The Killer of Pilgrims

Chapter 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘I know him.’

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

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

‘It is John Drax,’ replied Thelnetham quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His Fellows said nothing – they knew they did not.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘All day?’

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

‘Did anyone see you?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Will you get it for me? You are always clamouring to hack out Emma’s bad tooth, so I am sure you have a knife to hand. If not, then borrow mine.’ Celia removed a slender blade from her belt. ‘But hurry, if you please. I do not like this church. It is draughty and smells of dead birds.’

Bartholomew did as she asked, pointedly avoiding the use of sharp implements. He blinked in disbelief when she immediately donned the retrieved ring, flexing her hand to admire the effect. Odelina was also dismayed by the brazen materialism, and he supposed it did not square with her image of Celia as the noble heroine.

‘What happened to John?’ Celia asked, turning abruptly to Michael. ‘You say he was found dead in your College, but I do not understand why he should have been there in the first place.’

‘Neither do we,’ replied Michael, also struggling to mask his distaste. ‘He was stabbed, and his body hidden behind some tiles. Unfortunately, a member of our College tugged on the sheet that covered them, causing a couple to topple–’

‘You mean he was murdered?’ demanded Celia. For the first time since entering the church, she seemed shocked. ‘You must be mistaken! No one would kill John.’

‘Unfortunately, it would seem someone did,’ said Michael. ‘But I shall find out who.’

‘Lord!’ breathed Celia, gazing at him. ‘He always expected to die in bed at a ripe old age.’

‘You discussed death with him?’ asked Michael keenly.

Celia nodded. ‘Sometimes, when we were bored and had nothing else to do. These winter evenings are very long, and it is easy to run out of nice things to talk about.’

‘I cannot say I have ever had that problem,’ said Michael. ‘What exactly did–’

‘I suppose I had better start making arrangements for his funeral,’ interrupted Celia. ‘But before I go, there are a couple more things I want from his corpse: the medallion he wore around his neck and the pilgrim brooch pinned in his hat. However, now I know he was murdered, I do not feel equal to rummaging for them myself. Would you mind obliging me, Doctor?’

‘Yes, I would, actually.’ Bartholomew felt as though he was being asked to rob a grave.

‘Odelina,’ said Celia, turning to her friend with a coaxing smile. ‘You love me, do you not? Slip your hand inside the box and grab the trinkets.’

‘No!’ cried Odelina, appalled. ‘I cannot touch a murdered man in a church! It might bring me bad luck regarding getting a husband.’

‘Perhaps you should leave them where they are,’ suggested Michael coolly. ‘The dead are entitled to carry some personal effects to the grave, and you already have his ring.’

‘I am not one for making sentimental gestures over corpses,’ retorted Celia. ‘Gold is gold, and it belongs with the living. Or is there another reason why Michaelhouse is unwilling to help a grieving widow? Such as that they have already removed these items for themselves?’

‘Matt will retrieve them for you,’ said Michael stiffly. Bartholomew started to object, but the monk overrode him. ‘I will not have it said that our College steals from the dead – or from the living, for that matter. And while he is busy, you can tell me about any spats or disagreements your husband might have had.’

Celia watched Bartholomew lift the lid and begin unravelling the chain from Drax’s neck. ‘Well, Principal Kendale objected to the fact that John was going to raise the rent on Chestre Hostel – John hated Kendale, and hoped the increase would encourage him to leave. Then several of our customers argued with him, because he refused to give them credit for ale.’

Bartholomew dropped the salvaged necklace into Celia’s eager hand. She wiped it on her sleeve then slipped it around her neck. He regarded her in astonishment. She scowled at him, and indicated that he should stop staring, and retrieve the badge.

‘Why did he refuse?’ asked Michael, struggling to conceal his revulsion. ‘If they were regulars?’

‘Because it might be weeks before the weather breaks, and they earn enough to pay us back. Or they might die of starvation in the interim. We are a business, not a charity.’

‘Your husband made donations to Michaelhouse,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘That is charity.’

‘Yes, but he got prayers in return. It was a commercial arrangement, although I shall not be buying anything from you. I do not deal with warlocks and fat monks who ask impudent questions.’

