The Killer of Pilgrims

Chapter 5

Bartholomew returned to Michaelhouse and taught until it was too dark to see. He took Valence and Cynric with him on his evening rounds, Valence so he might learn, and Cynric because the book-bearer was restless and wanted to be out. There were a lot of patients, and he grew steadily more despondent when he realised the list would be reduced by two-thirds if people had access to warmth and decent food. One visit took him to the Carmelite Priory, where Prior Etone wanted another report on his protégé.

‘It just needs time to heal,’ he said, after struggling to look down Horneby’s throat with the terrible lamp. ‘The worst is past, and I can tell you no more than I did the last time – that he must sip the blackcurrant syrup I prescribed, and avoid speaking as much as possible.’

‘He insisted on visiting Welfry this afternoon,’ said Etone disapprovingly. ‘And he talked then.’

‘Welfry is my friend, and I was worried when I heard he had been hurt,’ croaked Horneby. ‘And he did most of the talking, anyway.’

‘I can well imagine,’ said Etone, not entirely pleasantly. ‘But I must have Horneby fit by next Tuesday, Matthew. We cannot postpone the Stock Extraordinary Lecture.’

‘Why not?’ whispered Horneby. ‘What can it matter if it is delayed a week?’

Etone’s expression was earnest. ‘Because I want those pilgrims here when it takes place. If they see we are a great centre of learning, they are more likely to be generous when they leave. The pardoner, Fen, has already intimated that he admires good scholarship.’

‘We should let Horneby rest,’ said Bartholomew. He could see the younger man was appalled by his Prior’s motives, and did not want him to begin a speech that would strain his voice. He followed Etone out of the dormitory, and was walking across the yard to rejoin Valence and Cynric when he became aware of a commotion near the shed containing St Simon Stock’s relic.

‘Now what?’ muttered Etone irritably, beginning to stride towards it. ‘The only problem with having a shrine that attracts pilgrims is that it attracts pilgrims. I know that sounds contrary, but they are volatile creatures, and there is always some problem that needs my attention.’

It was none of Bartholomew’s affair, so he headed for the gate. Cynric and Valence were nowhere to be seen, but it was late, he still had patients to see, and he was disinclined to hunt for them. He was about to leave them to their own devices, when a clamour wafted across the yard.

‘It was not me!’ He recognised the shrill, angry tones of one of the visiting nuns. ‘And I am outraged that you should accuse me of it.’

‘It must have been someone from outside the priory,’ came a softer, more reasoned voice. Fen, thought Bartholomew, picturing the pardoner’s handsome face and calm demeanour. ‘The shrine is open to all, so anyone could have come in and made off with it.’

‘No!’ Etone’s agonised scream tore through the air.

Alarmed, Bartholomew ran towards the hut. He pushed through the door and found it full of people. Etone was on his knees, gazing at the jewelled box that held St Simon Stock’s scapular, while several of his friars milled around in agitation. Cynric and Valence were near the back, watching with undisguised curiosity.

‘Someone has been in the reliquary, sir,’ explained Valence in a whisper. ‘And used a sharp knife to make off with a bit of St Simon’s scapular.’

‘Accusations are being levelled,’ elaborated Cynric, his dark eyes alight with interest. ‘And denials are being made. At the moment that fat nun – Margaret – is being grilled, because she was in here alone for a long time, apparently.’

‘I would never defile a holy relic,’ Margaret cried furiously. ‘I am a pilgrim, not a thief.’

‘But a pilgrim must be the culprit, because they are the only ones who come here,’ gulped Etone. His face was white with shock as he turned to his friars. ‘I want a list of everyone who has been in today. I know our relic was in one piece at dawn, because I opened the chest to have a look at it.’

‘But we do not keep such a list, Father,’ objected one friar. He was a skeletal man named Riborowe, who was a skilled illuminator of manuscripts. ‘We let people come and go as they please.’

Etone stood and opened the box with hands that shook. Then he sank to his knees again and rested his head on the altar.

‘It is all here,’ he whispered, relief evident in his voice. ‘The thief must have been disturbed before he could complete his wicked business. He cut the cloth, but the material is thicker than it looks, and he was thwarted. Our relic is damaged, but we still have it all.’

There were thankful murmurings, and muttered remarks that the saint was watching over what was his. Etone recited a few prayers, then stood and faced the people in the room.

‘But a crime has still been committed,’ he said sternly. ‘And I want to know who did it and how it was permitted to happen.’

‘I saw the lock on the reliquary had been forced,’ explained Riborowe. ‘So I asked the four pilgrims – who spend more time here than anyone else – whether they had noticed anything amiss.’

‘He accused us of being thieves,’ countered Poynton angrily. His face was redder than usual, and veins swelled on his head and neck. Not for the first time, Bartholomew thought he looked ill. ‘We, who are devout pilgrims, and spend our whole lives travelling from shrine to shrine!’

‘I did not–’ began Riborowe, shooting a guilty glance at his prior.

‘You did,’ interrupted Margaret venomously. ‘You said I broke into the chest and applied the scissors I use for my personal beauty to…’ She waved her hand, unable to continue.

‘Clearly, none of us is the culprit,’ said Fen quietly, injecting a tone of reason into the discussion. ‘But perhaps we – without realising it – witnessed something that may help bring the real villain to justice. So let us not argue, but tell each other what we heard and saw, so we may work together to solve this dreadful crime.’

‘Very well,’ said Prior Etone with a stiff nod. ‘You may go first.’

‘Unfortunately, I have nothing of value to report,’ said Fen apologetically. ‘I prayed here all morning, then left to attend the taverner’s requiem. I went for a walk afterwards, and by the time I returned, Riborowe was already yelling accusations at Sister Margaret. In other words, the misdeed was committed while I was elsewhere.’

‘The reliquary lock must have been broken before I came in,’ declared Margaret. ‘But I did not notice the damage, because my eyes are not very good in dim light.’

‘What about you?’ asked Etone, turning to Poynton.

‘I also prayed here alone,’ replied Poynton. He was still livid, and kept his voice level with obvious difficulty. ‘I find it hard to concentrate when I am surrounded by clamouring peasants, so I always wait until they have gone. But I saw nothing to help you identify the culprit.’

