The Killer of Pilgrims (25 page)

He bowed politely, and walked towards the guest house. The two nuns scurried after him, trying to catch up so they could cling
to his arms. Michael watched them go, hands on hips.

‘Fen is a liar,’ he declared. ‘Moreover, he intends to deflower those silly ladies, if he has not done so already. I could
see the lust shining in his eyes.’

‘I disagree,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He is not interested in them, and the gleam you saw was tears of grief. He was fond of Poynton,
and is genuinely distressed by his death.’

‘Rubbish! You are too easily swayed by a pleasant face and courtly manners.’

‘And you are too easily influenced by a man’s profession,’ countered Bartholomew. ‘Not all pardoners cheat their customers,
and Fen is a pilgrim. Pilgrims generally
avoid committing crimes while they are conducting major acts of penitence.’

‘How do you know Fen is a genuine pilgrim? Perhaps his real intention was to befriend Poynton and lay hold of his
signacula
the moment this disease claimed his life.’

‘I do not believe it. And Fen can have nothing to do with Poynton’s death, because he was on the sidelines when Poynton was
stabbed.’

‘Killers can be bought,’ argued Michael. ‘And for a small fraction of what Fen stands to earn from selling Poynton’s
signacula
. He is implicated in this death, Matt. I am sure of it.’

Their debate was cut short by the arrival of Cynric. He was mud-smeared, and Bartholomew suspected he had been enjoying a
celebratory ale with the camp-ball players in the King’s Head.

‘Oh, no!’ exclaimed Michael, putting out his hand suddenly. ‘Rain! My room will be awash!’

‘It will,’ agreed Cynric. ‘Because the sheet over your ceiling will not repel anything more than a shower, and I suspect we
are in for a good downpour tonight.’ He turned to Bartholomew. ‘But I came to tell you that Emma de Colvyll has summoned you,
boy.’

‘She is no longer my patient,’ said Bartholomew, glad to be able to refuse her. ‘Meryfeld—’

‘The messenger said Meryfeld needs a second opinion.
He
wants you to go, too.’

Bartholomew had no desire to visit Emma. He was chilled through from an afternoon of kneeling in frost-encrusted grass to
tend wounds, and he was still fragile from Chestre’s hospitality the night before. He felt like going home, to sit by the
conclave fire and enjoy the comforting, familiar conversation of his colleagues.

‘You had better go – your conscience will plague you all
night if you do not,’ said Michael. ‘And while you are there, see if you can learn two things. First, the status of Heslarton’s
enquiry into the yellow-headed thief. And second, whether it was Heslarton’s knife that killed Poynton.’

‘How am I supposed to do that?’ objected Bartholomew, not very happy about probing such delicate matters when the sinister
Emma was likely to be present.

‘I am sure you will find a way,’ said Michael.

They parted company on the High Street. Bartholomew knocked on Emma’s door, which was opened by the chubby-faced maid. She
conducted him to the solar where her mistress spent most of her time. Emma was sitting by the hearth, black eyes glittering
in the firelight. Celia Drax, elegant and laconic, was sewing in the window, while Heslarton sat opposite her, honing his
sword. Their knees were touching, and Bartholomew recalled Agatha’s contention that they were lovers. There was no sign of
Meryfeld.

‘Did you enjoy the camp-ball, Doctor?’ asked Heslarton, looking up from his whetting to grin. He seemed to have fewer teeth
than when Bartholomew had last seen him. ‘Everyone says my two goals were the best of the day.’

‘I am sure they were,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Where is Meryfeld?’

‘It was entertaining to see that pilgrim die,’ declared Emma, ignoring his question. ‘There is nothing like a death to liven
up a game.’

Bartholomew had heard her make insensitive remarks before, but never one that was quite so brazenly callous. ‘Did you see
what happened to him?’ he asked, struggling to mask his distaste.

Emma nodded smugly. ‘He caught the ball and went down under a wall of men. How did he die, Doctor? Was
it crushing or a broken neck? Thomas and I have a small wager on it, you see, and I would like the matter resolved tonight,
so I can gloat over him when he is proven wrong.’

‘I forgot he was on my side, and ran to grab the ball,’ said Heslarton, either uncaring of or oblivious to Bartholomew’s grimace
of distaste at Emma’s confession. ‘By the time I realised my mistake, Langelee, Yffi and Neyll were looming, and then everything
happened very fast. There was a huge scrum, and it took ages to unravel it. Unfortunately, Poynton was at the bottom. Some
players are heavy, so my money is on crushing.’

