The Killer of Pilgrims (26 page)

Not surprisingly, Langelee was holding forth about the
game, delighting in the opportunity to analyse every move and skirmish. Clippesby was listening, although Ayera’s eyes were
glazed. William and Suttone were discussing a theological text together, and Michael was out.

‘Essex Hostel had a lot of dead rats delivered to it this evening,’ Ayera explained, when Bartholomew asked where the monk
had gone. ‘So he is trying to prevent Essex from marching on Trinity Hall and tossing the lot back through their windows.’

Bartholomew sat at the table, and helped himself to a Lombard slice. It was sweet, rich and cloying. He poured some wine to
help it down, but when he raised the cup to his lips he found he could not bring himself to swallow anything else, so he set
it back on the table untouched. Langelee abandoned his monologue, and came to sit next to him, lowering his voice so the others
would not hear.

‘Michael told me – in confidence – that Poynton was stabbed, and wanted my opinion as to how it might have happened. I have
been pondering the matter. Obviously, some players must have kept their weapons after you ordered us to disarm.’

‘I know they did,’ said Bartholomew dryly. ‘And you were one of them.’

Langelee grinned sheepishly. ‘Well, I did not want to be at a disadvantage. I knew damn well that Heslarton had a dagger,
while Neyll and Gib are louts, who would never play camp-ball without a blade. Then Brother Jude is fond of knives, and so
is Yffi.’

The list continued for some time, and Bartholomew saw his efforts to make the game safer had been a sham. He might have eliminated
the more obvious weapons, but every competitor had still been armed to the teeth.

‘So what have you concluded from all this?’ he asked. ‘Who killed Poynton?’

‘It must have been one of the three men who reached him first,’ replied Langelee. ‘Because he was directly beneath them and
they acted as a shield, separating him from the second wave of players.
Ergo
, your suspects are Heslarton, Yffi and Neyll.’

‘Neyll claims you are the culprit,’ said Bartholomew, feeling Langelee’s analysis told him nothing he had not already found
out for himself. ‘Probably because you belong to a College.’

Langelee waved a dismissive hand. ‘He is always trying to cause trouble between us and the hostels, but the dispute is ridiculous,
and I refuse to let Michaelhouse become embroiled.’

‘Good,’ said Bartholomew. ‘So which of these three do you think is the killer?’

‘Heslarton,’ replied Langelee, without hesitation. ‘It is not always easy to remember who is on one’s own team, but Poynton
was distinctive. I would not have forgotten a fellow like him, and I cannot imagine Heslarton would have done, either.’

Bartholomew was thoughtful. Langelee knew a great deal about camp-ball, so his opinion was worth considering. But why should
Heslarton kill an ailing pilgrim? Was it for his remaining
signacula
? Or, rather more sinisterly, had Heslarton uncovered evidence to suggest Poynton was somehow involved with the yellow-headed
thief?

‘Speaking of Heslarton, I visited his home earlier,’ said Langelee, when Bartholomew made no reply. ‘I went to beg Emma’s
help – to see whether she would order Yffi back to work on our roof. Odelina was there, and she made some remarks.’ He winked
and touched the side of his nose.

‘What kind of remarks?’ Bartholomew had no idea what the gesture was supposed to convey.

‘Ones that say she has developed a hankering for you,’ replied Langelee, a little impatiently. ‘So I am afraid you will have
to bed her.’

Bartholomew blinked. ‘I am sorry?’

‘Yes, I imagine you will be, because she is an unattractive lass. But it cannot be helped.’

Bartholomew gaped at him. ‘You want me to lie with our benefactress’s granddaughter?’

Langelee nodded, as if such a discussion between Master and Fellow were the most natural thing in the world. ‘It will almost
certainly result in more gifts, because Emma dotes on her. In other words, if Odelina asks Emma to build us a new accommodation
wing, I am sure she will oblige. I know it will be unpleasant for you, but you can always keep your eyes closed.’

‘Christ!’ muttered Bartholomew, feeling rather weak at the knees.

Langelee slapped a manly arm around his shoulders. ‘Come to my chambers later and I shall give you advice on how to go about
it.’

‘I do not need advice. I know how to manage these matters myself. But—’

Langelee’s next slap was hard enough to hurt, and he guffawed conspiratorially. ‘Good! Then do your duty, and we shall say
no more about it.’