‘I am not fat,’ objected Michael. ‘I have big bones. And I am not impudent, either. I am merely trying to ascertain why your husband died. But tell me about your life together. Was it happy?’

‘Do not answer,’ advised Odelina sharply. ‘He is trying to trap you, because he thinks you might have murdered John and toted his corpse to Michaelhouse.’

‘Do you?’ asked Celia, treating the monk to a forthright stare. ‘Why? John was not the most scintillating of men, but we liked each other well enough. Now, give me the badge, Doctor.’

‘Here is the hat,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But I cannot see a pilgrim token.’

‘It is pinned on the inside,’ explained Celia. ‘Because he wanted to keep it safe. It is from Walsingham, you see – the shrine where the Virgin appears from time to time.’

‘Had he been on a pilgrimage, then?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised. Drax had not seemed like the kind of man to absent himself from his taverns in order to undertake arduous journeys.

‘No,’ replied Celia. ‘He bought it from a pardoner, who told him that owning it was the next best thing to going on one of these expeditions himself. It will earn him less time in Purgatory.’

‘If you believe that, then why do you want to take it from him?’ asked Bartholomew. Talking to Celia reminded him why he had not minded when she had informed him that she was transferring her allegiance to another physician. He had always found it difficult to like her.

‘Because I want to spend less time in Purgatory, too,’ replied Celia shortly. ‘So look inside the coffin, if you please. It must have fallen off.’

‘Not necessarily,’ said Bartholomew, examining the hat. ‘There is a hole here, where something has been ripped away.’

‘What are you saying?’ asked Celia warily. ‘That John was murdered for his pilgrim badge?’

‘Was it valuable?’ asked Bartholomew, not bothering to reply. She knew as well as he did that the poor were struggling to feed their families that winter. ‘Made of precious metal or jewels?’

‘Naturally,’ replied Celia. ‘We neither of us are interested in pewter. And I want it back, so when you find his killer, be sure to prise it from his murderous grasp.’

She turned and flounced away, leaving Odelina to scurry after her. Michael watched with his eyebrows raised so high that they disappeared under his thin brown fringe.

‘Well!’ he drawled. ‘So much for the grieving widow!’

The following day was dry, but bitterly cold, and Bartholomew shivered as he trudged from patient to patient. Few had fires in their homes, and he was not surprised they were succumbing to chills and fevers. His last visit was to a cottage near the Mill Pond, where a young fisherman was suffering from a badly sprained ankle. Bartholomew bound it up with a poultice of pine resin and wax, and advised him not to stand on it for a few days.

‘Thank you,’ said the fisherman, leaning back in relief. ‘It really hurt. It was your Master’s doing – we are on the same camp-ball team, and he is always so damned rough in practices. We ask him to save his violence for the opposing side, but he forgets himself in the heat of the moment.’

Camp-ball was Langelee’s greatest passion. It was hardly a genteel pastime for the head of a Cambridge College, but it was not one he could be persuaded to give up.

‘Would you have a word with him about needless fervour?’ the fisherman went on. ‘Of course it is too late for Friday. I shall not be able to play, which is a wicked shame.’

‘Friday?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Do you mean for the annual competition between the Gilbertines and the Carmelites?’

Each year, the two priories chose teams to represent them on the field – obviously, such dignified gentlemen were not going to indulge in the rough and tumble themselves – and the occasion drew enormous crowds. It was an honour to be selected to play, and Langelee had been beside himself with pride when he had been one of the lucky few.

The fisherman nodded bitterly. ‘And I will not be there, thanks to your Master.’

Bartholomew returned to Michaelhouse, and taught until it was time for his students to attend a mock disputation with Thelnetham, thus leaving him free to see more patients. Before he left, he mentioned the fisherman’s complaint to Langelee, who dismissed it with a careless flick of his hand, muttering something about weaklings not being welcome on his team anyway.

Bartholomew left the College, and tended two fevers and a case of cracked ribs. Then he went to visit Chancellor Tynkell, who was suffering from one of his periodic stomach upsets, and was just leaving when he met Michael. The monk was tired and dispirited.

‘Where have you been?’ he demanded irritably. ‘I needed your help with Drax’s murder today.’

