The Killer of Pilgrims (33 page)

Michael sighed. ‘Welfry did you a favour today. A tale that the town’s favourite warlock stole the scapular would have spread
like wildfire, but he managed to knock it on the head. He was forceful but polite. Perhaps he will not be as disastrous a
Seneschal as I initially feared.’

The churchyard of St Mary the Great was already filling with mourners, most from the town, but some scholars among them. Bartholomew
went to stand with Edith and Stanmore, who confided that Alice had had a nasty habit of accusing traders of giving her the
wrong change. Then Blaston told him she had been critical of craftsmen and had reduced several to tears. Finally, Isnard claimed
she had drunk more wine than the rest of the Colvyll clan put together.

Bartholomew regarded the bargeman thoughtfully. Was this significant? Did it mean the poisoner’s target
had
been Alice, and wine had been chosen because she was the one most likely to imbibe it? Eager to learn more, he started to
ask questions about Emma, but the flow of information stopped abruptly. People were far too frightened to gossip about the
old lady.

‘But why?’ asked Bartholomew of his sister. ‘She is not so terrifying.’

‘She most certainly
is
,’ averred Edith. ‘I cannot recall ever meeting a more evil individual. Do you know what Cynric told me? Not to stand too
close when we go inside the church, lest the saints object to her wicked presence and make her explode into pieces.’

‘Lord!’ muttered Bartholomew, struggling not to laugh. ‘Cynric has a vivid imagination.’

Edith did not share his amusement, and turned to another subject. ‘Fen gave Heslarton a
signaculum
from Rome to put in Alice’s coffin. It was a kind thing to do.’

Michael overheard, and came to join them. ‘I have just looked at it. It is made of tin, although I am sure he has plenty of
gold ones. Heslarton should have held out for something better.’

‘That would have been ungracious,’ said Edith reproachfully. ‘And Heslarton may be a ruffian, but he has some manners. But
Celia is announcing something. What is she saying?’

‘That everyone is invited to a celebration this evening,’ explained Michael. ‘In her house. It is primarily to honour her
husband, but she plans to drink toasts to Alice, too.’

‘Does she mean it?’ asked Bartholomew, looking around. ‘There are a lot of people here.’

‘She means it,’ said Edith. ‘She is very wealthy now Drax is dead.’

Odelina was among the crowd, wearing another of her unflatteringly tight gowns. Welfry ducked hastily behind Prior Morden
when she made a beeline in his direction. But despite his determination not to be mauled, his words to her were kind, and
it was clear he was doing his best not to hurt her feelings. When she saw she was going to have no success with him, she aimed
for Bartholomew.

‘I would rather you stayed away from her, Matt,’ murmured Stanmore. ‘She is looking for a husband, and I do not want my family
associated with Emma’s. It will be bad for trade.’

‘You need have no worries on that score,’ said Bartholomew firmly.

‘I bought my mother three general pardons,’ Odelina
announced as she approached. ‘I do not believe they will shorten her stay in Purgatory, but my father does, and I like to
make him happy.’

‘You are fond of him,’ said Edith. Bartholomew winced when he saw the puzzled expression on her face, indicating she could
not imagine why.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Odelina, nodding fervently. ‘He is the gentlest, sweetest man in the world. And if he wants pardons for my
mother’s soul, then pardons he shall have.’

‘She might do better with your prayers,’ said Michael piously. ‘Genuine ones.’

But Odelina was not very interested in talking to him. She fixed her gaze on Bartholomew. ‘I knew you would come today,’ she
simpered. ‘For me.’

‘You should go to your grandmother,’ he said, unwilling to waste time repelling her when he should be concentrating on catching
a killer. ‘She looks unwell.’

‘Her tooth is paining her,’ explained Odelina. ‘It is a pity, because she was looking forward to today. She loves funerals.’

‘Oh.’ Bartholomew blinked. ‘Ask Meryfeld to tend her. He is standing by the church door.’

Reluctantly, Odelina went to do as she was told. The moment she had gone, Thelnetham joined them. Unusually, his habit was
plain, and bore none of the flagrant accessories he normally sported.

‘Your medical students are hatching a plot to disrupt this afternoon’s lectures,’ he said, pursing his lips. ‘They plan to
infest the hall with rats – and no hall, no teaching.’

Bartholomew groaned. ‘If it is not one problem, it is another.’

‘Go,’ said Thelnetham. ‘I will help Michael eavesdrop on the mourners. I want these thefts and murders solved as much as the
next man.’

