she only started her fever today,’ said Cynric. ‘If we had gone to the front of the house, like you wanted, you would have cured her, and we would be safe at home by now. But we went to the back, where her servants are arranging for her to flee with her ill-gotten gains. This is as much my fault as yours.’

‘But why would she be fleeing?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering whether it was exhaustion or concussion that had turned his wits to mud. All he wanted was to lie down and sleep. ‘No one has the slightest inkling that she is behind all this chaos, so she has no need to abandon the empire she has so painstakingly assembled.’

‘Because Brother Michael is on her trail,’ said Cynric with a shrug. ‘He always catches his villains, and she knows it. She is leaving while she is still able.’

‘You may be right,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘On our way here, we decided the culprit had to be someone local, rather than a stranger, because there had to be reasons for poisoning Alice and dumping Drax in Michaelhouse. Emma’s motive for killing Alice is obvious: they did not like each other–’

‘And she dumped Drax in Michaelhouse to discredit us, so she would not have to finish paying for our roof,’ finished Cynric, although Bartholomew was unconvinced by that argument.

‘Moreover, a stranger would not have known there were pilgrim tokens in her stolen box – he would have opted for a jewelled candlestick or a gold goblet.’ Bartholomew rubbed his head, wishing it would stop aching. ‘Or is that a reason to assume she is not the villain? I cannot think properly…’

The door opened suddenly. Cynric rose to his feet fast, but the two men standing there had bows and arrows at the ready, and indicated he was to sit back down again.

‘Very good,’ said Heslarton, entering behind them. ‘You have guessed a lot, although you are still a long way short of the whole story. I was hoping to spare you – you did save Odelina, after all – but I am afraid that is impossible now. You are simply too dangerous.’

Heslarton leaned against the wall, and regarded his captives impassively. Behind him, the two men with bows stood alert and ready, arrows nocked. Bartholomew glanced at Cynric and hoped he would not attempt anything rash, because he could tell by the way the men stood that they would not hesitate to shoot. Fortunately, Cynric knew it too, and crouched motionless to one side.

‘I have no idea why you should want Kendale and his students blamed for the crimes you committed,’ said Bartholomew, struggling to make sense of what was happening. ‘But you will not get away with it.’

‘No?’ asked Heslarton softly. ‘We shall see about that.’

‘Why kill Yffi?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘What did he–’

‘He tried to blackmail me,’ replied Heslarton tersely. ‘Over Poynton.’

‘Poynton?’ asked Bartholomew. Details slithered together in his mind. ‘It was your dagger that killed him during the camp-ball game? And Yffi knew?’

‘It was an accident. But Yffi said he would claim it was deliberate, unless I paid him.’

‘So you stabbed him, then decided to put the body to good use – by leaving it in Chestre.’

Heslarton shrugged. ‘Why not? I have never liked those swaggering louts.’

‘What about us?’ demanded Cynric, before Bartholomew could remark that dislike was hardly a reason to devise such a hideous plot. ‘Will you have our murders blamed on Chestre, too?’

‘Yes,’ said Heslarton. There was no trace of the amiable rogue now; all that was left was the ruffian. His eyes did not twinkle, and his compact strength was intimidating. ‘I understand they convinced Michael that they are innocent, but your bodies should make him think again.’

‘It will not work,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘You left clues on Yffi that allowed Michael to deduce that the corpse had been dragged through a window, and you will make similar mistakes when–’

‘We have another plan – one involving Edmund House, which we are about to sell to the Gilbertines. And this time, there will be no misunderstandings.’ Heslarton gestured to the archers. ‘Clean shots, please. We do not want a mess.’

‘Why are you selling it?’ asked Cynric quickly, a feeble attempt to delay the inevitable.

‘Because he no longer needs it to frolic in with Celia,’ said Bartholomew, speaking before Heslarton could answer for himself. He recalled the shadow he had seen there when he had tended Brother Jude’s gashed leg some days before; doubtless, they had been there then. ‘Now Alice and Drax are dead, they do not require a secret place for their trysts. That is why the family have always refused to part with it before.’

