The Killer of Pilgrims (15 page)

‘It is not so much the lamp as the fuel,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We need a mixture that will burn steadily – one that does not
require too many exotic ingredients or the cost will be prohibitive.’

‘Not for me,’ said Rougham smugly. ‘I make a respectable living from medicine, and so do Gyseburne and Meryfeld. You are the
only one who lets the poor dictate his income.’

‘I plan to devote more time to the poor in future,’ announced Gyseburne. He shrugged when the others stared at him. ‘It will
be good for my soul, and God will take it into account when I die.’

‘Yes – dealing with the indigent is a lot safer than doing a pilgrimage,’ said Meryfeld. His face clouded for a moment. ‘I
was robbed and almost killed
en route
to Canterbury.’

‘I have been to Canterbury, too,’ said Gyseburne. ‘Although I had no trouble with brigands, thank the good Lord. Here is the
signaculum
I bought there. It contains real Becket water.’

He showed them a tiny bottle filled with a pinkish liquid, attached to his hat by means of a silver wire. With a flourish,
Meryfeld presented his, which was almost identical, but in gold, and which he wore pinned to his cloak. Bartholomew was somewhat
ashamed to realise that he had seen the badges on many previous occasions, but had never thought to question their meaning.

‘I am not risking it again,’ said Meryfeld with a shudder. ‘Of course, there will be no need for penitential journeys if I
accept a few pro bono cases from Bartholomew.’

Gyseburne gave the grimace that passed as a smile. ‘I am glad, because it is unfair that he sees all the poor, while we tend
the rich. We
should
share the burden.’

‘Well, I do not think
I
shall oblige, if it is all the same to you,’ said Rougham haughtily. ‘My soul is not in need of any such disagreeable sacrifices.’

Loath to waste time listening to whose soul needed what – and afraid someone might conclude that he, who did so much charity
work, might own one that was especially tainted – Bartholomew turned the conversation back to the lamp. The four
medici
spent a few moments discussing the benefits their invention would bring, then turned to the practical business of experimentation.
Gyseburne had brought some brimstone, Bartholomew a bag of charcoal, Meryfeld some pitch, and Rougham provided a sticky kind
of oil that he said burned well.

They opened the window when the stench became too much, then were compelled to take their research into the garden when Rougham
claimed he felt sick. Bartholomew began to wonder whether they were wise to meddle with
substances none of them really understood, but the venture had captured his imagination, and he was intrigued by it. He was
also enjoying himself – he was beginning to like his new colleagues, while Rougham seemed less abrasive in their company.

He was about to ignite their latest concoction when he saw a movement over the wall that divided Meryfeld’s house from the
property next door.

‘Perhaps we should do this elsewhere,’ he said uneasily, realising that four physicians standing around a reeking cauldron
was exactly the kind of spectacle that would attract Dickon.

‘Unfortunately, that is impracticable,’ said Rougham. ‘If we go to Michaelhouse or Gonville Hall, we will be pestered by students.
And Gyseburne has no garden.’

‘But Dickon Tulyet is watching,’ explained Bartholomew. ‘I would not like him to copy what we are doing, and hurt himself.’

‘I would,’ said Meryfeld fervently. ‘He lobs rotten apples at me when I walk among my trees, and his language is disgusting.
When I complained, Sheriff Tulyet did not believe me.’

‘The boy is not his,’ said Rougham, matter-of-factly. ‘It is common knowledge that the Devil sired Dickon one night, when
his father was out.’

‘Mistress Tulyet would not have gone along with that,’ said Bartholomew, feeling compelled to defend the honour of his friend’s
wife, although he did not care what people thought about Dickon.

‘I find it strange that Dickon is so large, but his father is so small,’ said Gyseburne. ‘So I am inclined to believe that
there
is
something diabolical about the lad.’

‘Now, now,’ said Bartholomew mildly. ‘He is only a child.’

‘I am not so sure about that,’ muttered Rougham, tossing something into the pot.

‘Watch what you are doing!’ cried Gyseburne, as there was a sudden flare of light. Then the flames caught the potion in the
pot, and there was a dull thump.

The next thing Bartholomew knew was that he was lying on his back. At first, he thought he had turned deaf, because everything
sounded as though it was underwater, but then there was a peculiar pop and it cleared. Immediately, Dickon’s braying laughter
played about his ears. He eased himself up on one elbow and saw his colleagues also beginning to pick themselves up.

