The Killer of Pilgrims (38 page)

He gazed in shock, as clues and fragments of evidence collided together to form answers at last. Heslarton stared back, then
moved fast, and Bartholomew felt himself grabbed by the throat. He struggled hard, dimly aware of Cynric racing to his assistance.

But they were in a yard filled with Heslarton’s retainers, and it was not many moments before they were overpowered. He opened
his mouth to shout, knowing that Michael’s beadles and Tulyet’s soldiers were out in force – they would hear him if he yelled
loudly enough – but there was a sharp, searing pain in his head, and then nothing.

When Bartholomew’s senses began to return, he found himself lying on a cold stone floor with Cynric hovering anxiously over
him.

‘Thank God!’ muttered the book-bearer shakily, as Bartholomew opened his eyes. He crossed himself, then clutched one of his
amulets. ‘I thought they had killed you.’

Bartholomew’s vision swirled as he sat up, and he gripped his head with both hands, seized with the illogical conviction that
it might split in half if he let it go. It ached viciously, and he felt sick. He explored it tentatively, and discovered a
lump at the back, where it had been struck.

‘Where are we?’ he asked.

‘Locked in Heslarton’s stable,’ replied Cynric. ‘It is just past dawn, and I have been trying to wake you for hours.’

‘Not hours,’ corrected Bartholomew. ‘It was already growing light when we were summoned.’

But Cynric was not interested in listening to reason. ‘I told you something odd was going on here,’ he said accusingly. ‘You
should have listened.’

‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘I am sorry, Cynric. You were right.’

‘What made you start fighting Heslarton in the first place?’ asked Cynric. He sounded exasperated. ‘You should have controlled
yourself, because to attack a man who was surrounded by his retainers … well, it was reckless, boy.’

‘I did not attack him.’ Recollections came in blinding flashes. ‘He was wearing Edith’s cloak. I should have pretended not
to notice, but it took me by surprise. And he knew exactly what conclusions I had drawn from it.’

‘That he was the one who stole it? And if he took that, then he must be guilty of all the other crimes, too, including murder?’
Cynric swallowed hard. ‘So we are being held captive by a killer.’

‘But he
cannot
be the villain, because he has an alibi for Drax’s death.’ Bartholomew’s head ached more when he tried to think. ‘I do not
understand.’

‘Oh, it is simple enough,’ said Cynric bitterly. ‘The villain is Emma.
She
poisoned her own daughter, and murdered Drax, Gib and Yffi. She probably told Heslarton to kill Poynton on the camp-ball
field, too.
And
she is behind the
theft of the pilgrim badges. She only pretended to be a victim of the yellow-headed thief, and she has been the real culprit
all along.’

‘She is an old lady,’ objected Bartholomew. He recalled why he had been going to see her in the first place. ‘With a fever.’

‘She did not have a fever until today,’ said Cynric. ‘Besides, she is quite capable of sending others to do her dirty work.
Heslarton may not have killed Drax, but she has a whole house full of retainers at her beck and call, and some of them are
fearsome louts.’

Bartholomew started to object further, but the words died in his throat. Emma certainly possessed the resources to stage such
an elaborate deception. She was already wealthy, but that did not mean she would overlook an opportunity to become more so,
and some of the pilgrim badges were very valuable. Moreover, she was devious and ruthless enough for such a venture, sitting
in her solar like some vile black spider, dispatching minions to do her bidding.

Yet that did not make sense.

‘Why did she summon me, then?’ he asked. ‘She would not have wanted us anywhere near her, if she is this cunning mastermind.’

‘I told you – she only started her fever today,’ said Cynric. ‘If we had gone to the front of the house, like you wanted,
you would have cured her, and we would be safe at home by now. But we went to the back, where her servants are arranging for
her to flee with her ill-gotten gains. This is as much my fault as yours.’

‘But
why
would she be fleeing?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering whether it was exhaustion or concussion that had turned his wits to mud.
All he wanted was to lie down and sleep. ‘No one has the slightest inkling that she is
behind all this chaos, so she has no need to abandon the empire she has so painstakingly assembled.’

‘Because Brother Michael is on her trail,’ said Cynric with a shrug. ‘He always catches his villains, and she knows it. She
is leaving while she is still able.’