‘Neither did I,’ added the second nun. ‘I tend not to notice what other penitents do – I am more concerned with praying for my own soul than with monitoring their squalid activities.’

‘It was probably that yellow-headed villain again,’ said Margaret bitterly. ‘He has been going around stealing signacula, so why not set his sights on a priceless relic?’

‘Did you see him here?’ asked Riborowe.

‘No,’ replied Margaret coolly. ‘But it stands to reason.’

‘Not necessarily,’ said Fen. ‘There is a big difference between making off with badges and stealing St Simon Stock’s scapular.’

‘Well, one thing is clear from this unsavoury incident,’ declared Poynton. ‘This nasty little town is full of thieves. You should take measures against them, Father Prior.’

‘We never had any trouble before you came,’ muttered Riborowe, although he spoke under his breath and Etone did not hear. The pilgrims did, though, and Poynton stepped forward.

‘We should go,’ said Bartholomew to Valence and Cynric, loath to witness any more of the unedifying spectacle. ‘This is not our concern.’

‘It is Brother Michael’s, though,’ whispered Cynric. ‘He will be obliged to investigate an attempt to deprive Cambridge’s only shrine of its holy relic.’

The next patient on Bartholomew’s list was Isnard, who had tripped over a cat as he had weaved his way home from the King’s Head. The bargeman denied being drunk, although the strong scent of ale that pervaded his little cottage suggested he was not being entirely honest. Bartholomew felt his spirits lift as he listened to the familiar litany of excuses; there was always something reassuringly predictable about Isnard.

Yolande de Blaston was there, too. Isnard was one of her ‘regulars’, because he could afford what she liked to charge. Despite only having one leg – Bartholomew had been forced to amputate the other after an accident – Isnard earned a respectable living by directing barges along the river, and had even amassed enough money to purchase a couple of boats himself.

Yolande was cooking – meals were often included in the arrangement she had with Isnard; it was not the first time they had found her stirring something delicious over a pot in his hearth. Hospitably, Isnard indicated that his visitors should sit at the table and share his supper.

‘Thank you,’ said Valence, immediately taking a seat and pulling a horn spoon from his belt. ‘College food is getting worse by the day, and I am tired of buying my own all the time.’

‘Isnard and I always have a stew on a Thursday evening,’ supplied Yolande conversationally. ‘We work up quite an appetite during our sessions together.’

Bartholomew saw Cynric purse his lips prudishly and Valence start to snigger, so he hastened to change the subject before Yolande or Isnard noticed, suspecting neither reaction would please them.

‘How is your family, Yolande?’

‘Well enough, but hungry all the time. This winter is particularly hard.’

‘I help her all I can,’ whispered Isnard, when she went to stir her concoction. ‘But fourteen children is a lot to feed. I am glad Blaston has work at Michaelhouse, because there is not much call for carpenters these days, not when people think it is more important to spend money on bread.’

Bartholomew looked at the telltale bulge around Yolande’s middle, and wondered when the fifteenth child would make its appearance. While she added the finishing touches to her stew, he rubbed a soothing balm on Isnard’s one remaining knee, then sat at the table while she ladled the food into bowls. The soup and the conversation of friends served to lift his spirits a little more – until Valence began to hold forth about Drax.

‘In other words, the killer took the body to Michaelhouse, and dumped it there,’ the student concluded indignantly. ‘It was fortunate Agatha chased that dog, or it might have been ages before it was discovered, because Yffi has not been around much for the last few days.’

Isnard shuddered. ‘Poor Drax! I liked him – he owned several lovely taverns.’

‘You like everyone, Isnard,’ said Yolande disapprovingly. ‘But my Robert said he was not very nice. Apparently, he bought himself an expensive pilgrim badge because he knew he was going to need it when his soul was weighed. And you do not spend a fortune on indulgences unless you have a guilty conscience.’

‘Or unless you think you might be about to die,’ added Cynric soberly.

Bartholomew looked at him sharply. ‘What do you mean by that?’

Cynric shrugged. ‘Just that Drax might have known someone was going to harm him, so he bought a signaculum while he was still able.’

‘I heard Emma buys a lot of pardons, too,’ said Yolande confidentially. ‘And the prayers she needs from Michaelhouse are costing her a new roof, so she must have a very guilty conscience.’

‘Emma?’ queried Isnard, startled. ‘Never! She is a dear, sweet old lady.’

Everyone regarded him askance.

‘I am talking about Emma de Colvyll here,’ said Yolande. ‘Who is your “dear, sweet old lady”, because we are not discussing the same person.’

‘We are,’ said Isnard, stung. ‘She has been nothing but charming to me.’

‘You do business with her?’ asked Bartholomew.

Isnard nodded. ‘She hires my barges to transport materials through the Fens – mostly stone and wood for repairing the various properties she buys. She deals with me honestly and fairly.’

‘But she has a reputation,’ said Yolande darkly.

‘One designed to stop people from trying to cheat her,’ argued Isnard. ‘She has a generous heart. Take Michaelhouse, for example. She is mending its leaking roofs out of love for her fellow man, and all she asks in return is a few masses from its priests.’

‘But my Robert says she will want more in time,’ said Yolande. ‘And Michaelhouse hates being in her debt. Master Langelee told me so when I entertained him last week. He said her charity has caused the biggest rift between him and his Fellows since he took the Mastership. But he said he had no choice – it would have been churlish to refuse her on the basis of their dislike.’

‘It would,’ agreed Isnard. ‘His Fellows are being churlish if they are suspicious of kindness. They should learn to accept that not everyone has sly motives.’

‘Did you see the ox and cart on the Gilbertines’ roof?’ asked Bartholomew, changing the subject before there was an argument. Cynric and Valence looked ready to pitch in with their views, which were unlikely to be complimentary to Emma, and would annoy Isnard.

‘Yes, it was very clever,’ said Yolande, smiling. ‘But not nearly as amazing as when the hostels lit up St Mary the Great.’

‘I disagree!’ cried Valence. ‘The trick at the church was just the flinging together of a few flammable substances, whereas the ox and cart required real ingenuity. It took Brother Michael days to achieve what we … what the Colleges managed in a single night. And Brother Michael is no fool.’

‘I do not like that Kendale,’ said Isnard sullenly. ‘He called me a drunkard – him, who cannot pass a tavern without stepping inside for an ale! And all his lads are fond of a drop or two.’