‘What have you learned?’ asked Bartholomew, predicting from the monk’s sour mood that he would rather talk than listen to excuses about teaching and patients.

‘Nothing!’ Michael spat. ‘He was unpopular among his customers because he refused them credit, but that is hardly a reason to kill. And I have been told that he and Celia were not close, but we knew that already – the woman was hardly overwhelmed with distress yesterday.’

‘No,’ agreed Bartholomew. He glanced at Michael, and was surprised to see that a haunted expression had taken the place of his ire. ‘What is wrong?’

‘I have a very bad feeling about this case, and the more I think about it, the more worried I become. Drax’s body was deposited in our College – our home. Clearly, it was a deliberate attempt to harm us, so we must unravel the mystery before the culprit does something worse.’

Bartholomew was thoughtful. ‘Drax’s death must be connected to the theft at the Carmelite Priory – the villain there went straight for the gold badge on Poynton’s saddle, while Drax’s rings and necklaces were ignored but his badge – his hidden badge – was snatched off hard enough to tear his hat. The thief targeted only signacula in both cases.’

‘You may be right,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘But why pick on these particular two men?’

Bartholomew shrugged. ‘Perhaps because they owned valuable tokens. And they may not be the only two victims, anyway – just the only two that you know about. Have you questioned Emma de Colvyll yet? The thief who took her box had yellow hair, and–’

‘It was not the same man,’ snapped Michael. ‘As I told you yesterday, Emma’s assailant will be lying low, hoping Heslarton does not catch him. He would not have returned to Cambridge and committed a very public theft and a murder.’

‘I disagree. Two yellow-haired villains in one day is a curious coincidence. Too curious.’

‘They are different,’ reiterated Michael testily. ‘And if you persist in seeing an association between two entirely separate incidents, we shall lead ourselves astray.’

‘If you say so,’ said Bartholomew, sure that Michael was wrong.

The monk blew out his cheeks in a sigh, and some of the tetchiness went out of him. ‘It has been a wretchedly frustrating morning. I wish you had been with me – you are good at reading people, and I need all the help I can get. Incidentally, did you hear that Welfry has been appointed Seneschal? I like the man, but he is hardly a suitable candidate for a post of such gravitas.’

‘Give him a chance, Brother. I think he means to do his best.’

‘I do not doubt his good intentions, but he will quickly become bored with the rigours of the post, and then we shall be inundated with silly jests. And the exchequer clerks are not noted for their sense of humour. I told the Dominican Prior-General that Welfry was a poor choice, but he said it was either him or Prior Morden.’

‘Morden is a decent man.’

‘So you have always said, but he does not have the wits to deal with sly exchequer clerks, and they would cheat us of our due. At least Welfry is intelligent. But I should not be worrying about him yet – catching the killer-thief is much more urgent. Will you help me?’

‘Later today,’ promised Bartholomew. ‘If I am not needed by patients.’

‘Tomorrow,’ countered Michael. He smiled suddenly. ‘It is the Feast of the Purification of the Blessed Virgin Mary this afternoon, one of my favourite festivals. And not because there will be food afterwards, before you think to cast aspersions on my piety. The truth is that I like the music.’

‘As long as your choir does not sing and spoil it,’ murmured Bartholomew, but not loud enough for the monk to hear. The College’s singers comprised a large section of the town’s poor, and were famous for their lack of talent. Michael was their conductor.

‘Where are you going?’ the monk asked, when Bartholomew started to walk away from Michaelhouse. ‘It is almost time for the noonday meal.’

‘To the Carmelite Friary. John Horneby has a sore throat.’

‘No!’ exclaimed Michael in horror. ‘Then you must cure him immediately! He is to give the Stock Extraordinary Lecture next week, and it will be one of the greatest speeches ever delivered – one that will have theological ramifications that will reverberate for decades.’

‘So I have heard,’ said Bartholomew flatly. Theologians were always delivering desperately important discourses, and he was a little weary of them. ‘Will you be there?’

‘Of course. And scholars from all over the country are flocking to hear him, so nothing – nothing – must prevent him from speaking. I had better come with you, to ensure he has the best possible care. The honour of our University is at stake here, Matt.’