Heslarton wrinkled his nose. ‘As I said, you know too much.’ He nodded to the bowmen.

‘Wait!’ Bartholomew struggled to his feet. ‘Let Cynric go. He has nothing to do with this.’

‘I cannot.’ Heslarton sounded genuinely apologetic, and Bartholomew saw he was uneasy with the situation in which he found himself. ‘He represents too great a danger. I am sorry – I would have spared you both if I could.’

‘Yes, you will be sorry,’ agreed Cynric venomously, as the bowmen took aim. ‘Because Doctor Bartholomew is the only one who can save your mother-in-law from an agonising death.’

Heslarton raised his hand to prevent the archers from shooting. ‘What?’

‘None of the other physicians know how to cure her,’ Cynric went on. ‘I heard them talking about it last night. Emma will die of her fever if she is left to them.’

‘She will not,’ said Heslarton, although he looked uneasy. ‘It is only a bad tooth, for God’s sake.’

‘It has been left too long, and has poisoned her blood,’ stated Cynric with great conviction. ‘She needs a surgeon to pull it out. And Meryfeld, Rougham and Gyseburne do not perform cautery. You know this – it is why you summoned Doctor Bartholomew this morning, not them.’

Heslarton was silent for a moment, and when he did speak, it was more to himself than his captives. ‘I do not see how this can be safely achieved now.’

Bartholomew frowned. It was an odd thing to say. He watched Heslarton go over to mutter to one of his men; the other kept his bow trained unwaveringly on the prisoners. The archer left after a moment, and Heslarton came back. Bartholomew could only suppose the fellow had been sent for reinforcements. Gradually, more answers drifted into his mind.

‘Emma has no idea what you have done, does she?’ he said challengingly. ‘And you are afraid that if you take us to help her, we will tell her that her beloved son-in-law is nothing but a killer and a thief. Your curious words – “I do not see how this can be safely achieved now” – mean you do not see how we can save her without your role being exposed.’

‘I have an alibi for Drax’s murder,’ snapped Heslarton. ‘One the Sheriff himself acknowledges. And I have one for Gib’s death, too, because I was with Celia. So, if I am innocent of those two crimes, then I am innocent of the pilgrim-badge thefts, too. You have nothing on me!’

Other than the fact that he was wearing Edith’s stolen cloak, thought Bartholomew, trying not to stare at it.

‘And your wife?’ demanded Cynric. ‘Can you prove you did not kill Alice, too?’

‘Why should I kill her? I did not want her dead, and I certainly would not have done anything to put my daughter at risk.’

‘No,’ agreed Bartholomew, able to put the facts together at last. ‘Odelina is responsible for what happened to Alice. She loves you and Celia, but she did not care for her mother. She committed murder, so you and Celia might marry.’

Heslarton regarded him contemptuously. ‘If that were the case, she would not have swallowed the poison herself. She nearly died.’

‘She read the pharmacopoeia in Celia’s house, which is full of silly advice. One example is that wolfsbane can be counteracted with a hefty dose of milk. She followed the instruction – I saw a jug of it next to the wine – but there is no truth in the claim, and she became ill, too.’

‘You do not know what you are talking about,’ snapped Heslarton. ‘She would never–’

‘Odelina had to drink the wine, because it would have looked suspicious if Alice had died, but she had conveniently abstained. Then, terrified because her “antidote” was not working, she crawled under the bed. She was lucky we found her.’

Heslarton shook his head in disgust. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself, spinning such vile tales about an innocent young woman who thinks the world of you.’

‘She killed Drax first, though,’ Bartholomew went on. ‘He and Celia argued a lot, and Odelina is nothing if not loyal to her friends. She decided Celia would be happier without him.’

‘She is a girl,’ argued Heslarton. ‘Girls do not kill. Besides, she says she did not harm Drax, although I admit to helping her move his body to Michaelhouse after she happened across it.’