‘I do not think that was the right ratio of brimstone to pitch,’ said Gyseburne in something of an understatement, as they
approached the pot and peered cautiously inside it.

‘No,’ agreed Meryfeld. ‘But the light it produced was very bright – I still cannot see properly – so we are working along
the right track.’

Bartholomew started to laugh when he saw the soot that covered Rougham’s face. Rougham regarded him in surprise, but then
Meryfeld began to chuckle, too.

‘You think this is funny?’ demanded Rougham irritably. ‘We might have been killed. Worse yet, our failure was witnessed by
that horrible child, and the tale will be all over Cambridge tomorrow.’

‘No one will believe him,’ said Meryfeld, although Bartholomew suspected Rougham was right to be concerned: such a tale was
likely to be popular, whether it was true or not.

‘I should have paid more attention to the alchemy classes I took in Paris,’ said Gyseburne. ‘Because then I might have been
able to prevent that unedifying little episode. Rougham is right: we
might
have been killed.’

‘Did you study with Nicole Oresme?’ asked Bartholomew, referring to that city’s most celebrated natural philosopher. He knew
Gyseburne had attended the University in Oxford, but not that he had been to Paris, too, He was pleased: it was another thing
they had in common.

‘I might have done,’ said Gyseburne shortly. Evidently not of a mind to discuss mutual acquaintances, he indicated the sticky
mess that covered the pot. ‘Now what shall we do?’

‘We need to reduce the amount of brimstone,’ said Meryfeld. ‘But not tonight. We are all tired, and weariness might be dangerous
while dealing with potent substances. But we have made some headway, and I am pleased with our progress. Moreover, we have
learned three important lessons.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘First, we definitely need to conduct these tests outside, and second, we should experiment with
smaller amounts of the stuff. But what is the third?’

‘That we are all as mad as March hares,’ said Meryfeld with a conspiratorial grin. ‘Let us hope we are not taken to Stourbridge
Hospital as lunatics!’

The following day was the Feast of St Gilbert of Sempringham, and because it was Thelnetham’s turn to recite the dawn offices
– and St Gilbert had founded his Order – Michaelhouse found itself subjected to a much longer service than usual. Michael
complained bitterly about hunger pangs, then grumbled about the quality of the food presented at breakfast. He slipped away
when the meal had finished, and when Bartholomew saw him in the hall a little later he was wiping crumbs from his mouth with
the back of his hand.

Bartholomew was about to remark on it to Suttone, when
he saw the Carmelite doing the same thing. In fact, he thought, looking around, all his colleagues seemed to have fortified
themselves from supplies in their rooms, and he was the only one destined to be hungry all morning. He was about to feel sorry
for himself when Thelnetham pressed something into his hand.

‘Seedcake,’ he whispered. ‘Made by a certain young baker I like. Eat it quickly. Teaching is due to start in a few moments,
and I cannot pontificate when you have that half-starved look about you.’

Somewhat startled that a self-absorbed man like Thelnetham should deign to notice a colleague’s discomfort, Bartholomew did
as he was told. The cake was cloyingly sweet, and he felt slightly sick when he had finished it. There was also a curious
flavour that he could not quite place, and that was not entirely pleasant. He wondered, ungraciously, whether it was past
its best, and that was why Thelnetham was willing to share.

Unusually, there were no summonses from patients that morning, and as Michael was busy briefing the new Seneschal – and so
unable to pursue his investigation into the killer-thief – Bartholomew was able to teach uninterrupted until noon. Again,
he put his students through their paces, although he relented somewhat when the youngest one burst into tears. When the bell
rang to announce the end of the morning’s teaching, he found himself suddenly dizzy, and was obliged to sit on a bench until
the feeling passed.

‘What is the matter?’ asked Michael, back from his proctorial duties and regarding him in concern. ‘You are very pale. Shall
I send for Rougham?’

‘Christ, no!’ Bartholomew saw Michael’s disapproving expression – the monk rarely cursed. ‘Sorry. I must have inhaled some
toxic fumes in Meryfeld’s house yesterday.’