‘I am not doing it,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘Not with Odelina. She is a patient, for God’s sake.’

‘Even better. No one will raise any eyebrows when you visit her. Do not be a fool, Bartholomew. We need the generosity of
people like Emma de Colvyll, and the occasional frolic with Odelina might make all the difference. Would you really condemn
us, your friends, to live in poverty, just because you cannot bring yourself to pleasure a young woman?’

‘Emma is far too shrewd a businesswoman to be influenced by Odelina. Besides, you may have misread the situation. She might
object to her granddaughter’s seduction, and withdraw her support altogether – perhaps demanding a refund from us into the
bargain.’

Langelee was thoughtful. ‘True. Perhaps I had better make a few discreet enquiries before you undertake this mission. You
are right: it would not do to get it wrong.’

When Langelee wandered away to resume his commentary on the game to Clippesby and Ayera, Bartholomew worked on his lectures
for the following day. One by one, the other Fellows retired to their beds, until he was the only one remaining. He laboured
on a little while longer, but the lantern’s dim light and oily fumes were giving him a headache. With a sigh, he closed his
books and left the conclave, to walk slowly across the yard. He jumped violently when a shadow stepped out of a doorway to
accost him.

‘Easy!’ said Thelnetham, starting in his turn. ‘It is only me.’

‘What are you doing?’ demanded Bartholomew, more curtly than he had intended. He glanced at the missing gates and wished the
pranksters had thought of another way to express their cleverness, because he did not feel safe as long as they were gone.

‘I live here, if you recall,’ replied Thelnetham acidly. ‘Beyond this porch is the entrance to my room. I was taking a little
fresh air before retiring to it.’

‘Oh,’ said Bartholomew. He could not have said why, but he did not believe Thelnetham, and was under the distinct impression
that he had been lurking. ‘What do you want?’

‘To do a colleague a good turn, actually.’ Thelnetham sounded offended. ‘Your students have begged beds
elsewhere, because rain has invaded your quarters, and I wondered whether you might like a mattress on my floor. We are cramped,
but we can manage one more.’

‘Thank you,’ said Bartholomew, relenting. ‘It is kind, but the medicine room will suffice.’

‘That is awash, too,’ said Thelnetham. ‘It will be like sleeping at sea.’

Bartholomew walked to the little chamber and saw with dismay that Thelnetham was right. He was tempted to accept his colleague’s
offer, but something stopped him. He smiled awkwardly.

‘I appreciate your kindness, but I am almost certain to be called out by … by Emma tonight, so I doubt I will be sleeping
much anyway.’ He looked away, never comfortable with fabrication, but better a lie than offending a man who was probably only
trying to be neighbourly.

Thelnetham sighed. ‘As you please. Does Emma’s tooth still pain her? She is a fool not to listen to your advice. Of course,
the procedure will be painful, so her reluctance to let you loose on her jaws is understandable. Heslarton once had a molar
drawn by a surgeon in Huntingdon, and he said pieces of bone were dropping out in bloody gobbets for weeks afterwards.’

No wonder Emma was wary, Bartholomew thought. ‘How do you know this?’

Thelnetham shrugged. ‘He must have mentioned it when I went to their house with Langelee to seal our arrangement about the
roof. I saved you some cakes, by the way. You were late, and I did not think it fair that you should be left with the boring
ones.’

He passed Bartholomew a parcel wrapped in cloth and started to walk away. As he did so, Bartholomew heard an odd sound from
the roof. He glanced up, then hurled himself backwards when something began to drop. A chaos
of ropes and planks crashed to the ground, right where he had been standing. His heart thudded at the narrow escape.

‘The rain must have dislodged it,’ said Thelnetham, coming to peer at the mess. ‘It is a good thing you have fast reactions.’

Bartholomew could not see his face, because the night was too dark. He frowned, watching the Gilbertine stride away, then
shook himself. He was tired and it had been a long day – his imagination was running riot. He located the cakes he had dropped,
and entered his storeroom.

His mind was too active for sleep, so he lit a lamp and began to work on his treatise on fevers – intended to be a basic guide
for students, but now an unwieldy collection of observations, notes and opinions – and ate a cake while he wrote. It was good,
so he had a second, and then a third. He was reaching for the fourth when there was a sharp pain in his stomach. He gripped
it for a moment, then dived for a bucket when he knew he was going to be sick.