The Carmelite Friary was busy that day. A contingent of White Friars had just arrived from London, the usual crowd of penitents milled around the shrine, and a service for the Purification was under way in the chapel. Bartholomew and Michael were just being conducted to the room where the sick theologian lay, when they were accosted by the four pilgrims.

‘Have you found it?’ demanded Poynton without preamble. His florid face made him look unwell, and Bartholomew wondered again whether illness had prompted his pilgrimages. ‘My token from the Holy Land?’

‘I am afraid not,’ replied Michael. ‘Although I spent the entire morning making enquiries. So has my colleague here. Can you see how he is limping? That is caused by the blisters earned from the distances he has walked on your behalf.’

Bartholomew looked at the ground, uncomfortable with the lie. He had been limping, but it was because he had fallen off a horse the previous October, and the cold weather was creating an ache in a bone that was not long healed. It had happened when he and Michael had been travelling to Clare in Suffolk, and had been ambushed by robbers. Michael had decided the incident was God’s way of telling them they were not supposed to go, and had insisted on turning back. But Bartholomew liked what he had been told about the place, and intended to visit it later that year, when spring came.

‘We are very grateful for your efforts,’ said Fen politely.

‘Good,’ said Michael. ‘We shall continue our labours later, despite the fact that this is a holy day and we should be at our devotions. As should you.’

‘I know how to make my devotions,’ snarled Poynton. ‘I have been on twenty-two pilgrimages, and do not need a monk to direct me.’ He looked the Benedictine up and down in disdain.

‘We are on our way to the chapel now,’ said Fen, laying a warning hand on Poynton’s shoulder. ‘So we shall leave you to your business.’

‘I do not like them,’ said Michael, when they had gone. ‘Poynton is nasty, but Fen is worse. He pretends to be reasonable, but you can see the cunning burn within him. You think I say this because I despise his wicked profession, but you are wrong. I feel, with every bone in my body, that there is something untoward about that pardoner.’

‘If you say so,’ said Bartholomew.

He resumed his walk to Horneby’s chamber, reluctant to discuss it. Michael was always accusing pardoners of devious or criminal behaviour. Of course, he was often right – he had accumulated a lot of experience with felons as Senior Proctor, and his intuition did tend to be accurate. But Bartholomew had detected nothing odd about Fen, and thought the monk was letting his prejudices run away with him. Fen seemed perfectly amiable to him.

John Horneby did not look like a famous theologian. He was young, and his boyish appearance was accentuated by the fact that he was missing two front teeth. It was not many years since he had been an unruly novice, who preferred brawling to books, and Bartholomew was not the only one who had been amazed by his sudden and wholly unanticipated transformation into a serious scholar.

‘Bartholomew,’ he croaked, as the two scholars were shown into his room. There was nothing in it except a bed, a table for studying and a hook for his spare habit. The table was piled high with books, though. ‘I hope you can help me, because I cannot lecture like this.’

While Bartholomew inspected the back of Horneby’s throat with a lantern, Michael examined the tomes on the table. Books were enormously expensive, and the fact that Horneby had been allocated so many at one time was testament to the high esteem in which he was held by his Order.

‘You have the theories of Doctor Stokes,’ Michael said, picking up a manuscript. ‘The Dominican. I cannot say I admire his scribblings.’

‘He is dry,’ agreed Horneby. ‘But his thinking on the Indivisibility of the Holy Trinity is–’

‘Do not speak,’ advised Bartholomew. He adjusted the lantern, then turned to the lay-brother who had escorted them to the room. ‘This lamp flickers horribly. Is there a better one?’

‘That is the best light in the whole convent,’ replied the servant. ‘And I tested them all myself, because Prior Etone wants Master Horneby to be able to read at night. The honour of the Carmelites rests on the lecture he is to give, so we are all doing everything we can to ensure he is ready for it.’

‘And I am sure it will be superb,’ said Michael warmly, smiling at the Carmelite. ‘I have heard you speak on several occasions, and I know you will do your Order and our University justice.’

The monk possessed a fine mind himself and did not often compliment people so effusively, so Bartholomew could only suppose Horneby had reached heights he had not yet appreciated. Horneby started to thank him, but stopped when he caught the physician’s warning glance.