‘You may be right,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘On our way here, we decided the culprit had to be someone local, rather than
a stranger, because there had to be reasons for poisoning Alice and dumping Drax in Michaelhouse. Emma’s motive for killing
Alice is obvious: they did not like each other—’

‘And she dumped Drax in Michaelhouse to discredit us, so she would not have to finish paying for our roof,’ finished Cynric,
although Bartholomew was unconvinced by that argument.

‘Moreover, a stranger would not have known there were pilgrim tokens in her stolen box – he would have opted for a jewelled
candlestick or a gold goblet.’ Bartholomew rubbed his head, wishing it would stop aching. ‘Or is that a reason to assume she
is
not
the villain? I cannot think properly …’

The door opened suddenly. Cynric rose to his feet fast, but the two men standing there had bows and arrows at the ready, and
indicated he was to sit back down again.

‘Very good,’ said Heslarton, entering behind them. ‘You have guessed a lot, although you are still a long way short of the
whole story. I was hoping to spare you – you did save Odelina, after all – but I am afraid that is impossible now. You are
simply too dangerous.’

Heslarton leaned against the wall, and regarded his captives impassively. Behind him, the two men with bows stood alert and
ready, arrows nocked. Bartholomew glanced at Cynric and hoped he would not attempt anything rash, because
he could tell by the way the men stood that they would not hesitate to shoot. Fortunately, Cynric knew it too, and crouched
motionless to one side.

‘I have no idea why you should want Kendale and his students blamed for the crimes you committed,’ said Bartholomew, struggling
to make sense of what was happening. ‘But you will not get away with it.’

‘No?’ asked Heslarton softly. ‘We shall see about that.’

‘Why kill Yffi?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘What did he—’

‘He tried to blackmail me,’ replied Heslarton tersely. ‘Over Poynton.’

‘Poynton?’ asked Bartholomew. Details slithered together in his mind. ‘It was
your
dagger that killed him during the camp-ball game? And Yffi knew?’

‘It was an accident. But Yffi said he would claim it was deliberate, unless I paid him.’

‘So you stabbed him, then decided to put the body to good use – by leaving it in Chestre.’

Heslarton shrugged. ‘Why not? I have never liked those swaggering louts.’

‘What about us?’ demanded Cynric, before Bartholomew could remark that dislike was hardly a reason to devise such a hideous
plot. ‘Will you have our murders blamed on Chestre, too?’

‘Yes,’ said Heslarton. There was no trace of the amiable rogue now; all that was left was the ruffian. His eyes did not twinkle,
and his compact strength was intimidating. ‘I understand they convinced Michael that they are innocent, but your bodies should
make him think again.’

‘It will not work,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘You left clues on Yffi that allowed Michael to deduce that the corpse had been dragged
through a window, and you will make similar mistakes when—’

‘We have another plan – one involving Edmund House,
which we are about to sell to the Gilbertines. And this time, there will be no misunderstandings.’ Heslarton gestured to
the archers. ‘Clean shots, please. We do not want a mess.’

‘Why are you selling it?’ asked Cynric quickly, a feeble attempt to delay the inevitable.

‘Because he no longer needs it to frolic in with Celia,’ said Bartholomew, speaking before Heslarton could answer for himself.
He recalled the shadow he had seen there when he had tended Brother Jude’s gashed leg some days before; doubtless, they had
been there then. ‘Now Alice and Drax are dead, they do not require a secret place for their trysts.
That
is why the family have always refused to part with it before.’

Heslarton wrinkled his nose. ‘As I said, you know too much.’ He nodded to the bowmen.

‘Wait!’ Bartholomew struggled to his feet. ‘Let Cynric go. He has nothing to do with this.’

‘I cannot.’ Heslarton sounded genuinely apologetic, and Bartholomew saw he was uneasy with the situation in which he found
himself. ‘He represents too great a danger. I am sorry – I would have spared you both if I could.’

‘Yes, you
will
be sorry,’ agreed Cynric venomously, as the bowmen took aim. ‘Because Doctor Bartholomew is the only one who can save your
mother-in-law from an agonising death.’

Heslarton raised his hand to prevent the archers from shooting. ‘What?’

‘None of the other physicians know how to cure her,’ Cynric went on. ‘I heard them talking about it last night. Emma will
die of her fever if she is left to them.’

‘She will not,’ said Heslarton, although he looked uneasy. ‘It is only a bad tooth, for God’s sake.’

‘It has been left too long, and has poisoned her blood,’
stated Cynric with great conviction. ‘She needs a surgeon to pull it out. And Meryfeld, Rougham and Gyseburne do not perform
cautery. You know this – it is why you summoned Doctor Bartholomew this morning, not them.’