‘No – necks are easily broken,’ countered Emma. Bartholomew did not like to imagine how she knew. She flicked imperious fingers
at him. ‘Well? Who is right?’

‘It is not something I am free to discuss,’ he replied coolly. ‘You are neither his friends nor his next of kin.’

‘Give him some wine,’ suggested Celia. ‘It may loosen his tongue.’

‘No, thank you,’ said Bartholomew, recalling what had happened to Alice and Odelina.

‘It is quite safe,’ said Emma, seeming to read his mind. ‘The servants threw away all the old stock, and everything is tasted
before it comes to us now.’

‘Tasted by whom?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily.

Emma smiled slyly. ‘Rats. Thomas keeps a ready supply of them in the cellar. And that yellow-headed thief will join them there
when he is caught.’

Bartholomew stared at her, taking in the beady eyes and thin lips, devoid of humour and kindness, and was hard pressed to
suppress a shudder. She appeared especially malevolent that evening, because her head was swathed in a curious back turban
and it, combined with her round body and short, thin limbs, served to make her look more like a predatory insect than ever.

‘You are still hunting him, then?’ he forced himself to ask, although instinct urged him to race away as fast as his legs
would carry him, and have nothing to do with her or her household.

‘Of course,’ said Heslarton. ‘He murdered my wife, hurt my daughter, and made off with my mother-in-law’s most treasured possessions.
And
he jostled Celia and stole her badge.’

‘You
think
the thief is the poisoner,’ said Bartholomew, aiming to make him think twice before doing anything rash. ‘You do not
know
it, not for certain.’

‘Of course it was him,’ countered Celia. ‘He was the only stranger to enter this house that day. Other than you, of course
– the physician who dabbles in sorcery.’

‘I have no objection to sorcery,’ said Emma, before Bartholomew could defend himself. ‘I employ it myself on occasion, and
find it very useful. But Doctor Bartholomew did not contaminate the wine, Celia. I was with him the whole time he was here,
and I would have noticed.’

‘I suppose you would,’ said Celia, rather ambiguously.

‘Where is Meryfeld?’ Bartholomew asked again, this time more firmly. He had better things to do than stand around and be insulted
by Celia. ‘The messenger said he needed a second opinion.’

‘He does,’ said Emma. ‘He just does not know it yet. He calculated my horoscope, you see, but I am not very happy with it.
I want you to make me another.’

Bartholomew regarded her with dislike, supposing the servant had been told to lie about Meryfeld’s complicity. He was annoyed
by the deception, and determined not to oblige her.

‘You do not want a horoscope from me,’ he said frostily. ‘I make mistakes.’

‘You will not make mistakes in mine,’ said Emma, in the
kind of voice that implied there would be trouble if he did. ‘No, do not edge towards the door, man! I want another one done,
because Meryfeld’s said I had to go on a pilgrimage in order to get well. And I am not going anywhere.’

‘I cannot interfere,’ said Bartholomew curtly. ‘You are Meryfeld’s patient now, and I do not poach my colleagues’ clients.’

‘Why not? They poach from you,’ interjected Celia slyly. ‘They have stolen nearly all your rich customers, leaving you with
just the poor ones. Here is your chance to pay them back.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘And a pilgrimage will not cure you, Mistress Emma. Your tooth will continue to ache until
it is pulled out.’

Emma shook her head in disbelief. ‘You earned my regard by saving Odelina – and I do not bestow my good opinion on many people.
So why do you not strive to keep it? Most people would
love
to be in your position.’

Bartholomew was not sure how to reply, but rescue came in the form of Heslarton, who had tired of the discussion and suddenly
stood up. Bartholomew tensed, anticipating violence, but the burly henchman merely indicated the stairs with a flick of his
bald head.

‘Odelina took a chill this afternoon, and is asking for you. If you will not help my mother or settle our wager, then perhaps
you will see to her instead. I will take you to her.’

‘Meryfeld will—’ began Bartholomew.

‘She does not want Meryfeld,’ said Heslarton. ‘She dislikes the way he keeps rubbing his filthy hands together, and I confess
I see her point. The man gives
me
the shivers!’

