The Killer of Pilgrims

Chapter 3

When Bartholomew arrived at St Michael’s Church, his colleagues were in the chancel, discussing last-minute details for the Purification ceremony. As he walked up the nave to join them he saw a large number of people he knew, which included some he would not have expected to have been there. Among the latter were Emma and her family. Heslarton had brought a chair for her, and was fussing around it with cushions. Odelina and her mother stood to one side, and Bartholomew was surprised to see Celia with them, looking bright and inappropriately cheerful.

‘I find consolation in religion, Doctor,’ she whispered, when her eyes happened to meet his. Her expression was brazenly insincere. ‘As do many recent widows.’

Bartholomew inclined his head, although it had been on the tip of his tongue to retort that most had the grace to wait until after the funeral before going out with friends. As he resumed his walk, his heart sank when he realised many of the congregation were members of the Michaelhouse Choir. And they all exuded an aura of tense anticipation, which strongly indicated they were planning to make what they liked to call music.

The choir was a large body of men – and some women – who had joined because they wanted the free bread and ale that was provided after practices. What they lacked in talent, they made up for in volume, and they prided themselves on being one of the loudest phenomena in the shire, audible over a distance of two miles, if the wind was blowing in the wrong direction.

‘They are not going to sing, are they?’ Bartholomew asked, glancing behind him at the assembled mass.

‘Yes,’ replied Michael stiffly. He was protective of his ensemble, although as a talented musician himself, he was fully aware of its limitations. ‘They are a choir, and singing is what choirs do.’

‘They are a rabble,’ countered Thelnetham. ‘Here only for the free food.’

Bartholomew spoke before Michael could reply to the charge. ‘There seem to be more of them than usual. Do we have enough to feed them all?’

‘I will manage,’ said Michael. ‘Especially if you donate the three pennies you earned from inspecting Drax.’

‘But I need that for medicine,’ objected Bartholomew in dismay.

‘Food is more important than remedies,’ said Michael soberly. ‘Did you hear that the price of grain has risen again? A loaf of bread now costs more than a labourer can earn in a day.’

It was a dismal state of affairs, and Bartholomew wondered how many more of the poor would starve before winter relinquished its icy hold.

‘Celia Drax is here,’ remarked Thelnetham, surveying the congregation critically. ‘It did not take her long to recover from the news that her husband was murdered.’

‘No,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘But she said she finds consolation in religion.’

Michael snorted his disbelief. ‘Yffi is here, too. Incidentally, I still think he is involved in what happened to Drax. I will interview him again tomorrow, and have the truth. I would have done it today, but the wretched man did not appear for work this morning.’

‘But he has taken all the tiles off the roof!’ exclaimed Thelnetham, horrified. ‘If it rains, we shall have water cascading–’

‘Believe me, I know,’ interrupted Michael. ‘My ceiling currently comprises a sheet nailed to the rafters. I almost froze to death last night. But we shall discuss this later – the rite is starting.’

Michaelhouse was good at ceremonies, because so many of its Fellows were in religious Orders. Thelnetham presided, ably assisted by Clippesby and Suttone, all attired in their best habits. Father William, in his grubby robes, was relegated to the role of crucifer, while Michael was in charge of music. Bartholomew, Langelee and Ayera were only obliged to stand in the chancel in their scarlet gowns, and watch.

Thelnetham began by blessing a large number of beeswax candles, which, Bartholomew recalled, had been donated by Drax. Then, after sprinkling them with incense, he lit them, and the choir swung into action. Bartholomew knew it was the Nunc Dimittis, because that was always chanted at this point, although it was unrecognisable as such. He exchanged an amused grin with Ayera, then struggled for a suitably reverent expression when Michael glanced in his direction.

It was difficult to remain sombre, though, when Emma and her household were open-mouthed in astonishment at the cacophony – with the exception of Heslarton, who was nodding in time to the rhythm, such as it was. As the volume grew, despite Michael’s frantic arm-waving to indicate this was not what he wanted, their incredulity intensified, and Bartholomew was aware that both Langelee and Ayera were shaking with laughter next to him.

Thelnetham processed slowly down the aisle when the choir began to wail the antiphon Adorna thalamum tuum Sion, followed by every Michaelhouse scholar, each carrying one of the candles. Deynman opened the door, and the procession moved into the cemetery, the scholars shielding the lights with their hands to prevent them from blowing out. The daylight was fading as the short winter afternoon drew to a close, so the candles were bright in the gloom. Similar services were being held in every other church in the town, and the beautifully harmonic voices of St Mary the Great were carried on the wind, melodic and mystical in the dying day.

Unfortunately, the Michaelhouse Choir heard them, and this was not to be borne. There were some glares of indignation, and Isnard raised his arm to indicate the matter was to be rectified. Michael tried to stop them, but to no avail: a challenge had been perceived, and it was going to be answered. The tenors launched into the Nunc Dimittis again, but the basses preferred an Ave Maria, while the higher parts flitted from piece to piece as and when the fancy took them.

Isnard’s conducting grew more urgent, and the volume rose further still. The racket brought the High Street to a standstill, as carts careened into each other. Several dogs started to howl, although they could not be heard over the din, and neither could the whinnies of frightened horses.

Thelnetham stepped up the pace of the ceremony, eager to be back inside so the clamour could be brought to an end. The Fellows hurried to keep up with him, while the students at the very end of the line were obliged to break into a run. Several were helpless with laughter, and by the time Thelnetham had circumnavigated the churchyard and was heading back up the aisle, his procession was in shambles.

He blessed the image of the Holy Child that Suttone was holding, then read the canticle Benedictus Dominus Deus Israel before the choir could sing that, too. But there was one more musical interlude to be performed, and scholars and congregation alike were relieved when Michael shot his singers a glance that told them they had better not join in, and chanted the Inviolata himself.

Bartholomew closed his eyes as the monk’s rich baritone filled the church, enjoying the way it echoed around the stones. When the last notes had faded away and he opened his eyes again, it was to find the church filled with flickering gold light. Then it was plunged into darkness as the scholars blew out their candles. The ritual of Purification was over.

‘I have heard worse,’ said Bartholomew consolingly, as he walked home next to Michael. The High Street was still in chaos, with two broken wagons and a man wailing over the fact that his sheep had been frightened into a stampede. ‘They were not as bad today as they were at Christmas.’

‘They were louder, though,’ said Michael. He grinned, a little wickedly. ‘How many other foundations do you think we managed to disrupt this time? At Christmas, we received complaints from five, but I think we may have surpassed ourselves this afternoon.’

‘It would not surprise me to learn that they disrupted the Pope in Avignon. Can you not tell them that producing that sort of din is bad for the ears? It hurt mine, and I was some distance away. I cannot imagine what it must be like to be among them.’

Michael’s expression was pained. ‘I do tell them, but my advice is forgotten once they are in public. You should have heard them practise the Ave Maria last week. It was beautiful – moving.’

Bartholomew seriously doubted it, but said nothing. He could hear the sounds of merriment behind him, as the singers, delighted with the impact they had made, shared the bread and ale Michael had provided. He was glad they would have at least one good meal that day, and began to look forward to the feast, aware that it was some time since he had eaten well, too.

But he was to be disappointed, because when he arrived at Michaelhouse, Cynric was waiting with a message. The singing had aggravated Emma’s toothache, and she wanted him to visit immediately, to see what might be done about it.

