The Killer of Pilgrims (19 page)

‘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.’