It was an odd offer, but Bartholomew nodded his thanks and strode quickly to Michaelhouse, where he arrived just in time to
see Valence lifting a large rodent from a box. The student dropped it when his master marched into the hall, and it made an
immediate bid for escape, heading unerringly for the spiral staircase that led to the yard. Bartholomew folded his arms and
raised his eyebrows.

‘It was to test a remedy,’ said Valence defensively. ‘A new one we have devised to … to reverse the course of miscarriage
in women.’

‘That is not possible,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And even if it were, you would not prove your case by testing it on that particular
rat – it was male. But as you are all here, we may as well start work early. It will give me more time to test you on what
you have learned afterwards.’

He saw alarmed looks being exchanged, and grinned to himself, thinking it served the rascals right. He threw himself into
the exercise with all the energy at his command, and by mid-afternoon – and he stopped only because Langelee told him the
bell had rung a long time before and the servants were still waiting to serve dinner – he felt as though progress had been
made.

‘Christ’s blood!’ muttered Valence, watching him head for the high table to join the rest of the Fellows. ‘I have never been
worked so hard in my life! Perhaps we should all forget about being physicians, and become lawyers, instead.’

Because his students’ performance had been better than he had expected, Bartholomew gave them the rest of the afternoon off,
an announcement that was greeted with a spontaneous cheer. He had been going to suggest they spent the time reading Theophilus’s
De urinis
, but their reaction made him wonder whether Michael was right, and he had been pushing them too hard. But there was a desperate
need for qualified physicians, and he felt it was his duty to train as many as he could.

He was still thinking about teaching when Michael approached. The monk was dressed in his best habit, and his lank brown hair
had been carefully brushed around his tonsure. He had shaved, too, so his plump face was pink and clean, although his expression
was anxious.

‘We are going to Celia Drax’s celebration,’ he announced. ‘All our suspects are likely to be there, and we
must
catch this killer-thief before the camp-ball game.’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘And if we can make enough fuss about our success, it may even distract the hostels and Colleges from
fighting, too.’

‘Quite,’ agreed Michael. ‘It is
imperative
we uncover some clues this evening. So change that torn tabard, don a clean shirt and let us be off. Incidentally, did your
students tell you that the Colleges have replied to the trebuchet incident? Or are they too frightened of you to indulge in
idle chatter these days?’

Bartholomew did not like to admit that he had not given them the chance. ‘I hope it was nothing to worsen the trouble,’ he
said nervously. ‘Cynric told me that Gib and Jolye, now official martyrs for hostels and Colleges respectively, are being
used as figureheads to rally support. It is becoming increasingly difficult for the peaceful scholars to remain neutral.’

‘The trick is very clever, and has Welfry’s hand all over it – amusing without being vicious or dangerous. I could have kissed
him when members of both factions stood together to laugh.’

‘What did he do?’

‘I am not sure how, but he built a mountain of eggs and set Agatha in a large throne on top of them. Both laundress and chair
are extremely heavy, and I cannot imagine how the whole thing does not collapse. But not one egg is so much as cracked.’

Bartholomew regarded him uneasily; only lunatics crossed Agatha. ‘Does she mind?’

‘She is having the time of her life. People are flocking to admire the spectacle – and admire her, too. I wish you could see
it, but your duty lies at Celia Drax’s home, which represents a vital opportunity to see what can be learned about these thefts
and murders.’

‘Does that mean you had no luck at Alice’s funeral?’ asked Bartholomew unhappily.

Michael winced. ‘None at all. It was a waste of time – and time is something we do not have. By this hour tomorrow, the camp-ball
game will be over, and who knows what might be left?’

Worriedly, Bartholomew trailed after him to Celia’s house. When they arrived, it was to find every room packed with guests.
An impromptu band of musicians had gathered and was belting out popular tunes, although
the thudding beat of the drum drowned out the other instruments. People were dancing, too, in a heaving, gyrating mass. Whoops,
cries, cheers and laughter abounded, and there was a rank smell of spilled wine and sweaty bodies.

‘Lord!’ muttered Bartholomew. ‘I have not been to one of these since I was a student.’

Michael looked around with narrowed eyes. ‘We shall start by having a word with Fen and his nuns. They are by the window,
talking to Prior Leccheworth.’

They started to ease their way through the jigging dancers, but were intercepted by Celia, resplendent in yet another new
gown.

‘All manner of vermin accepted my invitation, I see,’ she said unpleasantly, yelling to make herself heard over the racket.
‘Whores, impoverished students, warlocks, venal monks—’

‘Is this any way to honour your husband?’ demanded Michael, gesturing around him in distaste. ‘He is barely cold in his grave.’

‘It is what is called a wake,’ bawled Celia. ‘A celebration of his life. If you do not like it, leave.’