‘Why there?’ asked Bartholomew, sensing he was on dangerous ground by mentioning Odelina’s involvement, so changing the focus of the discussion.

‘Because she wanted the Chestre men blamed. And they probably were the culprits, anyway – they did quarrel with him the morning he was dispatched. I did not think we would manage it unseen, but Physwick Hostel went out mid-afternoon, and Yffi unwittingly provided a perfect distraction with a ribald discussion about Yolande de Blaston.’

‘You sold Drax a pilgrim badge,’ said Bartholomew, deciding there was no point in protesting Chestre’s innocence. ‘It was–’

‘He was driving Celia insane by harping on about getting one, so I obliged him, to give her some peace. We made the transaction outside the Gilbertine Priory, although I think we were seen – your cronies Clippesby and Thelnetham were both nearby that night. And I denied it when you asked because it was none of your damned business.’

‘But then you wanted it back,’ said Bartholomew. ‘His hat was ripped–’

‘How many more times must I tell you?’ snarled Heslarton. ‘I did not kill Drax, and neither did my daughter. If his badge was stolen, then it had nothing to do with us.’

‘Dickon Tulyet saw you and Odelina slip out of Celia’s house the night Gib was murdered,’ lied Cynric, not seeming to care that there was now a dangerous light in Heslarton’s eyes. Bartholomew hoped Heslarton would not kill the boy for the book-bearer’s fabrications – or him and Cynric for reintroducing Odelina into the conversation. ‘Did Odelina order you to murder Gib, and tie a yellow wig on him? As another nail in Chestre’s coffin?’

‘She did not–’ began Heslarton uncomfortably.

‘Obviously, she could not overpower Gib, and toss him over the Great Bridge by herself,’ Cynric went on, ignoring Bartholomew’s warning glance that he was pushing Heslarton too far. ‘But you were there, ready to help with the dirty work.’

Heslarton’s expression was hard and cold. ‘I did what was necessary to protect my daughter. Like any loving father.’

‘So she is the yellow-headed thief,’ said Cynric with bitter satisfaction. Bartholomew closed his eyes, having reasoned the same, but dismayed that Cynric should share such a conclusion with her fiercely devoted father. ‘And you helped her kill Gib, so everyone would stop looking.’

‘No!’ declared Heslarton. ‘She would never … she is not…’

‘Your guilt was obvious when you failed to go out scouring the Fens for the thief the day Gib was found.’ Cynric pressed on relentlessly. ‘You knew there was no point, because you learned the previous night that your beloved Odelina was the culprit. You doubtless told Emma to say Gib was definitely the yellow-haired invader, too.’

‘Odelina is not a thief,’ cried Heslarton. ‘She wanted Gib blamed in order to protect another…’

Cynric waved a dismissive hand. ‘The next day, she was careful to remind everyone that Gib knew his way around your house – that he had acted as Kendale’s messenger when Emma was thinking of funding a scholarship, so would know where to look for valuables. She was very clever.’

‘I was right,’ said Heslarton coldly. ‘You know far too much. I am sorry for Emma – I would take the risk to save her if it was just me you were accusing. But I will not let you harm Odelina.’

‘Do not worry, Father.’ Bartholomew looked up to see Odelina standing at the door. ‘Grandmother is too ill to listen to their stories now. Doctor Bartholomew can save her without the slightest risk to ourselves. And if he fails, we will kill him and his servant.’

The prisoners were shoved out of the stable and into the yard. Bartholomew was not sure he was capable of surgery – even the comparatively straightforward business of removing a tooth – because his vision was blurred, his legs were unsteady and his hands shook. It would be irresponsible of him to attempt it, and he told Odelina so.

‘You will, or your book-bearer will die,’ she said coldly. She leaned close to him and lowered her voice, so her father would not hear. ‘And if you try to say one word to my grandmother about what you have surmised, I will kill you where you stand.’