‘They are out a lot at night, too,’ added Yolande, while Valence nodded vigorous agreement with Isnard. ‘I see them when I visit my clients. Tell Brother Michael to watch them, Doctor, because I am sure they mean mischief.’

‘Their home, Chestre Hostel, is haunted,’ said Cynric matter-of-factly. ‘It did not use to be, but those hostel men brought an evil aura with them, and now it pervades the building.’

‘Cynric!’ said Bartholomew sharply, aware that this was the sort of tale that might be repeated and then blown out of all proportion. He did not want the hostels to accuse the Colleges of rumour-mongering, thus providing an excuse for the full-scale war that everyone sensed was brewing.

‘Actually, he is right,’ said Yolande. ‘There is something nasty about Chestre. Why do you think Drax tried to raise the rent? To get rid of them! Of course, it saw him dead for his pains.’

‘You think Chestre killed Drax?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Do you have any evidence to suggest–’

‘I do not need evidence,’ declared Yolande loftily. ‘Because I have intuition. Kendale and his horrible students live near where Drax died and where he was dumped, and they objected to the fact that he wanted to raise the rent. Of course they are the culprits.’

‘Did you hear that Celia Drax was robbed?’ asked Isnard, when the physician was silent. ‘She lost a pilgrim badge, which is odd, because a number of them have gone astray recently.’

Yolande nodded. ‘Poynton had one filched off his saddlebag, and the Mayor told me just today that he had two pinched from the Guildhall. Then there is Meryfeld the physician – he thought his had fallen off his cloak, but in the light of these other thefts, he has reconsidered.’

Bartholomew stood. It was getting late and he was tired. He thanked Isnard for his hospitality.

‘Be careful,’ said the bargeman as he left. ‘You may think Cambridge is safe at the moment, because we have had no serious trouble for weeks, but there is something nasty in the air. Perhaps it is the hostels itching for a fight. Or perhaps it is the thief with his penchant for pilgrim relics, which is as black a sin as any. Regardless, our town feels very dangerous to me.’

His warning sent a tingle of unease down Bartholomew’s spine.

Cynric slipped away on business of his own when they reached the main road. Bartholomew was tempted to call him back, not liking the notion of him being out alone after what Isnard had said, but then he came to his senses. Cynric was a seasoned warrior, and knew how to look after himself.

‘The last patient is none other than the loathsome Kendale himself,’ said Valence. He gave a feeble laugh. ‘I am not sure we should go, given what Isnard has just told us about him.’

Bartholomew recalled his last encounter with Kendale, when the Principal and his students had accosted him in St Michael’s Lane and initiated a contest about who should have right of way.

‘He has a cheek to think you will help him,’ Valence went on when there was no reply. ‘Neyll told Walter that Rougham, Gyseburne and Meryfeld have all refused to visit, and that you are his last hope. But that is no reason to tend a man like Kendale.’

‘Did Neyll say what is wrong?’ asked Bartholomew. He did not usually refuse to see patients, but did not relish the prospect of setting foot in a house full of men who hated members of Colleges.

‘He has a crushed hand,’ explained Valence. ‘An accident. Neyll told me they have stopped the bleeding, but that it needs stitches and possibly set bones.’

‘Then why did you not mention it sooner?’ demanded Bartholomew, aghast. ‘We should have gone there first. You give the impression that it is a routine call, but it is an emergency!’

‘I forgot,’ said Valence. He saw Bartholomew’s sceptical glance. ‘I did!’

There was no point in remonstrating. ‘Tell Michael where I am. And if I do not return by–’

‘I am not letting you visit Chestre alone,’ declared Valence, straightening his shoulders defiantly. ‘Michaelhouse students are not afraid of hostel men.’

Bartholomew tried to dissuade him, but Valence was adamant. He gave way, and they walked briskly down the lane to the grand house currently leased by Kendale. Valence knocked, and while they waited for a reply, Bartholomew studied the building that Cynric said was haunted.

During the day, he would have dismissed the book-bearer’s notion as fancy, but at night there was something vaguely unearthly about the place. It was darker than the surrounding houses, and its roof overhung rather forebodingly. In addition, its windows formed a pattern that looked like two eyes and a leering mouth. When he saw the route his thoughts had taken, Bartholomew shook his head, disgusted with himself for allowing his imagination to run so wild.

Neyll answered the door immediately, and his black eyebrows drew down into a hostile scowl when he saw Bartholomew and Valence. The physician took a step back. Was someone playing a joke, deliberately sending them into an awkward situation?

‘We were beginning to think you were too frightened to come,’ the Bible Scholar growled sullenly. ‘Well? Are you just going to stand there, or are you coming in?’

Inside, Bartholomew was disconcerted to note that Kendale and his students had decorated Chestre’s walls with the skulls of animals they had slaughtered. Some were very fearsome, with great curling horns and gaping eye sockets. He saw Valence cross himself and felt the urge to do the same. He might have done, but Neyll was watching, and he had his pride.

The house comprised a large hall on the ground floor, plus two smaller rooms for private teaching or reading. A flight of stairs led to the upper storey, and in the gloom he could see more bones adorning those walls, too; he wondered why Kendale had not settled for tapestries or murals, like everyone else. More steps led to a cellar, which a trail of muddy footprints suggested was in frequent use – probably, he thought, noting the number of telltale splashes on the walls, because it was where they stored their claret.

‘At last!’ exclaimed Kendale. He was sitting by the fire, and his hand was a mess of bloody cloths. All his students were there, and the place reeked of wine. ‘I know we hostel men are not a high priority, but I did not think you would leave me in agony for quite so long.’

‘I am sorry,’ said Bartholomew, genuinely contrite. ‘It has been a busy evening.’

He knelt next to Kendale, and gently removed the dressings. The hand had indeed been crushed – the fingers were bruised, and there were deep cuts across the back of them.

‘I slipped on some ice,’ said Kendale, by means of explanation.

‘This is not the sort of injury that can be sustained by falling,’ remarked Bartholomew absently, inspecting it in the light of the fire.

‘Are you accusing me of lying?’ demanded Kendale. There was an immediate menacing murmur from his students, and two or three came angrily to their feet.