‘You will have to go,’ said Langelee, overhearing. ‘I appreciate that your inclination will be to ignore the summons and enjoy the feast, but you must put duty first.’

‘I never ignore summonses from patients,’ objected Bartholomew indignantly. ‘Even when I know that patient will continue to be unwell until she agrees to have her tooth removed.’

‘Well, do what you can for her,’ instructed Langelee. ‘I know you disapprove of me accepting her charity, but I did what had to be done, and you must make the best of it.’ He turned to Michael. ‘Have you found out who killed Drax yet? He was a benefactor, too, and I do not want it said that helping Michaelhouse is dangerous.’

‘Not yet,’ replied Michael. ‘But tomorrow I shall learn from Yffi whether he created a diversion so the body could be dumped here – and if he did, I shall have the name of the killer.’

‘And if he did not?’ asked Langelee.

‘Then I shall have another word with Celia. I sense there is a lot more to be gleaned from her.’

Despite his words to Langelee, Bartholomew was sorry to be leaving Michaelhouse, and resentful, too – summonses from patients meant he had missed breakfast and the noonday meal, and it was not every day his College had decent food. He hoped Michael would save him some.

‘I am in agony,’ Emma announced without preamble, when a chubby-faced maid had escorted him to her solar. In the dim light, her black eyes glittered unnervingly, and she looked more like a bloated, malevolent spider than ever. ‘Your choir’s so-called music seared right through me.’

‘Me, too,’ agreed Bartholomew, taking a lamp so he could inspect the inflamed mouth. The flame flickered, and once again he wished he had a source of light that did not dance about.

‘Give me more of that sense-dulling potion,’ she ordered. ‘It makes my wits hazy, but that is a small price to pay for relief. If I keep taking it, my tooth will eventually heal itself.’

‘It will not,’ countered Bartholomew. ‘It will ache until it is drawn.’

‘You are not pulling it out,’ Emma snapped. ‘And if you do not cure me by other means, I shall withdraw my benefaction to your College.’

‘That is your prerogative.’ Bartholomew wished she would, so Michaelhouse would be rid of Yffi and his shoddy work, and a debt owed to a woman whom everyone thought was sinister.

She glared at him, then relented. ‘You must forgive me – it is pain speaking.’

Bartholomew rubbed an ointment of cloves on the inflamed area, then prescribed a tonic of poppy juice and other soothing herbs, although it was a temporary solution at best.

‘You should see another physician,’ he said when he had finished. ‘You refuse to accept my advice, so consult them – see whether they can devise a more acceptable alternative.’

He knew there was none – at least, none that was sensible – but he was tired of arguing with her.

‘Very well.’ He glanced at her in surprise: she had always refused when he had suggested it before. She shrugged. ‘I cannot stand the pain any longer, so we shall send for Rougham, Gyseburne and Meryfeld. We shall summon them now, in fact.’

‘You do not need all three,’ said Bartholomew, while thinking uncharitably that she did not need Meryfeld at all. The man was little more than a folk healer, who was likely to do more harm than good. ‘Either Rougham or Gyseburne will be–’

‘You will wait here until they arrive,’ Emma went on, cutting across him. ‘They may need details of my condition, which you will provide, thus relieving me of tedious probing. If you refuse, I shall tell your Master that you have failed to live up to your end of the bargain. I doubt you want to be responsible for losing your College my goodwill.’

She snapped her fingers, and the maid scampered away to do her bidding. With a sigh, Bartholomew went to sit near the fire, heartily wishing he could tell her what to do with her benefaction. He was chilled to the bone, partly from being hungry, but also because it was a bitterly cold night. He settled himself down to wait, trying to ignore his growling stomach.

It was not long before the door opened, and Heslarton marched in. His fine clothes were mud splattered, and there were even dirty splashes on his bald pate, indicating he had done some hard riding that day. He was armed to the teeth – a heavy broadsword at his waist, a long dagger in his belt, and a bow over his shoulder.

‘Well, Bartholomew?’ Heslarton demanded, going to rest a sympathetic hand on his mother-in-law’s shoulder. ‘Have you cured her? I do not like to see her in such discomfort.’

Bartholomew stood quickly, seized with the alarming notion that if he admitted failure, Heslarton might run him through. They were a strange pair – the bullying, irascible old woman and the loutish, soldierly man – and, not for the first time, Bartholomew wondered what made them so obviously fond of each other.

‘We are waiting for second opinions,’ explained Emma. ‘Although the Doctor has given me medicine to ease my pain. That horrible choir should be deemed a hazard to health!’

‘I rather enjoyed their performance,’ said Heslarton, going to stretch his hands towards the fire. ‘I cannot be doing with silly, warbling melodies, and that was music for real men.’

‘I will tell Michael,’ said Bartholomew. It was not often the choir earned compliments.

‘Thomas has been hunting the yellow-headed thief again,’ said Emma. Her unfriendly expression told Bartholomew that this would not have been necessary had he done his duty the previous day.

‘But I did not catch him,’ said Heslarton. ‘Yesterday, we tracked him to Chesterton before he slid into the Fens. However, it seems he immediately slunk back and committed a second crime.’

‘You mean the theft from the Carmelite Priory?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘The pilgrims said they were victims of a man with golden hair, but Brother Michael thinks it is a different culprit.’

‘Then Brother Michael is wrong,’ said Heslarton. ‘I spoke to the pilgrims, too: their villain wore a green tunic with gold embroidery, which matched the one ours sported. So it is the same fellow. He was bold, coming back when he knew a hue and cry had been raised for him.’

Emma’s expression hardened into something dark and unpleasant, revealing the ruthlessness that had allowed her to grow rich by capitalising on the misfortunes of others. ‘We will have him,’ was all she said, but the remark made Bartholomew’s blood run cold, and again he pitied the thief.

‘We will,’ agreed Heslarton. ‘I shall retrieve your box, Mother, never fear.’

She inclined her head, and her expression softened. ‘Thank you, Thomas. But do not forget that I want him, too. No one steals from me and lives to tell the tale. Metaphorically speaking, of course.’

Heslarton laughed. ‘I will continue to scour the marshes. Of course, we all know how easy it is for folk to disappear in them.’

They exchanged a look that gave Bartholomew the distinct impression that more was meant than folk lying low. Or perhaps it was his imagination – the room was poorly lit, and he was cold and tired. Fortunately, there was a knock on the door at that point, and he was saved from further fevered imaginings by the arrival of his fellow physicians.

When the plague had arrived in Cambridge, almost a decade before, it had left the town bereft of trained healers. In the years that followed, the survivors had died, retired or moved away, until only Bartholomew and Rougham remained to serve the entire town. Alarmed that his Fellow was beginning to spend more time on medicine than on teaching, Langelee had written to his former employer, asking whether he had any spare medici. Obligingly, the Archbishop had supplied Gyseburne and Meryfeld, both of whom had set up shop in their new home within a month.

Their arrival was a mixed blessing. On the one hand, they shouldered some of the burden, but on the other, they preferred patients who could pay, so that while they relieved Bartholomew of his wealthy clients, they had left him the bulk of the poor. The outcome was a shorter list of customers, but a radically reduced income. Bartholomew did not care about the money for himself, but there was no point practising medicine if his patients did not receive the potions required to make them better, and he found he could no longer afford to buy all that was needed.