‘Odelina,’ said Bartholomew softly, hoping to appeal to the dreamy girl who had harboured a fancy for him. ‘You must see that what you are doing is wrong.’

Odelina pulled a disagreeable face. ‘Celia told me I was stupid to see you as one of my heroes, and I should have listened. She said you cast a spell on me, to make me adore you, but you did not love me back. Well, I am wiser now. Your gentle manners will not beguile me again.’

‘I accept your anger with me,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But Cynric–’

‘You will both be released as soon as my grandmother is well,’ snapped Odelina. ‘So you can stop your begging. I do not want to hear it.’

‘Do not trust her,’ said Cynric. ‘The moment you fulfil your end of the bargain, she will–’

‘I will certainly kill you if you annoy me,’ blazed Odelina, whipping around to glare at him. ‘But Isnard has a barge leaving for France tomorrow, and I will arrange for you both to be locked in its hold. You will be released – unharmed – when it reaches the coast. By the time you return, we will be gone.’

‘How do you know the schedules of Isnard’s barges?’ asked Bartholomew, rubbing his aching head. He knew he was off on a tangent, but he could not help it.

‘The answer to that is obvious, boy,’ said Cynric, regarding Odelina with dislike. ‘Bargemen are not usually wealthy, but Isnard can afford Yolande de Blaston, the town’s most expensive prostitute. Obviously, he supplements his income by sending illegal cargos through the Fens.’

‘What illegal cargos?’ asked Bartholomew dully.

‘Good-quality tiles, window frames and timber,’ explained Cynric. ‘Which Emma gets from places like Michaelhouse. In other words, Yffi was hired to take the decent stuff from us and replace it with rubbish. Emma’s beneficence was nothing of the kind.’

‘Never mind this.’ Odelina made no effort to deny the accusation. ‘You have a choice, Doctor. You either help my grandmother, or we kill your servant. Then, when you are released later, you will have his death on your conscience.’

Bartholomew could see the bowmen were ready to do as she threatened, so raised his hands in surrender, ignoring Cynric’s grimace of disapproval. Odelina allowed herself a small grin of satisfaction, and there was a glitter in her eyes that was uncannily like her grandmother’s. Bartholomew was disgusted at himself for underestimating her: with forebears like Emma and Heslarton, he should have known there would be more to her than just someone who liked romantic ballads.

‘Everyone said you are clever,’ she said gloatingly, as they began to walk across the yard. Cynric trailed behind with Heslarton. ‘But you are not. We have outwitted you at every turn, and you are only now beginning to put the pieces together. You are a fool!’

‘Yes,’ agreed Bartholomew ruefully. ‘But at least I know why you picked on Gib. You developed an affection for him when he was carrying messages between Kendale and Emma. But he kept a prostitute, which disappointed your idealistic visions–’

‘It was sordid!’ Odelina declared, grabbing Bartholomew’s arm when he stumbled. She was very strong. ‘But he just laughed when I challenged him about it. When he turned his back on me, I hit him over the head with a stone. I thought I had killed him.’

‘So you raced to your father for help, then decided to use his corpse to your advantage. You tied a yellow wig on his head. But he was not dead, was he? He recovered, and you had a serious struggle on his hands when he fought back.’

Odelina did not reply, and they walked in silence the rest of the way to the door. Bartholomew thought about what he had learned, aware that he still did not have the whole story. The culprit had been clever, but he was not sure Odelina was sufficiently sly to have outwitted Michael for the best part of nine days, and he doubted Heslarton would be much help on that front. He recalled her precise words.

‘You said we outwitted you,’ he said, climbing slowly and unsteadily up the stairs towards the old lady’s bedchamber. ‘You and your father killed Drax, Alice, Poynton, Yffi and Gib, but neither of you were the yellow-headed man I chased. You have an accomplice. He is bold and quick, able to steal Emma’s box, snatch Poynton’s signaculum from–’

‘Enough of this nonsense,’ snapped Odelina curtly. ‘I am tired of it.’