‘Only if you are accusing me of being unable to distinguish between injuries caused by a tumble, and injuries caused by compression,’ retorted Bartholomew tartly, declining to be intimidated.

Kendale regarded him silently for a moment, then laughed, although it was not a pleasant sound. ‘All right, I did not slip. I caught it in the door.’

‘It must have been quite a door,’ muttered Bartholomew, not believing that tale, either.

‘You are as bad as Meryfeld,’ sneered Neyll. ‘He is all nosy questions, too. The last time he came, he asked so many of them that we had to put a knife to his throat, to shut him up.’

Bartholomew glanced at him, to see whether he was making a joke, but the dour visage told him that the Bible Scholar was no more capable of humour than he was of flying to the moon. And if his claim was true, then it was not surprising the other medici had declined to answer Kendale’s summons.

‘Meryfeld is your physician?’ Bartholomew asked. ‘Then why did he not come tonight?’

‘Neyll’s teasing must have frightened him off,’ said Kendale. ‘But does it matter how my hand came to be injured? I want you to mend it, not analyse how it could have been avoided.’

‘Of course it matters,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘Knowing how a wound was caused tells me what sort of damage might lie beneath the skin. For example, the hard edges of a door will result in different harm than if your hand was caught between two flat surfaces.’

‘It was not two flat surfaces,’ said Kendale, after a moment of thought. ‘As I said, it was a door.’

Bartholomew was disinclined to argue. He asked for a lamp, then began to suture the larger cuts with stitches any seamstress would have been proud of. Kendale gritted his teeth, although the reek of wine on his breath indicated he should not have been feeling a great deal.

‘Thank you,’ said Kendale, sitting back in relief when the operation was over and the hand was wrapped in clean bandages. ‘And now sit down, and have a drink.’

‘It is late,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And I do not–’

‘Drink,’ ordered Neyll, slamming a goblet on the table in front of him and filling it to the brim. ‘In my country, no guest leaves without refreshment. Not even members of pompous, rich Colleges. You, too, Valence. Sit, or we will be deeply offended.’

Bartholomew did not want his refusal to be used as an excuse for a spat, so with a sigh of resignation, he perched on the bench next to Valence and picked up the goblet. ‘To good relations,’ he said, raising it in salute. ‘Between the hostels and the Colleges.’

‘I do not know about that,’ growled Kendale. ‘I am more inclined to toast continued hostilities. It is a lot more satisfying.’

There was a cheer from the students, and the toast was repeated in a feisty roar.

Because he was tired, the wine went straight to Bartholomew’s head. He finished it with difficulty, and started to stand, but Neyll grabbed his shoulder and pushed him back down again, while another student refilled the goblet. Meanwhile, Valence was already on his third cupful.

‘We really must go,’ said Bartholomew, trying to struggle away from Neyll’s meaty hand. It was hopeless: the burly Bible Scholar was extremely strong.

‘Why?’ demanded Kendale. ‘You cannot have more patients at this time of the night. Or are you too good to drink in our hostel?’

‘Of course not,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But patients summon me at all hours, and–’

‘Drink!’ ordered Kendale, flicking his fingers at an alebellied lad, who brought another jug of claret to the hearth. Kendale swallowed two brimming cups in quick succession, and indicated that the student was to pour him a third.

‘Easy,’ advised Bartholomew. ‘Too much wine is not good after the shock of a wound.’

Kendale sneered. ‘I am from the north. We can drink as much as we like without it having the slightest effect on us. Why do you think we win so many battles?’

Bartholomew was not entirely sure how these two claims fitted together. ‘I see,’ he hedged.

‘My family’s history is peppered with glorious victories,’ Kendale went on. His students gave another cheer, and he grinned at them. ‘Indeed, we all have warrior blood running in our veins, which is why we can drink any mere College man into a state of oblivion.’

‘I am sure you can,’ said Bartholomew, hoping he and Valence would not be expected to meet the challenge. He changed the subject hastily. ‘What percentage of brimstone to pitch did you use when you lit up St Mary the Great? You see, I would like a lamp that burns with a constant light. It would be useful for situations like these, where it is difficult to see what–’

‘You could not see properly?’ demanded Kendale. ‘No wonder it hurt!’

‘I did not mean–’ began Bartholomew, realising he would have to watch what he said.

‘Drink up,’ interrupted Neyll. ‘Or is our claret not fine enough for you?’

‘It is very nice,’ said Bartholomew, taking another gulp. Someone had refilled his cup again, and he wondered whether they intended to keep him there all night. ‘Now, about the light–’

‘No,’ said Kendale firmly. ‘Why should I tell you how to create something that might make you rich? I would be better inventing such a lamp myself.’

‘Do it, then,’ urged Bartholomew. ‘It would have all manner of useful applications.’

‘No,’ said Kendale again. ‘I have better things to do. Such as besting arrogant Colleges.’

There was yet another cheer from the students, and Kendale raised his goblet in a sloppy salute. Cups were drained and slammed down on tables, and the ale-bellied student began filling them again. Bartholomew tried to snatch his away, but his fingers were now clumsy and he was too late. He glanced at Valence and saw him glare defiantly at Neyll before downing the contents of his beaker in a single swallow. Neyll did the same, then reached for the jug.

‘Stop,’ ordered Bartholomew, loath to spend the rest of the night dealing with cases of excessive intoxication, especially as he was now far from sober himself. ‘You have been more than generous, Principal Kendale, but it is time for us to go home.’

‘Yes, give us our fee, and we will be gone,’ slurred Valence. ‘A shilling.’

Bartholomew winced. Payment had been a long way from his mind, and he wished it had been a long way from Valence’s, too. It was not the time for issuing demands for cash.

‘A shilling?’ demanded the ale-paunched student. ‘That is brazen robbery!’

‘It is non-negotiable, Gib,’ stated Valence, trying to stand and failing. He slumped into Neyll, who slopped wine on the floor. ‘You should have asked for a quotation before we started if you intended to bargain with us.’

‘Bartholomew is a surgeon, not a builder,’ snapped Gib. ‘You do not haggle with surgeons.’

‘He is a physician,’ declared Valence hotly. He hiccuped. ‘Not a surgeon.’

