The Killer of Pilgrims (17 page)

‘The next time the hostels play a prank, it might be best
not to respond. Michael spent much of today trying to quell disturbances, and more tricks will only exacerbate the matter.’

‘I beg to differ,’ argued Welfry. ‘The ox and cart served to
calm
troubled waters – it made scholars laugh instead of fight, and hostilities eased for several days. Until Kendale thought
up that nasty business with the bull. Then the situation turned angry again.’

‘I hope it ends soon,’ said Bartholomew fervently. ‘I do not want the streets running with blood.’

‘Nor do I,’ said Welfry. ‘But I shall do all in my power to make people smile, because I honestly believe humour is the best
way to defuse this horrible tension.’

‘You may be right,’ conceded Bartholomew. ‘I suppose it is worth a try.’

Welfry’s smile turned rueful. ‘I know I am not much of a friar, with my love of laughter, but if I can use my wits to confine
this feud to a series of harmless pranks, then perhaps God will overlook my flaws. And if not, I can always go on a pilgrimage
– this time to somewhere rather more holy than the site where John Schorne conjured the Devil into a boot.’

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.’