Afterwards, he did not feel like working. He lay in his damp bed, feeling his innards churn, and listened to the rain dripping
through the ceiling.

It was a miserable night. Bartholomew’s stomach pains subsided in the small hours, but the wind gusting through the shutterless
windows made an awful racket among his bottles and jars, and no matter where he lay, the rain seemed to find him. At one point,
he went to the hall in search of a dry berth, but the door had been locked in response to the missing gates. He returned to
his own room, eventually falling asleep shortly before the bell rang to call everyone to morning prayers. He dozed through
it, and was difficult to rouse when Michael noticed he was missing and came to find him.

‘Were you called out last night?’ asked the monk sympathetically, as Bartholomew crawled off the mattress and splashed water
on his face from the bowl Cynric left for him each night – not that he needed a bowl, given the amount of rain that was available
on the floor. ‘You look exhausted.’

‘I should have accepted Thelnetham’s offer of a dry bed,’ said Bartholomew ruefully. ‘I kept dreaming I was sailing down the
river on a leaking boat. And about Jolye.’

Michael picked up one of the Lombard slices from the table; miraculously, they had remained dry. ‘The rumour is spreading
that he was murdered by the hostels. Trinity Hall claims that was why they sent rats to Essex – in revenge for his unlawful
death.’

‘If Jolye was killed, then the culprits are more likely to be at Chestre – it was their boats that were being tampered with
when he drowned. Perhaps they caught him and pushed him in.’

‘Perhaps, but we will never prove it,’ said Michael bitterly. ‘There were no witnesses, and you found nothing on the body
to allow me to make a case.’

They were silent for a while, Michael thinking about the youngster’s death while he stared at the Lombard slice he held, and
Bartholomew hunting around for dry clothes.

‘I was out late last night,’ the monk said eventually. ‘Although I have nothing to show for it. After putting down the rat
trouble, I interviewed camp-ball players in the King’s Head, but still cannot decide whether Poynton’s death was murder or
accident. Then I was told that a yellow-headed stranger was drinking in the Griffin, so I went there.’

‘And what did you find?’

‘That he has a twisted foot – you would have caught him had
he
snatched Emma’s box and hared off up the High
Street. He is not our man.’ Michael raised the cake to his mouth.

‘Do not eat that, Brother. They made me sick last night.’

‘Because you are unused to their richness,’ said Michael, taking a substantial bite. He gagged, and immediately spat it out.
‘Or more likely, because they were made with rancid butter. Nasty!’

‘Thelnetham gave them to me.’

‘He does not like you very much,’ said Michael, wiping his lips with a silken cloth. ‘I think he is jealous. He is a controversial
thinker, which brings its share of fame and recognition. But you are our resident heretic, and you overshadow him.’

Bartholomew was still too befuddled with sleep to tell him his theory was nonsense. He finished dressing, then walked across
the yard to where their colleagues were gathering for church. It was raining again, and William was complaining about a patch
of mould growing on his ceiling.

‘At least you have one,’ said Michael caustically. ‘I do not, while Matt spent half the night floating about on his mattress.’

‘Yffi will make good on the roof today, or he will answer to me,’ growled Langelee.

He spun on his heel and led his scholars up the lane, leaving the slower of them to scramble to catch up with him. Bartholomew
did not mind the Master’s rapid pace – it was cold and wet, and the brisk walk served to warm him a little. But even so, he
shivered all through mass.

Teaching finished at noon on Saturdays, but, unimpressed by his students’ performance, Bartholomew ordered them to attend
a lecture Rougham was giving on Philaretus’s
De pulsibus
. They objected vociferously at the loss of a free
afternoon, and he was obliged to send Cynric with them, to make sure they did not abscond.

‘You are driving them too hard,’ remarked Michael, watching them leave, a sullen, resentful gaggle that dragged its heels
and shot malicious glances at its teacher.

‘They will fail their disputations if they do not work. They are not learning as fast as they should.’

‘They are not learning as fast as you would like,’ corrected Michael. ‘But at least your tyranny is keeping them away from
the hostel–College trouble. They are lively lads, far more so than students in the other disciplines, and would certainly
have joined in, had they had time. Thank God you have seen that they do not. Will you come to Chestre with me?’