‘If Bartholomew were a physician, he would have prepared my horoscope and inspected my urine,’ said Kendale. ‘But he sutured my wounds. That is surgery. And surgeons are lowly, base creatures, so we shall pay accordingly. One penny.’

‘That is outrageous!’ exploded Valence, trying to stand again. ‘You are cheating–’

‘Enough,’ snapped Bartholomew, wondering whether Chestre had intended to provoke a quarrel all along. He felt the room tip as he stood, and it was not easy to haul Valence up from the bench and keep him from falling. ‘Thank you for your hospitality. Now please excuse us.’

Valence managed a malicious grin. ‘The stitches will need to be removed in a week, Kendale. Do not attempt it yourself, because you will fatally poison your blood and die.’

Neyll moved fast, and snatched Valence away from Bartholomew, to grab him by the throat. Bartholomew tried to interpose himself between them, but Gib blocked his way. Valence gagged as Neyll’s fingers tightened. Bartholomew tried to dodge around Gib, but the lad pushed him hard enough to make him stagger. His medicine bag slipped off his shoulder, scattering its contents across the floor. Then Gib drew a dagger.

‘Stop!’

Kendale had spoken softly, but his voice carried enough authority to make Neyll release Valence and Gib lower his weapon. Valence tottered away, hands to his neck. In the silence that followed, one of the younger students knelt and began shoving phials, pots and dressings back into Bartholomew’s bag. Then he handed it to the physician, and stood back.

‘There,’ said Kendale smoothly. ‘No harm done. But it is very late, and I am tired. Goodnight.’

Bartholomew nodded coolly, seized Valence’s arm and left without another word. His heart hammered in his chest, and he expected at any moment that the Chestre students would attack them en masse. But no one moved, and it was with considerable relief that he stepped into the street outside.

He tried to set a brisk pace towards Michaelhouse, but his legs were like rubber and Valence was weaving all over the place. They reached the College eventually and hammered on the gate, but Walter was evidently doing his rounds, so they were obliged to wait to be let in. Bartholomew sought the support of a wall, and leaned against it, feeling the world ripple and sway unpleasantly around him.

‘That was powerful wine,’ slurred Valence, also aiming for the wall, but missing and slumping to the ground. There was begrudging admiration in his voice. ‘I hate to say something positive about a hostel, but those Chestre boys certainly know how to handle their drink!’

‘That is not necessarily a good thing,’ began Bartholomew. ‘The body’s humours will–’

He tensed when a flicker of movement caught his eye. He tugged Valence into the shadows, afraid Kendale might have changed his mind and had given his louts permission to finish what they had started. But Kendale did not so much as glance at Michaelhouse as he padded past, his students streaming at his heels.

‘I wonder where they are going,’ mused Valence drunkenly, trying to stand. ‘We had better follow them and see.’

Bartholomew regarded him askance. ‘I do not think so!’

‘But they may mean us harm,’ objected Valence. Unable to walk, he began to crawl along the lane, so Bartholomew was forced to grab a handful of tunic, to stop him. ‘Let me go! I must see!’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘We have had enough trouble for one night.’

The following morning was cloudy, but just as cold. There was a dusting of frost, and Michael claimed he might as well have slept outside, given that he had nothing but a sheet for a roof. Bartholomew felt he was in just as bleak a position, because Yffi had removed the window shutters from the ground-floor rooms, and the night had been windy. Bottles had jangled and parchment had rustled all night. He was usually a heavy sleeper, capable of dozing through all but the most frenetic of commotions, but the wine and the fracas at Chestre had left him unsettled, and he found himself waking every few moments.

‘I will show Chestre what happens to ruffians who intimidate members of my College,’ snarled Michael angrily, after the physician described what had happened.

‘You cannot, Brother. Technically, all they did was give us wine and engage us in conversation. Besides, Kendale may well have done it to exacerbate the trouble between the hostels and the Colleges, and we should not play into his hands.’

‘No,’ acknowledged Michael reluctantly. ‘We should not. But I will be watching him, and if he puts one foot wrong, he will learn what it means to annoy the Senior Proctor.’

Once washed and dressed, Bartholomew limped lethargically into the yard to join his colleagues for their morning devotions. The leg he had broken falling off his horse the previous year ached from the cold, and the wine had left him with a nasty headache. Langelee regarded him in alarm.

‘You cannot be ill!’ he cried. ‘Not when you are supposed to be Official Physician for the camp-ball this afternoon. Prior Leccheworth said he would not let the game go ahead unless there was a qualified medicus on hand, to deal with mishaps.’

‘I disapprove of camp-ball,’ said Suttone, who was in an awkward position: should he support his Order or his Master? ‘Why could the Gilbertines not sponsor a lecture instead?’

‘Because they know what people like,’ explained Langelee impatiently. ‘Which do you think will be more popular among the masses – a lecture or an exciting game, full of blood and savagery?’

‘Christ!’ muttered Bartholomew.

‘And hundreds of people will be there to watch,’ Langelee went on, turning back to him. ‘So you had better pull yourself together. Go and lie down. Use my room, if you like. There is a fire burning, and the blankets are reasonably clean.’

‘I am not ill,’ said Bartholomew. He became aware that Thelnetham was regarding him oddly. He had been about to tell his colleagues what had happened at Chestre, but the Gilbertine’s expression made him reconsider, although he was not sure why. ‘Just tired.’

‘Then rest,’ ordered Langelee. ‘If you are not fighting fit by this afternoon I shall be very disappointed. And you do not want me disappointed, believe me.’

‘You had better do as he says,’ murmured Michael, while Bartholomew tried to decide whether he had just been threatened with violence. ‘And afterwards, Valence can read to your class while you come with me to see Celia Drax. I know we have spoken to her already, but I am sure there is more to be learned from her.’

Bartholomew decided to take Langelee at his word, and exchange a chilly hour in church for a pleasant interlude reading by the fire. He heard the procession leave a few moments later, and was already engrossed in Galen’s Tegni, when the door opened and Thelnetham walked in.

‘Are you sure you are not ill?’ the Gilbertine asked. ‘You are paler than usual.’

For some reason, Bartholomew felt uneasy with Thelnetham in the room. The canon was older and smaller than he, and represented no kind of physical threat, but there was something about his manner that morning which was unsettling. His eyes seemed oddly bright, and his smile brittle.