Bartholomew did not want to visit Odelina, but decided a consultation was likely to be quicker than the argument
that was going to arise from a refusal. It would not take him a moment to deal with a chill, after all. He followed Heslarton
up the stairs to a fine chamber on the upper floor, where Odelina was reclining on a bed, clad in a tight, cream-coloured
gown that put him in mind of a grub.

‘There you are, Doctor,’ she cooed, when her father had gone. ‘I thought you were not coming. Have you brought me a gift?’

‘A gift?’ asked Bartholomew, bemused.

‘That is the custom, is it not, when visiting the sick? To take a little something to make them feel better? A piece of jewellery,
perhaps. Or some dried fruit.’

‘It is not the custom for physicians,’ remarked Bartholomew. ‘It would hardly be practical!’

Odelina’s smile faded. ‘But surely, I am different from your other patients?’

While he struggled for a tactful response, Bartholomew’s eye fell on a book. It was one his sister had made him read to her
many years before, and concerned a heroine with a tragic disease who was miraculously cured by a gift from a suitor. He glanced
at Odelina’s clothes and posture, and was suddenly certain that she saw herself as the protagonist. With a sigh of irritation
– she was surely too old for such games? – he resolved not to go along with the charade.

‘I am not well,’ she said feebly. Then her voice strengthened. ‘But I might feel better if you were to give me a talisman.
You saved my life, thus forging a unique bond between us.’

‘It is not unique,’ stated Bartholomew firmly. ‘All my patients are—’

‘I was almost at Heaven’s gates when you snatched me back,’ countered Odelina. ‘And that makes me special to
you. I cannot imagine you rescue many patients from impending death?’

‘Well, no,’ admitted Bartholomew, cornered. ‘Not many. But—’

‘Well, then.’ Odelina beamed, and she held out a plump hand. ‘Give me something of yours. Anything will do. A thread from
your tabard, a scrap of your cloak.’

‘How about a remedy to make you sleep? I can tell your maid how to make it.’

Her face fell. ‘You are cruel! You know I do not want one of those!’

‘I know nothing of the kind,’ snapped Bartholomew. ‘And I cannot start yanking my clothes apart for threads and scraps, anyway.
They are old, and likely to fall off.’

The expression on her face made him wonder whether she found this notion as disagreeable as he thought she should have done.

‘Sing to me, then,’ she ordered. ‘I have heard that music helps the sick become well again, so it will be like dispensing
medicine.’

‘I rarely sing.’ Bartholomew had had enough of her. ‘And loud noises are dangerous after catching chills at camp-ball games.
So are long visits from physicians. Sleep now. Goodnight.’

Bartholomew returned to Michaelhouse as fast as he could, hurrying through the wet streets and grateful to be away from Emma’s
stronghold. He stepped through the great gap where the gates had hung, nodding to the student-guards, and walked across the
yard to his room. He found Valence there, working on yet another exercise that should have been completed the previous day.

‘There has been quite a commotion here tonight, sir,’ the student said, seeing where his teacher was looking and
hastening to distract him. ‘Rain seeped through the sheet in Brother Michael’s room, and it is no longer habitable. And look
at our walls!’

Bartholomew was dismayed to see rivulets coursing down them. His students were going to be in for a damp and miserable night.
The medicines room, where he slept himself, was equally dismal, with water pooling on the floor and oozing through the ceiling.

‘Brother Michael and his theologians have been moved to the servants’ quarters,’ Valence went on. ‘And the servants are relegated
to the kitchen. Fortunately, none of them objected.’

Bartholomew was sure they had not, because the kitchen was by far the warmest room in the College, and he would not have minded
sleeping there himself.

‘I will organise a watch,’ said Valence. He saw his master’s blank look. ‘To protect your supplies. Neither this chamber nor
the storeroom have window shutters any more, and our front gates have gone. In other words, anyone can slip into the College
and help himself. The guards are doing their best, but …’

‘There is not much to steal, Valence. I cannot recall a time when I have been so low on remedies.’

‘All the more reason to defend what is left, then,’ said Valence practically.

Bartholomew thanked him and went to the hall, where he learned that supper had been served, eaten and cleared away. Fortunately,
Suttone had provided cakes and wine in the conclave for the Fellows, to celebrate his Order’s victory over the Gilbertines.
Bartholomew glanced uneasily at Thelnetham, not sure he would take kindly to what was effectively gloating, but the canon
was sitting impassively by the fire, and it was impossible to gauge what he was thinking.