He watched his colleagues being shown into Emma’s solar. Meryfeld was short, plump and energetic, and was always rubbing his hands together, like a fly that had landed on meat. He smiled a lot, and his amiable charm meant he was already popular. By contrast, Gyseburne never smiled at all. He had long, grey hair, a narrow face, and Bartholomew had never seen him without a urine flask – Gyseburne was of the opinion that much could be learned from urine, and tended to demand samples regardless of the ailment he was treating.

‘Where is Rougham?’ demanded Emma, as the door closed behind them. ‘Is he not coming?’

‘He is at the Carmelite Friary,’ explained Meryfeld. ‘Two pilgrim nuns are tipsy, and Rougham anticipates that it will take several hours to make them sober again. He begs to be excused.’

Bartholomew strongly suspected that the nuns were an excuse, and that Rougham just had more sense than to become embroiled with Emma de Colvyll.

‘We can manage without him,’ said Heslarton. ‘Besides, I am uncomfortable with too many men of learning about. Your Latin is a foreign language to me.’

Gyseburne raised his eyebrows. ‘It is a foreign language to most people,’ he drawled laconically. ‘Literally. But we shall use the vernacular, if you prefer.’

‘English would be better,’ said Heslarton. ‘But enough chatter. My mother needs your services.’

‘What seems to be the trouble?’ asked Meryfeld. He rubbed his hands together and beamed.

‘I have toothache,’ declared Emma. ‘And I want a cure. You can examine me first.’

Meryfeld stepped forward obligingly. Gyseburne seemed to be waiting for Bartholomew to start a conversation in the interim, so the physician said what was on his mind.

‘Did you hear about the prank where St Mary the Great was illuminated like a great candle? Well, it occurred to me that the substance used might be adapted to produce a bright and steady lamp – which would be hugely helpful for night consultations.’

Gyseburne’s expression was unreadable. ‘Well, yes, it would, although I imagine you were thinking it would aid nocturnal surgery. Such activities are demeaning for physicians, and you should not debase yourself, or our profession, by employing them.’

Bartholomew supposed he should not have expected anything else from a traditional man like Gyseburne. ‘Actually, it was the difficulty of seeing inside mouths that prompted the idea.’

‘Is that so?’ said Gyseburne flatly, fixing Bartholomew with a hard, searching look. ‘When a real surgeon arrives – and the Archbishop of York is trying to recruit one as I speak – will you give up these undignified activities and let him deal with the gore?’

Bartholomew glanced at Gyseburne’s urine flask and wondered why one bodily fluid should be considered distasteful, while another was seen as holding all the answers. It defied all logic. Fortunately, he was spared from having to answer, because Meryfeld had finished, and it was Gyseburne’s turn to examine Emma.

Predictably, Gyseburne requested a sample, and then stood for a long time, swirling it about in a flask, his grim face more sombre than ever. Bartholomew was not sure whether he was stumped for answers, or whether he really was able to interpret the stuff better than anyone else. Eventually, he turned and regarded Bartholomew with his dark, unfathomable eyes.

‘On reflection, a bright, unwavering lamp would be useful, so perhaps we should conduct a few experiments. I can provide some brimstone – one of my patients is a dyer, so has plenty of it.’

Meryfeld beamed at them. ‘You intend to invent a decent lamp? Splendid! May I join you?’

‘You promised to speak English,’ objected Heslarton, looking irritably from one to the other. ‘But you are gabbling away in Latin.’

‘Actually, that was French,’ countered Gyseburne haughtily. ‘The language of choice for those of us who have anything worth saying.’

‘I do not care,’ declared Emma irritably, while Heslarton frowned, trying to work out whether he had been insulted. ‘Tell me your verdicts. In plain speech. You first, Meryfeld.’

‘You have an excess of choler,’ replied Meryfeld without hesitation. ‘Which is hot and dry. To remedy this, I recommend we increase your phlegm, which is cold and wet. We shall achieve this by using herbs of Mars, such as mint and pears, which are cold in the fourth degree.’

Bartholomew regarded him uncertainly. Mint and pears were governed by Venus, and were not cold at all. Moreover, they were unlikely to have any impact on a toothache.

‘Gyseburne?’ asked Emma. ‘What is your opinion?’

‘You have a rotten tooth, madam,’ replied Gyseburne. ‘And the pus in your urine means poison is already seeping into your body. I recommend you have the fang removed immediately, before you fall into a deadly fever from which you will not recover.’

‘I like his diagnosis best,’ said Emma, pointing at Meryfeld. ‘So he is hired. Bartholomew and Gyseburne are dismissed. He will make me this potion tonight, and thus begin my treatment. I shall expect to be cured by morning.’

Meryfeld blanched as it occurred to him that winning Emma as a client was not necessarily a good thing, while Bartholomew was not sure whether to be relieved that the burden of dealing with her was no longer his, or worried that she was embarking on a course of treatment that would fail.

‘My medicine will not work that quickly,’ gulped Meryfeld, alarmed. ‘You must be patient, because it might be weeks before you notice a difference.’

‘But by then you might be dead,’ said Gyseburne, emptying his flask on the fire and heading for the door. ‘Remove the offending tooth, madam. It is the only thing that will save your life.’

‘Nonsense,’ objected Meryfeld, stung. ‘Hot, dry pains in the head mean that–’

He was interrupted by a howl from upstairs. It was immediately followed by thundering footsteps and a lot of shouting. Words were muffled by the thick walls, but Bartholomew understood it was something to do with Emma’s portly, sharp-tongued daughter. Then the chubby-faced maid burst in.

‘Alice has been murdered!’ she cried. ‘She is dying as I speak!’

Emma betrayed no emotion at the announcement, although the blood drained from Heslarton’s face. Meryfeld, as newly appointed Household Physician, darted towards the stairs to do his duty, Heslarton hot on his heels. Before she followed, Emma indicated that Bartholomew and Gyseburne were to go, too. Gyseburne nodded acquiescence, clearly pleased to have the chance to salve his curiosity. Bartholomew went only when Emma shot him the kind of glance that said there would be trouble if he did not.

There were several chambers on the uppermost floor, and Alice occupied the largest. She was lying on the floor, a ring of servants standing mute and shocked around her. Heslarton released a strangled cry, and rushed to her side. When Meryfeld began to ask about her birth and stars, apparently intending to deliver a diagnosis based on a horoscope, Bartholomew stepped forward and rested his hand on the pulse in her neck. It was weak and slow, and when he prised open her eyes, her pupils were unnaturally large. She was shuddering violently.

‘Poison,’ whispered Gyseburne in his ear, crouching next to him. ‘I have seen this before.’

‘In Cambridge?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily.

Gyseburne shook his head. ‘York. In Master Langelee’s house, when he worked for the Archbishop. It was a curious case, and I never could decide whether he had fed his guests something toxic, or whether the potion was intended for him, and he had had a narrow escape.’

Bartholomew regarded him in horror. ‘What are you–’

‘Not now,’ interrupted Gyseburne. ‘Should we make Alice vomit, do you think? Or walk with her, to dissolve it in her blood? Or shall we cover her with blankets, and sweat it from her body?’

‘It is too late,’ said Bartholomew, feeling the pulse flutter into nothing. ‘She is gone.’

‘No!’ declared Emma, more angry than distressed when she heard his words. ‘She cannot be dead! I will not allow it!’