‘Too much wine last night,’ explained Bartholomew, supposing he might as well be honest.

‘I see,’ said Thelnetham, his expression unreadable. ‘But I am forgetting the purpose of my visit. Agatha is outside, and wants to know if she can bring you some broth. She is reluctant to enter our rooms uninvited, as you know.’

Agatha always did exactly as she pleased, and it was Thelnetham who made a fuss about her going where she was not supposed to be. Bartholomew could only suppose the Gilbertine had intercepted her, and ordered her to wait. He could not imagine she would be pleased, and knew he had to make amends fast – Agatha was vengeful, and her grudges lasted a long time.

‘I will come,’ he said, starting to stand. But Thelnetham waved him back down.

‘It is unseemly to entertain women in our quarters, but I will overlook the matter today, as you are unwell. I shall tell her she may enter, just this once.’

Within moments, Agatha’s bulk filled the door, all sturdy hips and swinging skirts. Bartholomew was relieved when he saw Thelnetham had not accompanied her.

‘Here,’ she said, handing Bartholomew a steaming bowl. ‘You cannot be ill for the camp-ball, because I am looking forward to it. And do not say Leccheworth can appoint another Official Physician, for none of the others will sew wounds.’

Bartholomew sipped the broth, and was surprised to find it was good, proving that decent victuals could be produced in Michaelhouse on occasion. While he drank, Agatha regaled him with opinions. She covered a wide range of topics, including the stolen pilgrim regalia, the University’s excitement over the Stock Extraordinary Lecture, Emma’s ruthless greed in acquiring property, and Seneschal Welfry’s skill in practical jokes.

‘He has become the Colleges’ champion,’ she declared. ‘But unfortunately, he is so determined that no one will be hurt during his pranks that he lets himself be limited. Kendale, on the other hand, does not care about safety. And if a College member is injured, he is delighted.’

Bartholomew suspected she was right. Her next subject was Celia Drax, and the new widow’s unseemly behaviour since her husband’s death.

‘She is out all the time, enjoying herself. Of course, it was all timed perfectly.’

‘What was?’ Bartholomew asked, bemused.

‘The two deaths – Celia’s husband and Heslarton’s wife. They are free to be together now.’

‘They are lovers?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. But then he recalled how Heslarton had looked at Celia during Drax’s funeral, and supposed Agatha might be right.

‘Of course they are,’ declared Agatha. ‘And everyone in the town knows it. Except you, it would seem. And Drax and Alice were murdered on successive days, so it is obvious what happened – Heslarton and Celia plotted together to get rid of them.’

‘It could be coincidence,’ said Bartholomew. Or could it? What about the pharmacopoeia he had found in Celia’s house, which listed wolfsbane as a herb that could kill? But would they really put poison in wine Heslarton’s beloved daughter might drink? And why would either want Drax’s body left in Michaelhouse?

‘Drax had a book,’ Bartholomew began tentatively. ‘One that listed herbs and their uses…’

Agatha folded her arms, and a look of immense satisfaction settled on her heavy features. ‘Well, there you are, then. Drax could not read, but Celia can.’

‘Celia told me it was the other way around: Drax was literate, but she is not.’

Agatha’s eyes narrowed. ‘Then you had better find out why she lied to you.’

Although Agatha’s broth had soothed Bartholomew’s headache and settled his stomach, her gossip and theories had left him acutely uneasy. When Michael arrived, he repeated what she had said. The monk listened carefully, rubbing his jowls.

‘It is possible that Celia and Heslarton dispatched their spouses. And it would certainly make for a tidy solution. Unfortunately, a pharmacopoeia and an alleged affair do not represent evidence – we need more than that to charge them. Moreover, we know the killer has a penchant for pilgrim badges, but Celia and Heslarton are wealthy – they can buy such items, and have no need to steal.’

‘Emma is wealthy,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘But Heslarton may not have disposable income of his own. Meanwhile, Celia is the kind of woman who removes valuables from corpses.’

‘True,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘However – and I am reluctant to mention this, because you will be angry – they are not my only suspects for Drax’s murder. I am not ready to exclude Blaston from our enquiries yet. He had the motive and the opportunity.’

‘Blaston is not a killer,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘You know he is not, and we will be wasting our time if we pursue him.’

‘You are almost certainly right,’ agreed Michael. ‘But the cold application of logic means he must remain a suspect until he can be properly eliminated. Of course, we should not forget what we saw with our own eyes – namely Drax quarrelling with Kendale not long before he died. Kendale had motive and opportunity, too.’

Bartholomew supposed he did, and Chestre’s lads were certainly belligerent enough to dispatch a landlord who was threatening to raise their rent. ‘I do not feel equal to tackling them today.’

‘We could not, even if you did. We do not have sufficient evidence, and they will make trouble if we level accusations without it – trouble we cannot afford.’

‘That has never stopped you before.’

‘Kendale will whip the hostels into a frenzy of indignation if I do not have a watertight case, and I do not want to see the Colleges in flames.’ Michael grinned suddenly. ‘Incidentally, your students told Langelee that you have been overtaxing yourself in the classroom, and he has ordered me to keep you away from the hall today, lest you find yourself unable to manage the camp-ball later.’

‘The sly devils!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, half angry and half amused by their effrontery. ‘They have not enjoyed being grilled these past few days, and see it as a way to earn a respite. It is not me they are protecting, but themselves.’

Michael laughed. ‘Well, I am grateful to them, because I need your help this morning.’

They left the College and walked up St Michael’s Lane, then turned left along the High Street, aiming for Celia’s house. They had not gone far before they met Dick Tulyet.

The man who represented the King’s peace in the county was slightly built with a youthful face that encouraged criminals to underestimate him. None ever did it again, and the people of Cambridge knew they were lucky to have such a dedicated officer to serve them. Tulyet had worked well with Michael in the past, and there were none of the territorial tussles that usually occurred between two ill-defined jurisdictions. That day, however, he was scowling, and did not return the scholars’ friendly greetings.

‘I did not provoke Dickon into stabbing me,’ said Bartholomew, immediately defensive.

‘I know.’ Tulyet’s expression softened when Dickon was mentioned, and Bartholomew was amazed, yet again, that he should be so astute when dealing with criminals, but so blind towards his hellion son. ‘And he says he is sorry for attacking you.’

