The Killer of Pilgrims (12 page)

‘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.