‘Your poor father,’ said Bartholomew softly. ‘He knew nothing of your association with the thief until recently, did he? If he had, he would not have tried so hard to catch him. He helped you with Gib and Drax, because he loves you and did not want to see you in trouble. But he had no idea that you are in league with a felon. When did you tell him? After you made him a gift of Edith’s stolen cloak?’

‘I said stop!’ hissed Odelina.

‘Who is he?’ persisted Bartholomew. ‘A scholar? A townsman?’

‘Someone who is better than you,’ she snarled. ‘And I did not kill Drax, by the way. I admit to dispatching my mother and Gib, but I never touched Drax. I found him dead in Physwick’s dairy – I went there to give him a piece of my mind about how he was treating Celia – and I put him in Michaelhouse to … But no. I shall not talk about that.’

‘It was your accomplice’s idea,’ surmised Bartholomew. ‘Doubtless he also told you how to make use of Gib and Yffi’s bodies. Who is he, Odelina? You cannot protect such a rogue.’

‘Stop! I am not talking about it any more, so unless you want to be shot, you had better shut up.’

She clearly meant it, so Bartholomew tried to work out the fellow’s identity for himself. Fen? One of his medical colleagues? Thelnetham? All were self-assured and intelligent, and might well secure the affections of a lonely, gullible woman desperate for a champion.

Or, more likely than any of them, was it Celia, who had an eye for valuable jewellery and was Odelina’s good friend? And Celia was a liar, as evidenced by the fact that she had denied being able to read, claiming the books in her house belonged to her husband. But according to Kendale’s testimony, Drax was illiterate. The more Bartholomew thought about it, the more he was sure he was right. Celia was the villain.

Emma had indeed taken a turn for the worse. Her face was flushed, and her eyes were bright with fever. She moaned in pain, and when Bartholomew and Cynric were shoved unceremoniously into the room, she reached out a gnarled hand towards them.

‘Make me well again, Meryfeld,’ she breathed. ‘Or I will cast a spell on you, and God will turn His face from you for ever. It will not be the first time I have done it.’

‘Perhaps she has already put one on you, boy,’ Cynric whispered. ‘It would explain a lot.’

Bartholomew did not want to think about it. He tried to inspect Emma’s mouth, but the light was poor and his vision swam. He blinked several times, but it made no difference, and he knew it was wrong to try to treat her.

‘I cannot do this,’ he said, backing away, hand to his head. ‘Send for Gyseburne–’

‘You will do it,’ Odelina hissed. ‘Or your book-bearer will die.’

Bartholomew looked at Cynric, who was shaking his head, urging him to refuse. He blinked again, and the blurriness eased. He took the lamp, and peered inside Emma’s mouth, then tapped very softly on the infected tooth with a metal probe. Emma released a howl that made his ears ring. It also had Odelina wincing and Heslarton surging forward.

‘Hurt her again, and you are dead,’ he snarled furiously.

‘But it will hurt,’ said Bartholomew helplessly. ‘That is why she has always refused to let me do it before. And it will be worse now, because of the delay.’

Heslarton scowled, but indicated that he should continue. Servants brought hot water and bandages, then were dismissed, although one archer was ordered to stay, bow at the ready. Father and daughter held long daggers, and it was clear they would use them if an attempt was made to escape.

Bartholomew turned his attention to medicine, and began cleaning the implements he would need. He took his time, hoping the delay would ease the throbbing in his head. Heslarton soon became impatient.

‘Why are you wasting time?’ he snapped. ‘She is becoming worse while you dither, and you have polished those pliers at least twice. Get on with it.’

Reluctantly, Bartholomew bathed Emma’s gums with a numbing potion, and asked Cynric to hold open her jaws. The book-bearer was not very happy about it, but Bartholomew had a plan of sorts. He laid a number of little knives on the cloth at the side of the bed. Cynric saw what he was expected to do, and palmed a couple when Bartholomew ‘accidentally’ upset a basin of water.