Bartholomew doubted the boy had said any such thing.

‘You should not have given him a sword,’ admonished Michael. ‘Matt might have been killed.’

‘The hero of Poitiers?’ asked Tulyet dryly. ‘I doubt it! But that is not what is vexing me today. I am peeved with you, Brother. Drax was a townsman. Ergo, as you always say, his murder is mine to investigate. But you have been exploring the case without consulting me.’

‘You can work together from now on, then,’ said Bartholomew, thinking his students were going to be in for a shock when he returned. ‘Michael is on his way to speak to Celia.’

‘Not so fast,’ said Tulyet, grabbing his sleeve as he turned to leave. ‘I have a bone to pick with you, too. But first, I will hear why the good Brother has been trampling all over my authority.’

‘You have never objected to me trampling before,’ said Michael, stung. ‘Besides, it is likely that Drax’s killer is the same villain who has been stealing pilgrim badges, and who poisoned Alice. But we can collaborate now if you like. I am more than happy to share all I have discovered.’

Tulyet sighed, mollified by Michael’s conciliatory tone. ‘Very well. I am sorry I barked at you. I would hate you to resign, because I doubt another senior proctor would be so reasonable.’

‘There is no danger of that,’ said Michael comfortably. ‘I like running the University, and will only give it up when I am made a bishop or an abbot. Of course, it is only a matter of time before the offers roll in, but I shall be selective about what I accept.’

‘I see,’ said Tulyet, looking closely at the monk to see whether he was jesting. He frowned, evidently unable to tell, although Bartholomew knew Michael was perfectly serious.

‘I know why you want this case,’ the monk went on. ‘You are used to criminals running riot and the University causing trouble. But all the felons have been driven away by Emma, and the University is more interested in squabbling with itself than the town at the moment. You are bored, and yearn for something that will stretch your wits.’

‘On the contrary, I have mountains of administration to occupy me,’ said Tulyet indignantly. ‘Running a shire this size is not easy, you know.’ Then he glanced at Michael’s arched eyebrows and shot him a reluctant grin. ‘All right, you have me – I am tired of sitting in an office, and Drax’s death does represent an interesting diversion. We shall do as you suggest, and work together.’

‘Then you can buy me an ale in the Brazen George while I brief you,’ said Michael comfortably. ‘It will help lubricate my memory, and ensure I do not leave anything out.’

‘Felons want ale when they provide me with information, too,’ said Tulyet, amused. ‘But you had better make it worth my while. Times are hard, even for sheriffs, and ale has become expensive. Life would be a good deal simpler if I accepted some of the bribes that come my way. At least, that is what Dickon tells me.’

‘Refuse them,’ advised Bartholomew, thinking Dickon was not a good source for wise counsel. ‘You will find life is a lot more complex once you start breaking the law.’

Michael ordered a platter of assorted meat as well as ale in the Brazen George, on the grounds that he thought more clearly when his attention was not diverted by his growling stomach.

‘Tell me what you have learned,’ ordered Tulyet, once the landlord had served the victuals and had left them in peace. He already looked more cheerful, and his expression was positively eager as he leaned across the table to be sure he missed nothing.

‘Drax was stabbed early on Monday morning,’ obliged Michael, as he began to eat.

‘But he was not taken to Michaelhouse until mid-afternoon,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We know, because of Physwick’s testimony, and the blood in their dairy, where he died.’

‘My first suspects were Yffi and his apprentices,’ Michael went on. ‘But they were on the roof all day, with the exception of the occasional foray downwards for supplies. One may have dashed out to kill Drax. However, I do not believe any of them brought his body to our College.’

‘Do you not?’ asked Tulyet doubtfully. ‘Why?’

‘Because toting corpses around necessitates some degree of caution – waiting for a point when the lane was empty, watching for possible witnesses, and so on. It would have taken time, and the others would have noticed a more prolonged absence.’

‘So they might,’ agreed Tulyet. ‘But why would they betray one of their own to you?’

‘I doubt they would,’ said Michael. ‘But they are not clever, and I would have caught them out by now. However, I remain unhappy with their role in the affair – it is odd that they saw nothing suspicious, while their lewd discussion almost certainly provided the diversion the killer needed to enter Michaelhouse – and I plan to interrogate them again today.’

‘I will do it,’ said Tulyet keenly. ‘In the castle. It is astonishing how a spell inside my walls can loosen tongues. Leave Yffi and his apprentices to me.’

‘Very well, but please do not keep them long. It looks like rain, and my room is currently without a roof.’

‘I cannot imagine why your College accepted free repairs from Emma de Colvyll,’ said Tulyet disapprovingly. ‘There is something about her that I distrust intensely. Moreover, I do not like the way she earns her money – by taking advantage of the grief-stricken and the desperate.’

‘I agree,’ said Michael soberly. ‘Unfortunately, Langelee does not.’

‘What about Blaston as the culprit?’ asked Tulyet, turning his mind back to murder. ‘He is a decent, hard-working man, but he has been very vocal about the high price of ale in Drax’s taverns.’

‘He left the College for nails, so has no alibi for the murder,’ replied Michael, before Bartholomew could stop him. ‘He is no killer, but I am keeping an open mind anyway.’

‘And I shall do the same,’ said Tulyet. ‘Do you have any other suspects?’

‘Fen the pardoner,’ replied Michael immediately. ‘He was seen – by Blaston – poking his head around our College gates not long before Drax’s corpse was so callously left there.’

‘Poynton and the two nuns also looked inside Michaelhouse,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘So did Prior Etone. But none of them – including Fen – has a motive for killing Drax.’

‘I can make a few enquiries about them,’ offered Tulyet, when Michael glared at Bartholomew. ‘I know the pilgrims stayed at one of Drax’s inns – the Griffin – the night before they arrived at the Carmelite Friary, and Poynton in particular seems easily provoked. Are these your only suspects, or are there more?’

‘Chestre Hostel argued with Drax about an increase in rent,’ replied Michael. ‘And there was a quarrel between them on the morning of the murder. Chestre is not far from Michaelhouse – they may have dumped the body there as some bizarre form of attack on the Colleges.’