The friar’s throat was red, although Bartholomew could not see well enough to tell whether there were also the yellow flecks that would be indicative of infection. He decided to assume the worst, and prescribed a particularly strong medicine to rectify the matter. Horneby sipped the potion, and nodded to say the pain was less. Bartholomew left him to rest, cautioning the lay-brother to keep him quiet, and not to let him engage in unnecessary chatter.

As Bartholomew and Michael headed for the gate, the monk pulled a disapproving face when Poynton, Fen and the nuns sailed past the queue that had formed to pay homage to Simon Stock’s scapular, and pushed themselves in at the front. There were indignant glances from the other pilgrims, but no one seemed inclined to berate them for their selfishness, perhaps because Poynton and his companions were the Carmelites’ honoured guests. Idly, Bartholomew wondered whether the White Friars would be quite so accommodating if the quartet were not so obviously rich.

‘Do you think that scapular is genuine?’ Michael asked, speaking softly so as not to be overheard and offend anyone. ‘I find it hard to believe that a saint who lived almost a hundred years ago, and who died in some distant foreign city, should have left a bit of his habit in Cambridge.’

‘I am not qualified to say,’ replied Bartholomew. The notion that half the town considered him a warlock made him wary of voicing opinions that might be construed as heretical, even to Michael. ‘Prior Etone showed it to me yesterday, though. It looked old.’

‘So do I at times, but that does not make me an object to be venerated. Personally, I am uncomfortable with this particular shrine. For years, St Simon Stock’s vision was said to be a legend, with no actual truth to it, but all of a sudden here we are with a holy place of pilgrimage. And it is attracting pardoners, which cannot be a good thing.’

‘And thieves, if yesterday was anything to go by.’

‘True,’ agreed Michael. ‘The shrine will draw scoundrels as well as benefactors, and Poynton will not be the last visitor to fall prey to sticky fingers.’

By the time they returned to the College, it was nearing the hour when the rite of Purification would begin, so Bartholomew went to change into his ceremonial robes – a red hat and a scarlet gown that were worn only on special occasions. Unfortunately, both were looking decidedly shabby, but he could not afford to buy replacements when there was so much medicine to be purchased.

‘Ask your sister for new ones, sir,’ suggested Valence. ‘She can well afford them.’

It was true enough, and Edith was always pressing gifts of food and money on her impecunious brother, but he was acutely conscious of the fact that he was rarely in a position to reciprocate. It was not a comfortable feeling, and he disliked being so often in her debt.

‘She will give you whatever you want,’ Valence went on when there was no reply. ‘And you repay her in kind, by turning out every time one of her husband’s apprentices has a scratch or a snuffle. She told me the other day that she was lucky to have you.’

‘Did she?’ asked Bartholomew, pleased. Edith’s good opinion was important to him.

‘Yes, because she does not like any of the other physicians. She says Rougham is arrogant, Gyseburne is sinister, and Meryfeld does not know what he is talking about.’

‘Oh,’ said Bartholomew, deflated. He jammed the hat on his head, and supposed people might not notice the state of his clothes if the light was poor – it was an overcast day.

‘The feast this afternoon promises to be good,’ Valence chatted on happily. ‘Agatha has cooked a whole pig! We have not had a decent pile of meat in weeks!’

‘No,’ agreed Bartholomew. But his mind was on medicine, pondering how he had struggled to see Horneby’s sore throat with the Carmelites’ best lamp. ‘Are you friends with Welfry the Dominican? I have seen you with him several times.’

Valence immediately became wary. ‘He lives in his friary, sir. And Master Langelee prefers that we do not fraternise with men from other foundations, so we rarely meet.’

‘He prefers that you do not visit taverns, either, but that does not stop you from doing it,’ Bartholomew remarked tartly. ‘How well do you know Welfry?’

‘I may have had a drink or two in his company,’ acknowledged Valence. He coloured furiously when he realised what he had just admitted. ‘Not in a tavern, of course.’

‘Of course. Did he tell you how he managed that trick with the flaming lights last week? The one where St Mary the Great was illuminated as if by a vast candle?’