Meryfeld helped her to sit on the bed, and gestured for the chubby maid to bring her wine.

‘What happened?’ asked Heslarton in a taut, strained voice.

‘Alice was sitting in here with Odelina,’ replied the maid. ‘She was trying to sew, but the light was poor, and she kept complaining that she could not see. I was stoking up the fire.’

‘Was she eating or drinking anything?’ asked Bartholomew urgently, putting out his hand to prevent Emma from sipping the brew Meryfeld had just poured her.

‘Wine,’ replied the maid. She pointed to the goblet Emma held. ‘That wine.’

Gyseburne took it and poured it into his urine flask. ‘It is as I thought,’ he said, holding it up to the light, then sniffing it carefully. ‘It stinks of wolfsbane – a very deadly poison.’

‘Where is Odelina?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Was she drinking this wine, too?’

‘Odelina!’ cried Heslarton, looking around in concern. ‘My poor child! Where is she? Find her! Search the house!’

The servants raced to do his bidding, while Heslarton paced in tiny circles, as if he did not know what else to do. Emma stretched a hand towards him, for comfort, but he ignored it. Gyseburne leaned closer to Bartholomew.

‘Perhaps Odelina fed the wolfsbane to her dam,’ he suggested. ‘And then fled. I have heard they were not good friends – not like she is with her father.’

There were two half-full goblets on the table, along with a jug of milk. Bartholomew could not detect the odour of wolfsbane in any of them, but Gyseburne said it was in the wine, and there was no reason to disbelieve him. Clearly, Odelina had imbibed the poison, too.

‘I did not see her leave the room,’ said the maid, frightened. ‘She was here when her mother…’

There was only one place the missing woman could be. Bartholomew dropped to his hands and knees, and looked under the bed. Odelina was curled into a ball, beginning the strange shuddering movements that had killed her mother. He grabbed her arm and dragged her out. She was still conscious, although terrified and unable to speak. Distraught, Heslarton flung himself on her, and it took both Bartholomew and Gyseburne working together to prise him off.

Meryfeld stepped forward to hold him while they tended the stricken woman, and Bartholomew thought he would be unequal to the task, but the little physician deftly secured him in the kind of headlock employed by wrestlers. Heslarton wept and howled until his energy was spent, then dissolved into quiet sobs. Emma, meanwhile, regarded her stricken granddaughter with horror.

Hoping Gyseburne’s identification of the poison was correct, Bartholomew grabbed a cup and a bowl of water, and forced Odelina to drink. She groaned and tried to push him away, but he persisted until it was all gone. Then he put his fingers in her mouth until she retched. When she was done, he repeated the process, ignoring Emma’s clamouring objections at his roughness.

Gyseburne understood what he was trying to do, though. He added oil to the next cup of water, along with a few drops of something Bartholomew assumed was an emetic.

‘Foxglove,’ said Bartholomew urgently, when he pressed his ear to Odelina’s chest and heard her heart pumping sluggishly. ‘There is some in my bag.’

He administered the dose Gyseburne handed him, and was gratified to detect a more normal rhythm a few moments later. Odelina began to shiver, so he wrapped her in a blanket.

‘Please,’ she whispered. ‘I am thirsty.’

‘Oh, thank God!’ breathed Emma. ‘It is a good sign, is it not? For her to speak coherently?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘A very good sign.’

While the maid went to fetch fresh water from the kitchen, Odelina indicated that she wanted to sit up. When she reeled, Meryfeld released Heslarton, who dashed to support her. Odelina clung to him tearfully. He tried to lift her into the bed, but the task was beyond him, so he was obliged to enlist Bartholomew’s help. Once she was settled, sipping water brought from the kitchen, Bartholomew began to relax, knowing she was going to recover.

‘When my mother and I were first struck down, I tried to call for help,’ Odelina whispered, as Heslarton fussed about her with blankets. ‘But I could not speak. I crawled under the bed because I was frightened. I heard her … Is she…’

‘She is dead, child,’ said Emma, patting her shoulder comfortingly. ‘Even with three physicians in the house, she was beyond saving. Fortunately, they had better luck with you.’

Heslarton sat next to his daughter, holding her hand in a grip that looked tight enough to be painful, and it was left to Emma to arrange the removal of his wife’s corpse from the room.

‘Your quick thinking saved Odelina,’ said Gyseburne in Bartholomew’s ear. ‘She would be dead, if you had not thought to look under the bed.’

‘But it was you who identified the poison,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘I would not have made her vomit without your diagnosis.’

Gyseburne gave what was almost a smile. ‘Then we make a fine team, you and I. Perhaps we should work together more often.’

Bartholomew smiled back, thinking it would be pleasant to have a colleague with whom to confer sometimes. He had avoided doing so thus far, lest it led to more accusations of heterodoxy.

‘She will live?’ asked Heslarton unsteadily. ‘All that roughness paid off ? She will be well now?’

‘We believe so,’ replied Gyseburne. ‘Although someone should stay with her tonight.’

‘I will,’ offered Meryfeld immediately. ‘A physician is better than a layman. And I am the Colvyll family’s medicus now.’

Bartholomew was only too happy to pass the responsibility to Meryfeld, sure the worst was over anyway. He turned to leave, but Odelina caught his sleeve.

‘Thank you,’ she whispered hoarsely. ‘I shall always be grateful.’

‘And so will I,’ said Emma, addressing all three physicians. ‘I am sorry for Alice, but I shall not hold it against you. Clearly, you were called too late.’

‘We had better throw away all the wine in the house, to ensure no more of this poison lurks,’ said Heslarton grimly. ‘And then I shall find out who put it there.’

‘It was that yellow-headed thief,’ declared Emma. Her black eyes flashed with fury. ‘I have been wondering why he did not make off with more of my valuables. It was because he was busy tampering with our wine, and my box was all he had time to grab before he was obliged to flee.’

‘Theft and murder are two very different–’ began Bartholomew uncertainly.

‘It was him,’ declared Emma firmly. ‘Other than you, he is the only person – outside family and staff – to have set foot in my house this month.’

‘What about Celia Drax?’ asked Meryfeld, somewhat out of the blue. ‘She visits you a lot.’

Heslarton regarded him in surprise. ‘Celia is our friend, and I doubt she knows about poisons!’

‘Of course she does not,’ agreed Emma. ‘The culprit is that thief, and I shall not rest until he is caught. Thomas will resume the hunt as soon as Odelina no longer needs him. However, given the seriousness of the crime, we should tell Brother Michael and the Sheriff to look for the murdering scoundrel, too.’

Bartholomew offered to inform them, then took his leave, Gyseburne trailing at his heels.

‘Meryfeld is mad,’ said Gyseburne. ‘Wild horses would not encourage me to physic a family like that – something will go wrong, and they will kill him for it.’

Bartholomew sincerely hoped he was wrong.

The next day dawned bright and clear. It was a glorious winter morning, where the sky was blue, the frost brittle and white on rooftops, and the sun a pale gold orb rising over the distant horizon. It was cold, though, and the wind that sliced in from the north-east was bitter. Bartholomew shivered all through mass in St Michael’s Church, and then shivered as Langelee led his scholars home along St Michael’s Lane. He said nothing as Michael fell into step beside him, lost in a reflection on whether he might not feel so chilled if he were not so hungry.