She turned and flounced away before Michael could respond. Bartholomew was tempted to do as she suggested, because he was
not in the mood for rowdy parties, but the desperate hope that they might learn something to avert a crisis the following
day kept him there.

‘Tell Leccheworth he is wrong, Brother,’ Fen cried, as the scholars approached. Tears of distress glistened in his eyes. ‘He
keeps saying St Simon Stock’s holy scapular is a fake.’

‘Really?’ asked Michael, regarding the Gilbertine with raised eyebrows. ‘Why?’

‘Because Etone showed it to me once,’ explained
Leccheworth, rather defiantly. ‘And it was too grubby to be sacred. In fact, it was nasty, and I was loath to touch the thing.’

‘It is a hundred years old,’ argued Fen, stricken. ‘Of course it is grubby! But I do not care what you think, because I know
a blessed relic when I see one.’ He pointedly turned his back on the Prior, and addressed Michael. ‘What have you learned
about the scoundrels who took it?’

‘That they are familiar with the Carmelite Friary and its grounds,’ replied the monk, watching him intently. Bartholomew did
the same with the nuns. ‘A pilgrim, perhaps.’

‘Very possibly,’ said Fen, nodding earnestly, and if he thought Michael’s suggestion held an accusation, he gave no sign that
he had taken it personally. ‘The shrine attracts many people, and hundreds must have paid homage there. I wish you success
in your endeavours.’

He bowed, and walked away, hotly pursued by the nuns.

‘He is too sly to let anything slip,’ said Michael. ‘Damn! I am at a loss as how to trap him.’

‘Kendale and his students are better suspects, anyway,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Edith’s testimony told us that the culprit is probably
a scholar.’

He pointed to where the Chestre men were enjoying themselves with several women he knew to be prostitutes, or Frail Sisters,
as they preferred to be called. Celia had not been exaggerating when she had remarked on the range of people who had elected
to accept her hospitality.

‘I will speak to them,’ determined Michael. ‘While you watch from a distance.
They
will not trip themselves up with words, either, so see what you can deduce from their demeanour.’

It was resorting to desperate measures, as far as Bartholomew was concerned, but he went to stand with Horneby and Welfry,
using them as cover, lest the Chestre lads should happen to glance over and guess what he was doing. Both friars were sipping
watered ale, and did not look comfortable amid the lively, noisy throng.

‘You should not be here,’ he said to Horneby. ‘You are supposed to be pretending to be ill so that no one will take offence
over the cancelled Stock Extraordinary Lecture.’

‘The loss of our relic has put paid to that plan – as Acting Prior, I am obliged to be visible.’ Horneby shrugged. ‘But we
can use the theft as an excuse to postpone, so it does not really matter.’

‘I feel like a virgin in a brothel,’ said Welfry unhappily, while Bartholomew watched the Chestre lads grow angry over something
Michael had said. ‘But Drax was generous to both our priories, so it is our duty to be here. Of course, we did not expect
the occasion to be quite so … so
spirited
.’

‘I heard about your trick with the eggs,’ said Bartholomew. Kendale’s expression had turned taunting, and the physician could
see Michael struggling to keep his temper. ‘How did you do it?’

Welfry was delighted to be asked. ‘Well, eggs have a certain internal strength, despite their outward fragility, so it is
just a case of placing them so that they—’

‘My throat hurts from shouting to make myself heard,’ interrupted Horneby. Neyll was clenching his fists, and Bartholomew
braced himself, ready to run to Michael’s rescue if one of them flew. ‘And I do not think this occasion is any place for priests.
Your description of virgins in brothels is truer than you thought, Welfry, because I know for a fact that Helia over there
is a whore. We had better leave.’

‘Have you made any more loud bangs?’

Both friars and Bartholomew turned to see Dickon standing behind them, grinning.

‘What is this?’ asked Horneby, startled. ‘Loud bangs?’

‘An accident while trying to create a lamp with a clean and steady glow,’ explained Bartholomew, turning his attention back
to the Chestre men. ‘I had the idea from Kendale’s trick at St Mary the Great.’

Welfry nodded keenly. ‘You asked me about the formula, and I have been thinking about it. He would have required a sticky
substance to rub on his “fuses”, but the solution in his buckets must have been much more fluid. Have you tried mixing different
kinds of oil with the pitch?’

‘The stuff you made was very sticky, Doctor,’ supplied Dickon. ‘I climbed over Meryfeld’s wall later, and had a look at it.
I tried to blow it up again, but my tinderbox would not work.’