‘Or perhaps Dickon poisoned the tip of his sword before he stabbed you,’ suggested Thelnetham. Bartholomew jumped – he had
not known the Gilbertine was there. ‘Shall I fetch you some wine?’

Bartholomew stood. ‘Thank you, no. Cynric is beckoning, so there will be patients to see.’

‘Now?’ asked Michael in dismay. ‘I hoped we might make some headway with our enquiries.’

‘You cannot do that, Brother,’ said Cynric, overhearing as he approached. ‘Part of York Hostel is ablaze, and they are claiming
arson by the Colleges. Beadle Meadowman says it is nothing of the kind, but the victims will take some convincing.’

‘Damn this ridiculous feud!’ snapped Michael, beginning to stamp towards the door. ‘Am I to have
no
time for important business?’

Bartholomew felt better once he was out in the fresh air, although there was still an unpleasant ache in his innards. He wondered
what he could have eaten to unsettle them, and supposed it was the seedcake – the other Fellows might be used to rich foods,
but he was not, and should have known better than to wolf down so much of it in one go.

He visited Chancellor Tynkell, and was sympathetic when the man complained of a roiling stomach, then trudged to the hovels
in the north of the town, where three old people were dying of falling sicknesses. There was nothing he could do for any of
them, and he left feeling as though he had let them down. Next, he went to his sister’s house on Milne Street, where one of
the apprentices had caught a cold. He felt even more of a failure when he was obliged to say he could not cure that, either,
and the ailment would have to run its course.

‘What is wrong?’ asked Edith, when he had finished.
‘Are you despondent because Drax is to be buried this afternoon, and he was one of Michaelhouse’s benefactors?’

‘Lord!’ muttered Bartholomew, disgusted with himself for forgetting. ‘Langelee wants Thelnetham and me to attend that, to
represent Michaelhouse.’

And, he recalled, Michael had asked him to observe the congregation, with a view to assessing whether Drax’s killer might
be in attendance. The monk had wanted to be there, too, to judge the situation for himself, but the fire at York Hostel meant
he would probably miss it, so it was down to his Corpse Examiner to take advantage of the occasion.

‘I am going, too,’ said Edith, reaching for her cloak, a fine, warm garment of dark red. ‘So we shall stand together. I cannot
say I like Celia, but she may appreciate my support.’

‘Do you know her well, then?’ asked Bartholomew.

Edith shook her head. ‘She married Drax shortly after he lost his fingers in an accident, and I suspect she was attracted
by the compensation he was paid by Yffi. It is difficult to admire such a woman, and I confess I have not tried very hard
to befriend her.’

‘I heard they argued a lot,’ said Bartholomew, wondering if she would confirm Dickon’s claim.

Edith laughed. ‘What married couple does not? Do not look dubious, Matt! If you had wed Matilde, you would know it is true.’

Bartholomew doubted it, but wished he had been granted the chance to find out.

No one at All Saints Church seemed particularly distressed by Drax’s demise, and few mourners gave more than a fleeting glance
at the coffin as they greeted each other cheerfully and loudly. Bartholomew was under the distinct impression that the taverner
would not be missed.

‘I suspected you might forget so I thought I had better
come, too,’ said Langelee to Bartholomew, arriving with Thelnetham at his heels. ‘Drax was a benefactor, and it would not
do for our College to be under-represented.’

‘Not a very generous benefactor,’ said Thelnetham, fastidiously rearranging the puce bow that prevented his hood from flying
up in the wind. ‘He gave us a few candles in exchange for a princely number of masses. The man certainly knew how to drive
a bargain.’

‘I should not have bothered to come,’ said Edith unhappily. ‘I detest these occasions, and Celia does not look as though she
needs the comfort of acquaintances.’

Bartholomew looked to where she pointed. Celia was composed and vibrant, clearly enjoying the attention that was being lavished
on her. Odelina was at her side, simpering at any man who was young and handsome, and evidently thinking that a funeral was
as good a place as any to hunt a
beau idéal
. Emma was there, too, with Heslarton, so Bartholomew excused himself and went to talk to them, intending to pose a few questions
on Michael’s behalf.

‘Have you found the yellow-headed thief yet?’ he asked.

Heslarton scowled. ‘No, although not from want of trying. Still, he cannot elude me for ever. Stealing my mother’s box was
a vile crime, but harming my daughter …’