‘I am sorry, Matt,’ said Michael. ‘I meant to save you some food, but by the time I remembered, it had all been eaten. There was not enough of it, you see, and we all came away half starved.’

‘It does not matter,’ said Bartholomew, although he thought he might change his mind if there was nothing for breakfast.

‘I can still scarcely credit what you told me last night. I know Emma and her family are unpopular, but poison is so indiscriminate – a servant might have sneaked a swig and died for it.’

‘Yes, and I am glad it is the Sheriff’s responsibility to investigate Alice’s death, not yours.’

‘On the contrary,’ said Michael. ‘Emma claims the yellow-headed thief tainted her wine, and Heslarton’s enquiries have shown that the same yellow-headed thief stole Poynton’s pilgrim badge. As I am under obligation to solve the theft, it means I am hunting Alice’s killer, too.’

‘I thought you were dead set against the notion that they are the same man.’

‘I was, but only because petty thieves tend to be cowards. I thought the one you chased would be lurking in the Fens, thanking God for his lucky escape. But now I learn he is a murderer, it puts a different complexion on matters. Poisoners are ruthless and bold, so such a fellow may well have committed one crime, then promptly returned to the town to snatch Poynton’s signaculum.’

‘Drax was missing a signaculum, too,’ Bartholomew reminded him. ‘The one he wore in his hat.’

Michael rubbed his chin. ‘Then our killer had a busy day. He burgled Emma’s house and left wolfsbane, was chased by you to the Griffin Inn, slipped back into the town to stab Drax and steal his token, then rushed to the Carmelite Friary for Poynton’s badge, and finally returned to Michaelhouse to arrange for Drax’s body to be left behind Yffi’s tiles.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘Although there was more time between these events than you are acknowledging. However, it does look as though all these crimes were committed by one culprit. Do not tell Emma you are looking into the matter, though. It will raise her expectations, and she does not handle disappointment very well.’

‘No,’ agreed Michael. ‘She and Odelina both – they are too used to having their own way. I pity the man Odelina marries, because no matter how noble a fellow he is, the reality will fall short of her romantic ideals and she will grow to hate him. I am glad my habit puts me out of her reach.’

‘You think she might have made a play for you, had you been available?’ asked Bartholomew, amused as always by the monk’s perception of himself as a svelte Adonis.

‘Of course,’ replied Michael, without the flicker of a smile. ‘Women find me irresistible, as I have told you before, especially the ones with a penchant for romantic ballads. Like the heroes of their stories, I combine dashing good looks with integrity and courage.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew. Then some of Yffi’s scaffolding gave an ominous creak, and he turned to more realistic matters. ‘I wish Michaelhouse had not accepted charity from a woman who skates so close to the edge of the law. Moreover, I did not like Gyseburne’s contention that Emma might dispatch Meryfeld if he does not cure her.’

‘Meryfeld knows the risks in treating a woman with her reputation – he is not stupid. But if I am to meddle in her affairs, I shall need help. I know you are busy with teaching and patients, but…’

‘I will do what I can,’ promised Bartholomew. ‘And I have been thinking about the yellow-headed thief, too. Emma’s house is stuffed full of valuables, yet he chose to take a small box – one she claims contains sentimental keepsakes from her dead husband. But why would a thief target that? I suspect the contents of this chest are more significant than she is letting on.’

‘Possibly,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘But a short while later, he stole a pilgrim badge, so maybe he is just an opportunist. Or perhaps his main objective was to leave the poison, and he snatched the box to lull her into thinking that his motive was theft, not something more sinister.’

Bartholomew supposed they would have to ask him when he was caught. He nodded to where the workmen were trooping in through Michaelhouse’s front gate, Blaston in the lead, cheerful and eager as usual, and Yffi and his apprentices slouching unenthusiastically at his heels.

‘You said yesterday that you thought Yffi had not been entirely honest with us about Drax. Should we interview him again now?’

‘We should. And we can ask why he failed to appear for work yesterday, too.’

‘Drax was cold when we found him,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘So I think we can safely say he was killed not long after dawn. Ergo, we need to know where our suspects were then, rather than later.’

‘Yes and no, Matt. We have two crimes here: Drax murdered, and Drax brought to Michaelhouse. Drax may have died early, but I suspect he was dumped later – probably when Yffi was praising Yolande’s talents. So I want to know where our suspects were on both occasions.’

Yffi reeked of ale. He was also unsteady on his feet and his eyes were glazed in a way that said he had spent the previous night in the tavern and was still not quite sober. Bartholomew did not like the notion of him clambering around on the roof. He had a family, and although the physician had no great liking for the fellow, he did not want a wife and children left destitute.

‘Actually, we are going to lay off the roof for a while,’ said Yffi, when Bartholomew voiced his concerns. ‘We plan to mend the ground-floor windows for the next few days.’

Michael’s eyes narrowed. ‘You mean you intend to leave the roof exposed to the elements?’

Yffi shrugged. ‘It will not rain, and I feel like working on solid ground for a bit.’

‘This is not a good idea,’ argued Michael. ‘It may be fine today, but weather can change. And I dislike that sheet billowing above my head when I am trying to sleep. What if it blows off?’

‘Then one of my boys will nail it back on again.’

‘He will come in the middle of the night, will he? Or am I expected to sleep under the stars until morning? Or, more likely, under scudding rain clouds?’

‘That is not my problem. If you do not like the way I work, tell Emma de Colvyll.’

‘Oh, I shall,’ said Michael icily. ‘But I am not here for a debate – I want information. Tell me what happened on Monday, when we found Drax.’

‘Again?’ groaned Yffi, rolling his eyes. His apprentices did the same, although Blaston was more respectful. ‘How many more times must I tell you that we heard and saw nothing? If you do not believe me, then climb up the scaffolding yourself. The yard cannot be seen from the roof, so a whole army of killers could have shoved corpses behind stacks of tiles, and we would have been none the wiser.’

‘It is true, Brother,’ added Peterkin, seeing his master’s insolence was doing nothing to help. ‘I wish we did have some clues to share with you, but we do not.’

‘What were you doing yesterday?’ demanded Michael.

Yffi blinked. ‘Yesterday? Why do you want to know that?’

‘Because I am eager to learn why you failed to appear for work,’ snapped Michael.

‘We went to church for the Purification,’ replied Yffi with mock piety. ‘And before that, we were working elsewhere. We have commissions other than in this place, you know.’

‘Only because you fail to finish what you start,’ muttered Blaston, regarding him with dislike.

Michael glared at Yffi, who took an involuntary step backwards. ‘You will not disappear again until our roof is finished. Do I make myself clear? And you would do well not to annoy me, because you are in a very precarious position. A body was found among your supplies.’

Yffi scowled. ‘It is hardly my fault that some villain decided to leave a corpse behind the tiles! If you want someone to blame, then pick on your idle porter.’

‘Or Blaston,’ said Peterkin slyly. ‘He was down here all alone. You have not accused him, because you have known him for years, but he is just as capable of wielding a knife as the next man.’

‘I want to know where you were from dawn until the body was found,’ said Michael, cutting across Blaston’s indignant denials. ‘All of you.’

Yffi sighed impatiently. ‘We were on the roof – as your porter will confirm. One or two of my lads came down for supplies, but that only took moments, and I would have noticed prolonged absences. We all have alibis in each other.’