Heslarton was silent for a moment, and when he did speak, it was more to himself than his captives. ‘I do not see how this
can be safely achieved now.’

Bartholomew frowned. It was an odd thing to say. He watched Heslarton go over to mutter to one of his men; the other kept
his bow trained unwaveringly on the prisoners. The archer left after a moment, and Heslarton came back. Bartholomew could
only suppose the fellow had been sent for reinforcements. Gradually, more answers drifted into his mind.

‘Emma has no idea what you have done, does she?’ he said challengingly. ‘And you are afraid that if you take us to help her,
we will tell her that her beloved son-in-law is nothing but a killer and a thief. Your curious words – “I do not see how this
can be safely achieved now” – mean you do not see how we can save her without your role being exposed.’

‘I have an alibi for Drax’s murder,’ snapped Heslarton. ‘One the Sheriff himself acknowledges. And I have one for Gib’s death,
too, because I was with Celia. So, if I am innocent of those two crimes, then I am innocent of the pilgrim-badge thefts, too.
You have nothing on me!’

Other than the fact that he was wearing Edith’s stolen cloak, thought Bartholomew, trying not to stare at it.

‘And your wife?’ demanded Cynric. ‘Can you prove you did not kill Alice, too?’

‘Why should I kill her? I did not want her dead, and I certainly would not have done anything to put my daughter at risk.’

‘No,’ agreed Bartholomew, able to put the facts together
at last. ‘Odelina is responsible for what happened to Alice. She loves you and Celia, but she did not care for her mother.
She committed murder, so you and Celia might marry.’

Heslarton regarded him contemptuously. ‘If that were the case, she would not have swallowed the poison herself. She nearly
died.’

‘She read the pharmacopoeia in Celia’s house, which is full of silly advice. One example is that wolfsbane can be counteracted
with a hefty dose of milk. She followed the instruction – I saw a jug of it next to the wine – but there is no truth in the
claim, and she became ill, too.’

‘You do not know what you are talking about,’ snapped Heslarton. ‘She would never—’

‘Odelina had to drink the wine, because it would have looked suspicious if Alice had died, but she had conveniently abstained.
Then, terrified because her “antidote” was not working, she crawled under the bed. She was lucky we found her.’

Heslarton shook his head in disgust. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself, spinning such vile tales about an innocent young
woman who thinks the world of you.’

‘She killed Drax first, though,’ Bartholomew went on. ‘He and Celia argued a lot, and Odelina is nothing if not loyal to her
friends. She decided Celia would be happier without him.’

‘She is a girl,’ argued Heslarton. ‘Girls do not kill. Besides, she says she did
not
harm Drax, although I admit to helping her move his body to Michaelhouse after she happened across it.’

‘Why there?’ asked Bartholomew, sensing he was on dangerous ground by mentioning Odelina’s involvement, so changing the focus
of the discussion.

‘Because she wanted the Chestre men blamed. And they
probably were the culprits, anyway – they
did
quarrel with him the morning he was dispatched. I did not think we would manage it unseen, but Physwick Hostel went out mid-afternoon,
and Yffi unwittingly provided a perfect distraction with a ribald discussion about Yolande de Blaston.’

‘You sold Drax a pilgrim badge,’ said Bartholomew, deciding there was no point in protesting Chestre’s innocence. ‘It was—’

‘He was driving Celia insane by harping on about getting one, so I obliged him, to give her some peace. We made the transaction
outside the Gilbertine Priory, although I think we were seen – your cronies Clippesby and Thelnetham were both nearby that
night. And I denied it when you asked because it was none of your damned business.’

‘But then you wanted it back,’ said Bartholomew. ‘His hat was ripped—’

‘How many more times must I tell you?’ snarled Heslarton. ‘I did
not
kill Drax, and neither did my daughter. If his badge was stolen, then it had nothing to do with us.’

‘Dickon Tulyet saw you and Odelina slip out of Celia’s house the night Gib was murdered,’ lied Cynric, not seeming to care
that there was now a dangerous light in Heslarton’s eyes. Bartholomew hoped Heslarton would not kill the boy for the book-bearer’s
fabrications – or him and Cynric for reintroducing Odelina into the conversation. ‘Did Odelina order you to murder Gib, and
tie a yellow wig on him? As another nail in Chestre’s coffin?’