‘They might,’ agreed Tulyet. ‘But I shall leave Chestre to you. Kendale is extremely devious, and I doubt a mere secular will catch him out in lies or contradictions. But be careful. I detect something dangerous about him – he is not a man to cross lightly.’

Bartholomew regarded Tulyet uneasily, not liking the notion that Kendale had unsettled a hard, practical, courageous man like the Sheriff. Michael did not seem to share his concerns, though, and went on to outline the case against the last of his suspects: Celia and Heslarton. Tulyet looked thoughtful when informed of the rumour that they were enjoying an amour.

‘That is an interesting hypothesis, but can you be sure that Alice was the intended victim?’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Emma is unpopular in the town, and Heslarton is her henchman. Perhaps the poison struck the wrong victims.’

Michael nodded slowly. ‘Emma is more than unpopular – she is feared and hated.’

Tulyet agreed. ‘She is involved in a number of unpleasant disputes, but the worst is the one with the Gilbertine Priory over Edmund House. She bought it for a pittance, when they were in desperate need of ready cash, but she leaves it empty and rotting, despite the fact that they have offered to pay well above the odds to have it back.’

‘Do you know why she has taken such a stance?’ asked Michael.

Tulyet shook his head. ‘I asked her, but she fobbed me off with some tale about Heslarton being fond of the place.’

‘Are you suggesting a Gilbertine might be our culprit?’ asked Bartholomew unhappily. Two canons came immediately to mind: the enigmatic Thelnetham, who had been behaving oddly of late, and Brother Jude, who was enough of a ruffian to enjoy camp-ball.

‘I am suggesting nothing, just telling you what I know of Emma’s dealings.’ Tulyet turned to Michael. ‘Now what about these pilgrim badges? I understand you believe the thief and the killer is one and the same?’

‘The first crime was against Poynton in the Carmelite Friary,’ obliged Michael. ‘But since then, the villain has also targeted the Mayor, Meryfeld, a wealthy burgess named Frevill, two Franciscans and Drax.’

‘I heard he picked on Celia, too,’ said Tulyet. ‘And if that is the case, she cannot be the killer – not if the culprit is also our thief.’

‘We only have her word that it happened,’ said Michael. ‘And in my experience, criminals lie.’

‘You can add Welfry to your list of victims, too,’ said Tulyet. ‘He has not made a formal complaint, but Prior Morden mentioned it. Apparently, it was a badge of which he was very fond.’

‘John Schorne’s boot?’ asked Bartholomew. Its loss would be a blow to Welfry, and the pity was that the thief would probably throw it away once he realised it was from an unofficial shrine and thus was essentially worthless.

‘What have you learned, Dick?’ asked Michael. ‘So far, we have provided more information than we have been given.’

‘That is because you have been more successful than me,’ replied Tulyet gloomily. ‘I questioned Emma’s entire household about the theft of her box and the poisoning, but learned nothing. They are terrified of her, so prising information from them was like drawing teeth.’

‘How is Emma’s tooth?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I do not suppose you noticed?’

Tulyet regarded him askance. ‘I cannot say I did, no.’

‘You mentioned a bone to pick with Matt?’ said Michael. ‘What was it?’

Tulyet’s scowl returned, and Bartholomew wished Michael had not reminded him of it. ‘I shall have to show you. Come with me.’

Exchanging bemused glances, Bartholomew and Michael followed the Sheriff along the High Street to the Guildhall. Scholars were normally barred from it, because it was where town matters were discussed, and the University was not welcome. Bartholomew had only ever been inside it once, when he was a boy and his brother-in-law had taken him. It was a fine place, unashamedly brazen about the fact that a lot of money had been spent on it. That day, its front entrance was ringed with spectators, and Tulyet was forced to shoulder his way through them to reach it.

But when he opened the door and ushered Bartholomew and Michael inside, it was not the extravagance of the interior furnishings that caught their eye – it was the massive war machine that sat in it. The device was a trebuchet, which was used for hurling missiles at the walls of enemy fortresses, and it usually stood in the castle grounds. Its mighty throwing arm grazed the ceiling of the lofty chamber, while its wheels only just fitted between the tiers of benches that were permanently afixed to the walls. Bartholomew glanced at the average-sized door through which they had just walked, then back to the contraption.

‘How in God’s name did you get that in here?’

‘You tell me,’ said Tulyet coolly.

Bartholomew frowned. ‘I suppose you must have dismantled it, then reassembled the pieces once they were all inside. But why would you do such a thing?’

‘I assure you, I did not,’ said Tulyet stiffly. ‘And do not play the innocent with me, Matt. This prank is not amusing.’

Bartholomew disagreed, and was all admiration for whoever had devised it. Then he turned to the Sheriff and saw he was being regarded in a way that was not at all friendly. He felt his jaw drop. ‘Surely, you cannot think I –’

‘I know you did,’ interrupted Tulyet. ‘You must have dropped your bag at some point, because we found two medicine phials with your writing on them, plus one of the implements you use for surgery. And do not tell me you are too busy for such tricks, because Dickon saw you blowing up pots in Meryfeld’s garden. That suggests you have plenty of free hours for mischief.’

Bartholomew saw Michael begin to snigger. ‘I did drop my bag,’ he admitted. ‘But it happened in Chestre Hostel, not here.’

He considered the events of the previous night. Kendale’s injury had not been caused by a door, but might well have occurred while a trebuchet was being dismantled. Kendale and his lads must have stolen the war machine from the castle, returned home to await treatment for Kendale’s damaged hand, then gone to reassemble the device when they were sure the Guildhall would be empty. Bartholomew had seen them set off with his own eyes, from outside Michaelhouse.

‘Kendale is the culprit?’ asked Michael, amusement fading when Bartholomew explained what he thought had probably happened. ‘Am I to assume this is a challenge to the Colleges, then? That we must brace ourselves for more mischief in retaliation?’

‘I do not care about scholars’ spats,’ said Tulyet resentfully. ‘But I do care about my Guildhall. How am I supposed to hold meetings with this monstrosity in here?’

‘Kendale pulled it to pieces and rebuilt it within the space of a few hours,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And he has probably never touched a device like this before. Surely your soldiers, who are familiar with its workings, can reverse the process? Or are you telling me that scholars–’

‘No,’ declared Tulyet, grimly determined. ‘Your University will not best the town. Not in this matter and not in any other, either.’