‘I work alone,’ said Blaston uncomfortably. ‘But the only time I went out was to buy nails, as I told you. The smith will confirm that I left money under his anvil, though. That is an alibi.’

They began to argue, and were still sniping at each other when Michael decided there was no more to be learned from them and took his leave.

‘I detected a furtiveness among the masons, Matt,’ he said as he walked. ‘I wonder why.’

‘I have a feeling they were lounging on the roof, safe in the knowledge that they could not be seen,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘They do not want you to tell Emma that she is paying for them to sit about.’

‘It is possible, although I have a feeling there is more to it than that. Unfortunately, our questions took us no further forward – we can neither eliminate Yffi and his lads as suspects, nor arrest them.’

‘Well, we know none of them killed Drax, because they were here when we think he was stabbed. And Drax was not dispatched in Michaelhouse, because Cynric’s search found no blood.’

‘Blaston was not here during the salient time, though,’ said Michael unhappily. ‘He was out buying nails. Alone. Moreover, he admits to disliking the victim.’

‘Yffi disliked Drax, too. Along with half the town. I will not entertain Blaston as a suspect, Brother. He cares too much for his family to risk being hanged. And he is not a killer, anyway.’

‘You are probably right. But we had better not dismiss him from our enquiries until we can be absolutely certain. Do not look alarmed! Fen the pardoner is much higher on my list than Blaston, and we know he was nosing around here the morning of the crime.’

‘Have you interviewed him yet?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘What did he say?’

‘Nothing,’ replied Michael grimly. ‘Because he was out admiring churches with his two fat nuns when I called at the Carmelite Priory yesterday, and so was unavailable to me. But I shall snag him today, and see whether I can force a confession–‘

He was interrupted by the arrival of Meadowman, his favourite beadle.

‘You are needed at Peterhouse, Brother,’ said Meadowman apologetically. ‘They are squabbling with Batayl Hostel, and it is beyond my diplomatic skills to bring about a truce. There is no violence, but some very rude words are being exchanged.’

‘Then I suppose Fen will have to wait,’ sighed Michael, aiming for the gate.

Bartholomew and Father William were the only Fellows present for breakfast in Michaelhouse that morning, and half the students were missing, too. It did not take them long to understand why. Agatha was running dangerously low on supplies, so the meal comprised a grey, watery pottage that had been bulked out with the addition of bean pods and something that looked suspiciously like sawdust.

‘She must have got it from Blaston,’ said William, poking it in distaste.

The Franciscan was not a fussy eater, and if he found fault with what was on offer, Bartholomew knew the situation was serious. Suddenly, William surged to his feet and announced to the world at large that there would be no grace that day, because not even beggars could be expected to be grateful for such slop. Then he grabbed Bartholomew’s arm and steered him out of the hall, towards his own room. Bartholomew resisted, knowing from past experience that sessions in William’s quarters tended to mean being berated for something he had done that the friar deemed heretical.

‘Come,’ said William impatiently. ‘My students will be back soon and I have no intention of sharing with them. But you are a colleague. And besides, you look hungry.’

Bartholomew was both pleased and surprised when the Franciscan presented him with a large piece of bread, several slices of cold meat and a pot of cheese.

‘I slipped it up my sleeve during the feast,’ explained William gleefully. Bartholomew was not keen on the notion of eating something that had spent time inside the Franciscan’s revolting habit, but was hungry enough to overlook the matter. ‘I had a feeling Agatha would make up for yesterday’s luxury with a few days of thrift, so I decided to take precautious.’

‘Thank you,’ said Bartholomew, when he had eaten enough to make himself feel queasy. ‘It is good of you to share. I know you do not like doing it.’

‘No, I do not,’ agreed William blithely. ‘But you missed the feast, so it is only fair.’

Uncomfortably overloaded, Bartholomew went in search of Michael, but was told by Langelee that the monk was still trying to quell the spat between a rich College and a particularly poor hostel.

‘I have a bad feeling this rivalry will erupt into something dark and violent before it burns itself out,’ said the Master. ‘Incidentally, we had a message to say you are needed by the Carmelites.’

Bartholomew told Valence to read Theophilus’s De urinis to his other students, thinking Gyseburne would approve of time spent on urine. Then he walked to the White Friars’ convent, where Horneby said he was feeling better but was worried that continued hoarseness would affect his delivery at the Stock Extraordinary Lecture. Prior Etone was hovering anxiously on one side of the bed, while Welfry was on the other. Bartholomew raised his eyebrows at a Dominican among the Carmelites – the Orders tended not to fraternise.

‘Horneby and I are old friends,’ explained Welfry, when he saw Bartholomew’s surprise. ‘I have been helping him prepare his lecture.’

‘Welfry has a brilliant mind,’ said Etone begrudgingly. ‘If he were to use it sensibly, he could be Horneby’s equal in the debating chamber. But he prefers practical jokes to theology, and–’

‘Enough, Father!’ cried Welfry. His eyes danced with wry amusement – it was hardly Etone’s place to reprimand him. ‘You are worse than my Prior-General!’

‘Well, perhaps being Seneschal will make you more sombre,’ said Etone. ‘And bear in mind that if Horneby’s sickness persists, you will be the one I nominate to read his lecture.’

‘Me?’ asked Welfry, suddenly alarmed. ‘But I am not a Carmelite.’

‘No, but you are Horneby’s closest friend, and the man most familiar with his theses,’ said Etone. ‘Unfortunately, I do not think the rest of us are up to the task. You are though.’

‘Lord!’ breathed Welfry. He looked at Horneby, wide-eyed. ‘You had better get well as soon as possible, then, because I am disinclined to accept this “honour”.’

‘When is the lecture?’ asked Bartholomew, struggling to inspect Horneby’s throat with the Carmelites’ best lamp.

Prior Etone regarded him reproachfully. ‘Next Tuesday. How can you even ask such a question, when it has been the talk of the town for weeks?’

‘I have been busy,’ said Bartholomew defensively, supposing it was not the time to say he would not be going. Living among so many clerics meant he was bored with theology.

‘That is no excuse, Matthew,’ said Etone severely. ‘You cannot be–’

‘Will you admonish everyone who crosses your path today, Father?’ croaked Horneby, while Welfry started to laugh. ‘Leave poor Bartholomew alone, or he may decline to come the next time we call him, and where would that leave us? Meryfeld is little more than a folk healer, while there is something about Gyseburne that I do not like at all.’

‘I know what you mean,’ agreed Etone. ‘He is distinctly sinister. And damned furtive, too.’

‘True,’ added Welfry. ‘I asked where he lived while he studied at Oxford – I was at Balliol, you see – but he refused to say. He would not even submit to a pleasant chat about the taverns we both might have frequented. I confess, I was mystified. But perhaps all physicians are curious creatures.’ He winked at Bartholomew, to show he was teasing.

But Etone took him at his word. ‘They are, and Matthew is a “curious creature”, too, I am afraid to say. He skates very close to the edge of unorthodoxy.’

‘He does what is necessary to help his patients,’ countered Horneby. ‘Patients like me. So please leave him be, and let him do what he came here for.’

Bartholomew applied a poultice to Horneby’s neck, feeling that the best cure was rest and time. The inflammation was receding nicely, although he had no idea whether Horneby would be completely well by the time he was scheduled to speak. They would just have to wait and see.