‘Dickon, you must
never
tamper with such things,’ said Welfry, alarmed. ‘They can be extremely dangerous, and you may hurt someone.’

‘So what?’ asked Dickon airily. ‘Life is full of dangers, and everyone must take his chances.’

‘Heavens!’ breathed Welfry, when the child had gone. ‘That was an eerily sinister philosophy coming from the mouth of someone
so young. I doubt he learned
that
from his parents.’

‘He might, if his father is the Devil,’ muttered Horneby. ‘But this house is definitely no place for friars if
he
is here. I am going home.’

‘That was a waste of time,’ said Michael angrily, arriving a few moments later. The Chestre men were already back with their
ladies, carousing noisily. ‘We exchanged yet more threats and ultimatums, and I learned nothing. What about you? Did you see
any nervous or guilty glances?’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘But the prostitute called Helia is over there. Neyll claimed Gib was with her the night he died,
so I am going to ask her whether it is true.’

‘Yes, I service Chestre,’ said Helia. She was a small, pretty woman with a pert figure and dyed red hair. ‘Mostly Neyll and
Gib, although Kendale comes, too, on occasion.’

‘Do they ever quarrel about the arrangement?’

‘Almost certainly, I would think – they are a feisty crowd. However, I can tell you one thing: I am not entertaining that
Neyll again. The University should send him home – he is a pig.’

‘Why is that?’

‘He is a killer. Do you remember that student who drowned a month ago – Jolye? Well, it was Neyll who pushed him in the river,
and would not let him out again. And I doubt Jolye was his first victim, either. You should be careful around him – the Frail
Sisters do not want to lose you.’

‘Can you prove Neyll killed Jolye?’

Helia wrinkled her nose. ‘Well, no one
saw
it happen, but Gib told Belle, who told the University’s stationer, who told his cousin, who told me. So it is absolutely
true.’

‘When did you last see Gib?’ asked Bartholomew, suspecting there was unlikely to be much accuracy in a tale that had been
passed along by quite so many gossiping tongues.

Helia was thoughtful. ‘Well, we had a bit of a spat, so I did not see him this week. The
last
time we met would have been more than seven days ago. He visited me from late on Sunday night, until he left for lectures
at prime on Monday.’

‘Are you sure?’ asked Bartholomew urgently. If Helia was right, then Gib could not have been the yellow-headed man he himself
had chased from Emma’s house.

‘Absolutely sure. On Monday mornings, I look after Yolande’s children while she visits the Mayor. It is a longstanding arrangement,
and I went there the moment Gib left me. I saw him go inside his hostel, ready for his morning lessons.’

‘And you did not see him after that?’

Helia shook her head. ‘But he sent me a message saying he intended to honour me with his presence on Saturday night. He never
arrived.’

Probably because he had been murdered
en route
, thought Bartholomew, watching as Helia left to dance with Isnard. How the bargeman managed his wild skipping with only one
leg was beyond Bartholomew, and seemed to defy the laws of physics.

As Michael was with Yffi’s apprentices, he went to sit with his fellow physicians until the monk had finished, surprised that
the staid Rougham had deigned to attend such a riotous event. The man was a killjoy, and disliked seeing people having fun.

Rougham grinned, and raised his goblet in a happy salute. He was not usually friendly, and it did not take Bartholomew long
to realise the man was drunk. So was Meryfeld, while Gyseburne was well on the way to joining them: Meryfeld’s hand-rubbing
was approaching frenzied proportions, while Gyseburne was on the brink of cracking a genuine smile. Gyseburne offered Bartholomew
a sip of wine from the goblet he was holding. It was remarkably good, and Bartholomew thought it a pity that it was being
wasted on people who were too inebriated to appreciate it.

‘I am glad you are here,’ slurred Rougham. ‘Now we are all four physicians together, and that does not happen often. We are
all too busy.’

‘We should talk about medicine, then,’ declared Gyseburne. ‘Because we are
medici
.’

The others agreed with the kind of exaggerated gravity often affected by the intoxicated. Bartholomew glanced at Michael,
and hoped he would not be long – he did not like discussing medicine with Rougham when he was sober, and it would be worse
when the man was drunk.

‘What did you give to Emma, to soothe her inflamed gums?’ Gyseburne asked Meryfeld.

Meryfeld tapped the side of his nose. ‘That is a secret.’

‘We should not have secrets from each other,’ said Rougham admonishingly. ‘We should share our knowledge, for the greater
good of the profession. Except sorcery. I am not interested in learning diabolical cures, Bartholomew, so you can keep those
to yourself.’

‘I do not know any,’ said Bartholomew indignantly. ‘My medicines are based on herbs that—’