‘Are you sure about this?’ he asked, speaking so low the physician struggled to hear him. ‘What happens if Emma dies during the…’ He waved his hand, not sure how to describe it.

‘She might, so be ready to act: lob the blade at the archer, then run for help. I will deal with Heslarton and Odelina.’ Bartholomew turned to their captors before Cynric could point out that help for him would probably come far too late. ‘You two will have to hold her down.’

‘Us?’ asked Heslarton uncomfortably. ‘I do not want to see what you are doing, thank you. And you have your servant to assist.’

‘He is not enough. This is going to be painful, and you must keep Emma still.’

With a muttered oath, Heslarton positioned himself across his mother-in-law’s chest, pinioning her arms to her sides, while Odelina took her legs. Bartholomew blinked hard, then gripped the offending tooth with a pair of pliers. As hauling would leave the rotten root in the gum, it had to be twisted out gently with his left hand, while the right held back the inflamed tissue. It would not be easy, and he hoped the thing would not drop to pieces on him.

Immediately, Emma began to buck and writhe. Cynric looked away as blood welled, and Bartholomew heard him swallow, audible even over the wails of agony emanating from the patient. He wondered whether the effort of making such a racket alone would kill Emma, and then what would happen to him and Cynric? He blinked again as Emma’s bleeding maw swam in and out of focus, then took a deep breath and continued, ignoring both the screams and the thrashing. Cynric was doing a good job of keeping the head still, for which he was grateful.

Unfortunately, the tooth was malformed, and refused to come out, so he took a knife and began to cut away the bone that held it. Emma’s shrieks intensified, and Bartholomew experienced a great wave of dizziness as the din seared through his pounding head. But then there was a click, and the tooth was free. He watched pus well out of the resulting cavity – a lot of it – and was not surprised she had been in agony.

‘Two stitches,’ he said, more to himself than his reluctant assistants. ‘To hold the flap over the exposed bone. Then it is done.’

Straining to see in the unsteady gleam of the lamp, he inserted first one suture, and then a second, careful to leave a gap for the wound to drain. Then he packed it with pieces of boiled cloth. Emma was silent at last, her face white and bathed in sweat.

‘Now what?’ asked Heslarton. His voice shook: the procedure had upset him. Odelina was made of sterner stuff, and went to sit by the window, while Cynric edged towards the door. Bartholomew could tell by the way the book-bearer stood that a knife was concealed in each hand.

‘We wait,’ he replied, leaning against the wall and wiping his forehead with his sleeve. ‘She needs to be monitored, to ensure the wound stops bleeding.’

‘A physician,’ said Cynric immediately. ‘A servant cannot be entrusted with such a delicate task. You cannot send Doctor Bartholomew off to France in a barge until–’

‘Can she hear us?’ interrupted Odelina, touching her grandmother’s face, very gently.

Bartholomew shook his head.

‘Good,’ said Odelina. ‘Because I do not want her to know what is going to happen next.’ She turned to the bowman. ‘Kill them.’

The archer and Heslarton regarded Odelina askance. Cynric nodded grimly to himself, to say he had been right to distrust her, while Bartholomew sagged against the wall.

‘But we made a bargain–’ began Heslarton, raising his hand to stop the bowman.

‘And I am breaking it,’ Odelina retorted. ‘If we put them on the barge and they escape, we will hang. I am not prepared to take that risk.’

‘Christ, Odelina!’ muttered Heslarton. ‘You have grown ruthless. It must be his influence.’

‘His influence?’ asked Bartholomew, struggling to keep his words from slurring. ‘Do you mean Odelina’s accomplice? I thought that was Celia.’

‘Celia knows nothing of this,’ snapped Heslarton. ‘Leave her out of it.’

‘He will not thank me for leaving them alive,’ said Odelina, ignoring Bartholomew and addressing her father. ‘Not now he is so close to achieving all he wants.’