Welfry went with Bartholomew when he left, and they walked across the yard together. They were momentarily distracted from their discussion of Horneby’s lecture when one of the pilgrim nuns loudly announced that the shrine was dirty, and needed sweeping.

‘Then I will take the holy scapular to the chapel,’ said Fen. ‘We do not want dust settling on it.’

He disappeared inside, and emerged moments later with the reliquary under his arm. Poynton bustled forward to help, although Fen was perfectly able to carry it by himself.

‘St Simon Stock may be grateful enough to confer a few blessings on you,’ Poynton declared by way of explanation. ‘And I am not a man to miss out on blessings.’

The nuns heard the remark, and promptly descended on the box, too, jostling as they vied for a handhold. Under such circumstances, it took some time to tote it the short distance to the chapel.

‘Perhaps we should stand back,’ chuckled Welfry. ‘There are more likely to be thunderbolts than blessings over that display of piety. Have you ever been on a pilgrimage?’

Bartholomew hesitated. He had visited several sacred sites, including Rome and Santiago de Compostela, but only because he had happened to be passing. His real purpose has been to locate the woman he loved, who had left Cambridge before he could ask her to marry him. He had scoured the civilised world, but had found no trace of her. Michael had recently taken to assuring him that Matilde was safe and well, but it had been three years since she had left, and Bartholomew was finally beginning to accept that something terrible had happened to her.

‘You have,’ he said, deftly diverting the question by pointing at the discreet signaculum pinned to Welfry’s habit. ‘Although it is not a token I recognise. It looks like a shoe.’

‘It is,’ said Welfry with a smile. ‘From the shrine of John Schorne in North Marston, who conjured the Devil into a boot. I visited it last year, and found it just as thronged with devout pilgrims as Canterbury, Walsingham or Hereford. I wear it to serve as a reminder.’

‘A reminder of what?’

‘Of the narrow gap between the sacred and the profane – the acceptable and the unacceptable. As you know, I love a practical joke. Well, this boot is to make me remember that my jests must always be amusing, but never irreverent or unkind. Like the physician Hippocrates, I aim to do no harm.’

Bartholomew started to ask him about the illumination of St Mary the Great, but Welfry embarked on a comical account of the Carmelites’ Purification feast, when the two nuns had made a drunken play for Fen. The pardoner had fled in alarm, leaving Poynton to offer himself as a substitute. Welfry was a clever raconteur, and Bartholomew was still smiling when they parted company and he knocked on the door of the Gilbertine Priory.

‘There you are,’ said Prior Leccheworth, an old man with a shock of jet-black hair. It looked incongruous with his wrinkled face, and Bartholomew often wondered whether he dyed it. ‘One of my canons has hurt himself playing camp-ball, and there is blood. He says it is nothing, but…’

‘Camp-ball?’ echoed Bartholomew, startled. ‘Is that a suitable pastime for ordained priests?’

‘He is on our team,’ explained Leccheworth. He saw the physician’s blank look and sighed. ‘For the annual match between us and the Carmelites the day after tomorrow. We usually select ruffians from the town to represent us, but Brother Jude is a talented player, and we thought he might help us win. We have recruited your Master, too, so we are in with a good chance this year.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, although he was still amazed to learn that a canon should be taking part in such a wild event – and that his prior was willing to let him do so.

He followed Leccheworth across the yard and out on to the huge field at the back of the convent. Sitting on the grass was the largest Gilbertine he had ever seen.

‘It is a trifle,’ said Brother Jude, revealing an injury that would have made most men swoon. ‘A scratch. Sew it up, and let me get back to the practice.’

Bartholomew sent for water to rinse the gash, then took needle and thread and began to insert stitches. He was astonished when the big man declared the pain insignificant, because he knew it was not. It was easy work, though, because Jude sat perfectly still, and there was none of the writhing and squirming he usually had to contend with.

‘It should heal neatly,’ he said eventually, sitting back and inspecting his handiwork.

‘Damn!’ muttered Jude, disappointed. ‘I was hoping for an impressive battle wound. By the way, has Prior Leccheworth asked whether you will be Official Physician for Friday’s game?’

‘Not yet,’ said Leccheworth. He smiled at Bartholomew. ‘But the rules stipulate that one must be to hand, because these occasions can turn savage.’

‘I know,’ said Bartholomew dryly. ‘But I do not think I am the right–’

‘You are the only suitable candidate,’ declared Jude firmly. ‘Meryfeld is worthless, Rougham too expensive, and Gyseburne would do nothing but ask for urine. And I do not like Gyseburne, anyway – there is something sly about the cant of his eyes.’

‘Do say yes, Doctor,’ said Leccheworth. ‘It carries a payment of three shillings.’

‘All right, then,’ said Bartholomew, capitulating promptly. It would keep the poor in salves and tonics for a month.

He frowned suddenly. There was a large building at the edge of the field, which looked as though it was deserted – its ground-floor windows were boarded over and its door nailed closed – but he thought he had seen a shadow move across one of its upper rooms.

‘That is Edmund House,’ said Leccheworth, seeing where he was looking. ‘It used to belong to our convent, but we were forced to sell it after the Great Pestilence, when we needed some ready cash. Emma de Colvyll purchased it from us.’

‘I remember,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It looks abandoned, but I thought I saw someone inside.’

‘Pigeons,’ replied Leccheworth. ‘It is a pity, because they will ruin it. We are eager to buy it back now we have funds to spare, but Emma refuses to sell.’

‘Has she said why?’ asked Bartholomew. The building looked stable enough, but was showing signs of decay. It made no sense to let it rot when there was a buyer to hand.

Leccheworth grimaced. ‘No. And I do not understand it at all.’

‘Neither do I,’ said Jude. ‘But there is something about her that petrifies me. I am a large, strong man with an unshakeable faith in God, but little Emma de Colvyll turns my knees to water.’

Bartholomew’s last visit of the morning was to Bridge Street, to tend Sheriff Tulyet’s son. Dickon was nine years old, and large for his age. He terrorised the servants, had no friends because the parents of other children declined to let him anywhere near their offspring, and even his mother was beginning to be frightened of him. Tulyet was blind to his faults, though, and Dickon was growing into an extremely nasty individual. Hoping he would emerge unscathed from what was sure to be a trying encounter, Bartholomew knocked on Tulyet’s door.

‘Thank God you are here, Matthew,’ said Mistress Tulyet in relief. ‘Dickon climbed over the wall into Celia Drax’s garden, and fell on a hive of bees. He has been dreadfully stung.’

‘Christ!’ muttered Bartholomew, not liking the notion of extracting stings from a boy who was going to fight him every inch of the way. Then he frowned. ‘But Celia Drax does not live next to you – Meryfeld does. Celia is two doors down.’

‘Well, perhaps he did clamber through the property of more than one neighbour,’ admitted Mistress Tulyet sheepishly. ‘But you had better hurry. Dickon is not very nice when he is in pain.’

Dickon was not very nice when he was not in pain, either, but Bartholomew managed to follow her to the kitchen without saying so. The boy was standing in the middle of the room howling, while servants nervously attempted to divest him of his clothes, to see whether a bee might still be trapped. He held a sword, a gift from his doting father, and stabbed at anyone who came too close. His eyes were swollen with tears, and his face was flushed, although from temper rather than distress. There was a rumour that he had been sired by the Devil, and there were times when Bartholomew was prepared to believe the tale: he suspected this was going to be one of them.