‘That was not Welfry, sir. Kendale from Chestre Hostel did that.’

Bartholomew regarded him askance. ‘Are you sure? Lighting up St Mary the Great seems too innocent a stunt for him. I imagine he would have devised something more … deadly.’

‘The Dominicans are notorious pranksters,’ acknowledged Valence. ‘And the affair at the church is the kind of escapade they love. But they are innocent of that particular jape.’

‘You seem very sure. Can I assume you were with Welfry at the time? In a tavern?’

‘We may have enjoyed an ale in the Cardinal’s Cap, now you mention it,’ admitted Valence reluctantly. ‘He is an intelligent man, and I enjoy his company. But the Cap is not really a tavern. It is more a society, where gentlemen gather for erudite conversation.’

‘Right,’ said Bartholomew. There was no point in remonstrating. Valence knew the rules, and if he was willing to risk being fined by the beadles – Brother Michael’s army of law-enforcers – then that was his business. The same went for Welfry, too. He considered the friar. ‘I cannot imagine why he took the cowl. I do not think I have ever encountered a man less suited to life in a habit.’

‘Many clever men take holy orders because it is the only way they can be among books. But he is a good man, sir – generous to the poor, and endlessly patient with the sick.’ Valence grinned. ‘He does love to laugh, though. His Prior-General ordered him to Cambridge in the hope that an abundance of erudite conversation would quell his penchant for mischief, but…’

‘But his Prior-General miscalculated.’ Bartholomew smiled back. ‘Some of his tricks have been very ingenious, though – such as his picture of stairs that always go up and never down, and the tiny ship inside the glass phial. That is why I assumed it was he who lit up St Mary the Great.’

‘Kendale is ingenious, too – Welfry’s equal in intellect, although it galls me to say so, because he is a vile brute who hates the Colleges. But why are you interested in the church incident, sir? Do you plan a similar trick yourself?’

Bartholomew laughed at the notion. ‘No! I struggled to inspect a swollen throat with a flickering lamp today. If the brilliance of Kendale’s illumination could be harnessed, it might be possible to devise a lantern with a steady gleam – and that would make our work much easier.’

Valence considered. ‘I suppose it would. Of course, Kendale’s real aim was to set Gonville Hall alight – sparks went very close to their roof, and everyone knows he waited until the wind was blowing in their direction before he ignited his display. Has Brother Michael guessed the culprit?’

‘Not yet.’

Valence sniffed. ‘Welfry and I inspected the church afterwards. He thinks Kendale put buckets of black sludge at strategic points, linked by burning twine, so they would all go up at more or less the same time. The sludge contained brimstone, which is why it burned so bright.’

‘What else was in it?’

‘Welfry said it was probably charcoal and some kind of oil. He asked Kendale for the formula, but the miserable bastard refused to tell him. The Colleges answered Kendale’s challenge well, though, do you not think? Our trick showed we are just as clever as the hostels.’

‘You put the ox and cart on the Gilbertines’ roof. But I thought Welfry was behind that – and he is not a member of a College, so should not be attempting to best hostels.’

Valence raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘Have you not heard? The Dominicans and Carmelites are on the Colleges’ side, because we are all permanent foundations with endowments. The Gilbertines decided to back the hostels, on the grounds that they are poor and they feel sorry for them.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Do the convents’ priors know about this affiliation, or is it something that has been decided by novices?’

Valence smirked and declined to answer. ‘It is only a bit of fun, sir. Cambridge has been dull since the University and the town have buried the hatchet. Moreover, most of the criminals have been ousted by Emma de Colvyll, so nothing ever happens now. The rivalry between the Colleges and the hostels will keep us amused until we have a real spat to occupy us.’

Bartholomew regarded him askance, amazed he should admit to holding such an attitude.

‘Unfortunately, Kendale is trying to turn our harmless competition into something nasty,’ Valence continued. ‘He encourages hostel men to yell abuse at College members in the street, and relations between us grow more strained every day.’

Bartholomew was worried. ‘Will the Colleges respond to Kendale’s trick involving the crated bull?’

‘Of course,’ replied Valence. ‘But it will not be with anything violent, careless or stupid. We are not savages.’