‘And what is that?’ asked Heslarton doubtfully.

On the other side of the room, Cynric was wound as tightly as a spring, waiting for the right opportunity to strike. Bartholomew tried to brace himself, knowing he had to be ready to help, no matter what the cost to himself.

‘At the camp-ball game today, there will be trouble,’ Odelina was explaining. ‘The hostels will be blamed, and afterwards, the likes of Chestre will be ousted from Cambridge for ever.’

‘Your accomplice wants the hostels discredited?’ Numbly, Bartholomew struggled to make sense of what she was saying. ‘But why?’

‘And we shall be free to enjoy the proceeds of our hard work,’ Odelina continued, ignoring him again. ‘We shall all go to France. But we will never rest easy if this pair are alive.’

Heslarton shook his head, as if he could not believe what he was hearing, but drew his sword just the same. He nodded to the archer, who brought his bow to bear on Cynric, while he advanced on Bartholomew. Odelina watched with eyes that glittered more savagely than her grandmother’s had ever done.

Cynric sprang into action. He hurled one blade at the archer, catching him in the throat, then jammed the other in Heslarton’s side. Heslarton howled in agony and fell to his knees. Cynric was a blur of motion as he raced towards Odelina and gave her a shove that sent her sprawling. Heslarton’s screams alerted the servants, who immediately poured into the room, but Cynric felled two with punches, and the others, unnerved by the fierce, warlike expression on his face, turned and fled. He snatched up Heslarton’s sword, and made for the door.

‘Are you coming?’ he demanded, when Bartholomew made no move to follow, shocked into immobility by the speed and efficiency of the assault.

In the hallway, the surviving bowman ran towards them, sword at the ready. Cynric fended him off with a series of ferocious swipes. Bartholomew lobbed a pot, although it was more by luck than design when it struck the fellow and knocked him senseless.

Then Odelina recovered, and launched herself at the physician, nails clawing wildly at his face. Her weight was more than he could handle, and he fell to the floor with her on top of him. Cynric turned to pull her off, but Bartholomew could hear more feet clattering in the yard below – the servants had summoned reinforcements, probably in the guise of the rough, soldierly men who had helped Heslarton to scour the marshes for the yellow-headed thief.

‘Run, Cynric!’ he urged. ‘Warn Michael.’

‘Not without you,’ muttered Cynric grimly.

Bartholomew wanted to argue, but there was no time. He shoved Odelina away, and when she came at him again, he chopped her in the neck with the side of his hand. She fell back, stunned.

‘She hit me first,’ he protested, aware of Cynric’s startled look. Even so, it was not in his nature to strike women, and he did not feel easy in his mind as he scrambled to his feet. Then he saw Heslarton groaning on the floor with the blade protruding from his ribs.

‘Leave him,’ hissed Cynric. ‘I did not kill him – which is more mercy than he was going to show us.’

He grabbed a sword from the fallen bowman and shoved it into Bartholomew’s hand. Then he raced towards the stairs with one of his blood-curdling battle cries. Heslarton’s men had massed there, and he plunged among them like a madman, driving them back with the sheer ferocity of his charge. Bartholomew jabbed here and there, mostly ineffectually.

Step by step, they fought their way downwards, and eventually reached the door. Bartholomew hauled it open while Cynric, howling all manner of curses and incantations in Welsh, whirled the sword around as though he were demented. Bartholomew was vaguely aware of people in the street stopping to stare as he staggered outside Emma’s domain, and then he was stumbling into the arms of someone who hurried towards him. It was Michael.

Bartholomew watched Michael’s beadles do battle with those members of Emma’s household who had charged into the street after him. When he was sure the beadles would win, he turned to the monk, speaking quickly and urgently, acutely aware that time was of the essence.

‘I have been busy, too,’ said Michael, when he had finished, indicating he was to sit on the edge of a horse trough while they talked. Bartholomew sank down gratefully. His legs were like jelly, and he could not recall when he had felt more wretched. ‘Although only with rioting hostels.’