‘No!’ Dickon shrieked when he saw the physician. ‘Go away!’

Bartholomew was tempted to do as he suggested, and then was mildly ashamed of himself. He wondered what it was about the brat that always brought out the worst in him.

‘Put down the sword,’ he ordered. ‘If you cooperate, this will be over in a moment.’

‘No!’ shouted Dickon again. ‘And if you come near me, I shall run you through. I know how, because my father showed me. I am to be sent away soon to become a squire in Lord Picot’s household. He is a great knight, who will make me a mighty warrior.’

‘Really?’ asked Bartholomew, delighted that someone else would soon have the pleasure of physicking him. ‘Put down the weapon and tell me about it.’

‘It is not true,’ whispered Mistress Tulyet. ‘We have not told him yet, but Lord Picot declines to accept him. We cannot imagine why, a fine, strong lad like him.’

Bartholomew turned to the servants. ‘We will rush him. You three approach from behind, and–’

‘No,’ said the steward, backing away. ‘We are not paid enough to tackle Dickon.’

Bartholomew watched in dismay as they all trooped out, Mistress Tulyet among them. He turned back to Dickon, thinking fast.

‘Do you know what happens if bee stings are not removed? All your fingers drop off. You cannot be a soldier with no fingers.’

He did not usually resort to underhand tactics with patients, but Dickon was a special case. The boy regarded him silently. His eyes glistened, and Bartholomew had the uncomfortable sense that they belonged to a much older person.

‘You lie,’ the boy said eventually.

Bartholomew smiled. ‘Then let us try an experiment. If I am lying, nothing will happen to you. But if I am telling the truth, you will be fingerless by tomorrow. What do you say?’

Dickon continued to study him. Suddenly, the sword dipped and he proffered an arm. ‘Very well. You may remove it.’

‘It’ was the operative word, because although Dickon claimed to have catapulted himself on top of the hive, he had only been stung once. Bartholomew wondered if the hapless creatures had been too intimidated to attack. The sting was quickly extracted with a pair of tweezers, and when the operation was over, both sat back in relief.

‘What were you doing in Drax’s garden?’ Bartholomew felt compelled to ask.

‘She killed her husband,’ declared Dickon with utter conviction. ‘So I decided to visit her – I have never talked to a murderess before, you see.’

‘What makes you think Celia Drax is a murderess?’ asked Bartholomew, startled.

‘Because they were always arguing – they did not love each other. But she dragged me off the hive and let me out of her front door, so I do not care what she did to him. I like her.’

‘Was she stung, too?’ Bartholomew supposed he had better go to see whether she needed help.

Dickon nodded. ‘A lot more than me.’

Bartholomew stood, eager to be away. He was just congratulating himself on escaping without harm to either of them when Dickon snatched up the sword and lunged. Bartholomew felt a sharp pain in his side, and Dickon danced away, eyes flashing with malice.

‘It hurt when you pulled out the sting, and my father said bullies are not to be tolerated,’ he declared, as Bartholomew regarded him in disbelief. ‘Now we are even.’

‘My husband did say bullies are not to be tolerated,’ acknowledged Mistress Tulyet, when Bartholomew reported that her son had stabbed him; fortunately, in a fit of common sense, Tulyet had filed off the weapon’s point. ‘But Dickon is the bully. Unfortunately, he has developed a habit of interpreting our reprimands in ways that suit him.’

Bartholomew saw the unease in her eyes and knew she was beginning to see the child for the tyrant he was, even if Tulyet remained obstinately blind. There was no more to be said, so he left and headed for Celia Drax’s home, rubbing his bruised side.

As Bartholomew knocked on the door to Celia’s house, it occurred to him that it would be a good opportunity to quiz her about her husband. Determined to make the most of the occasion, he followed a servant into an enormous hall-like room with polished wooden floors and painted walls. At the far end was a shelf containing books, a considerable luxury, given that they were so expensive. Celia was sitting on a bench with a pair of tweezers.

‘It is good of you to come,’ she said reluctantly as he perched next to her and began to remove stings from her hands and arms. ‘Did Dickon tell you what happened? From an upstairs window, I saw him invade my garden, and was on my way to box his ears, when he fell on the hive. Naturally, the bees objected. I dragged him away as quickly as I could, and shoved him out of my front door. Hateful brat! But never mind him. Has Brother Michael recovered my pilgrim badge yet? Such items are valuable, and I would like it back.’

Bartholomew saw she was still wearing the gold medallion she had retrieved from her husband’s corpse. It made him shudder. ‘Not yet.’

When she coyly left the room to look for other stings that might require his attention, he wandered towards her little library. There was a psalter, two texts by Aristotle, and a rather lurid tome of contemporary romantic poetry, which he assumed belonged to Odelina. There was also a large, brown volume that looked rather more well thumbed than the others. He took it down, and saw it was a pharmacopoeia. He frowned. Why would a taverner and his wife own such a thing? Glancing uneasily towards the door, he leafed through it until he found the entry for wolfsbane.

The page was grimy, but so were all the others, and he could not decide whether it had been marked in any particular way. At the bottom was a section about antidotes, describing how to swallow the plant without harm. He knew the claims were false, because gulping down a dose of quicksilver was likely to bring its own set of problems, while milk would have no effect one way or the other. He turned to the entry for mandrake, and read with disbelief that no one would die from taking it, if they first lined their stomachs with a paste of dried earthworms.

‘Found anything interesting?’ Celia’s voice so close behind him made him jump.

‘Not really,’ he replied, turning to face her. ‘Are you interested in herbs?’

‘No, and I cannot read, anyway. John could, though, and he was always pawing through that book, and it made me rather nervous, to tell you the truth. Perhaps he intended to poison me, but God struck him down first.’

‘God did not kill your husband,’ said Bartholomew quietly. ‘Do you have any idea who–’

‘No,’ interrupted Celia curtly. ‘As I told you before, no one would want to kill John. He was not a saint, but he was not a villain, either. He was just a man, with a man’s failings. He was not generous to those who patronised his taverns, but he was honest. And while he drove a hard bargain with the scholars who rent Chestre Hostel, they never had to wait long for repairs.’

‘I have heard you and he quarrelled, and–’

‘Of course we quarrelled: we were married! But you will not understand that, living away from the society of women. You will know nothing of the ups and downs of marital life.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew sadly. ‘What about his friends? You are close to Odelina, but he–’

‘He was not a man for forming close relationships. You may go now. Thank you for coming.’

It was hardly a profitable interview, and Bartholomew felt as though he had squandered an opportunity as he returned to the College. When Michael arrived, he told him about the encounter, along with Dickon’s claim that the couple had argued. The monk listened thoughtfully.

‘You think one of their spats turned violent, and she stabbed him? And then she carried him to Michaelhouse, although there is no sensible reason for her to do so, and left him behind the tiles?’

‘Well, someone did,’ said Bartholomew tartly. ‘And she was married to Drax, and she frequents the house where Alice was poisoned.’

Michael sighed. ‘True. But your suspicions are not enough to let us arrest her. We need solid evidence. So I suppose I had better visit Drax’s taverns, and ask his patrons what they thought of the pair of them. If I have time, I shall ask for Fen’s alibi for Drax’s murder, too, although I shall be home for a little something to eat by mid-afternoon, naturally.’

‘Naturally,’ said Bartholomew.