‘Has there been fighting?’ asked Bartholomew anxiously.

‘A little. There might have been more, but Welfry saved the day. Maud’s, Ovyng and Cosyn’s hostels were about to set fire to King’s Hall, when he jumped on a wall and screeched a riddle at the top of his voice.’

‘A riddle?’ echoed Bartholomew blankly.

‘One he claimed the hostels could never solve. Needless to say they rose to the challenge, and by the time they had calculated the answer, tempers had cooled. It was a clever ploy, and one that saved lives. I am glad he is our Seneschal. But even so, it took all my diplomatic tact and skills to encourage them to go home afterwards.’

‘Will your arrest of the killer-thief be enough to quell trouble at the camp-ball game now?’ asked Bartholomew worriedly. ‘Especially as it is not a scholar?’

‘It is impossible to say. Are you sure we have the right culprits this time? There is no doubt?’

‘No. I mean, yes.’

Michael regarded him in alarm. ‘Well, which is it? We cannot afford more mistakes.’

‘Heslarton and Odelina are definitely involved, but they did not work alone. She is not clever enough, despite her claims to the contrary – it was not her idea to shove a wig on Gib and use him to confound your investigation. Likewise, I doubt she or her father would have thought of leaving Yffi in Chestre’s cellar, or of taking Drax to Michaelhouse.’

‘No,’ agreed Michael.

‘Moreover, Heslarton says he is innocent of the thefts, and I believe him. Someone else is responsible for those. I thought it was Celia, but Odelina and Heslarton referred to a man – some fellow who plans to take them to France when his plans reach fruition.’

‘Who?’ demanded Michael. ‘Fen? I said he was a villain, and you should have listened.’

‘There are other possibilities, too,’ said Bartholomew. He looked away, unwilling to list them, because they included people he liked.

Michael had no such qualms. ‘Meryfeld and Gyseburne, Blaston…’

‘Not Blaston – he is not sufficiently cunning. Thelnetham is, though…’

‘Yes, he is, but I cannot see what he would gain from having Chestre blamed for his crimes – or from having his University plunged into turmoil by stoking up anger between Colleges and hostels.’

They were interrupted by a sudden violent skirmish among the prisoners. Cynric had been right when he said he had not hurt Heslarton badly, and the man was engaged in a furious scuffle. When they saw their master’s determined resistance, his henchmen renewed their own efforts to escape, and it took all the beadles, Michael and Cynric to subdue them. Bartholomew tried to help, but was too unsteady and disoriented to be of much use.

‘Where is Odelina?’ he asked urgently, when it was over.

‘Damn!’ cried Michael, looking around wildly. ‘Heslarton’s antics were a diversion! They were to give his wretched daughter a chance to flee.’

‘I imagine she has run straight to her accomplice,’ said Bartholomew, alarmed. ‘The one who has some terrible plan in mind for the camp-ball game.’

Michael regarded him in horror. ‘The camp-ball game! I forgot to tell you – it has been brought forward, because rain is predicted later. Vast crowds are gathering, for it is due to start within the hour.’

‘Arrest all our suspects,’ urged Bartholomew, feeling desperate situations called for desperate measures. ‘If they are innocent, they will forgive you when you explain yourself. And if they are guilty, you will prevent them from–’

‘Brother Michael! Brother Michael!’ They turned to see Meryfeld racing towards them. For the first time since Bartholomew had met him, he was not rubbing his hands together. ‘Thank God I have found you! Horneby the Carmelite has just attacked me.’

‘Attacked you?’ echoed Michael in astonishment. ‘Why would he do that?’

‘He burst into my house and locked me in my cellar without so much as a word of explanation,’ shouted Meryfeld, furious and indignant. ‘How dare he! I order you to apprehend him.’

‘Horneby,’ said Bartholomew, the last pieces of the puzzle falling into place at last. ‘He is Odelina’s accomplice.’