‘If you believe that, then why do you want to take it from him?’ asked Bartholomew. Talking to Celia reminded him why he had not minded when she had informed him that she was transferring her allegiance to another physician. He had always found it difficult to like her.
‘Because I want to spend less time in Purgatory, too,’ replied Celia shortly. ‘So look inside the coffin, if you please. It must have fallen off.’
‘Not necessarily,’ said Bartholomew, examining the hat. ‘There is a hole here, where something has been ripped away.’
‘What are you saying?’ asked Celia warily. ‘That John was murdered for his pilgrim badge?’
‘Was it valuable?’ asked Bartholomew, not bothering to reply. She knew as well as he did that the poor were struggling to feed their families that winter. ‘Made of precious metal or jewels?’
‘Naturally,’ replied Celia. ‘We neither of us are interested in pewter. And I want it back, so when you find his killer, be sure to prise it from his murderous grasp.’
She turned and flounced away, leaving Odelina to scurry after her. Michael watched with his eyebrows raised so high that they disappeared under his thin brown fringe.
‘Well!’ he drawled. ‘So much for the grieving widow!’
The following day was dry, but bitterly cold, and Bartholomew shivered as he trudged from patient to patient. Few had fires in their homes, and he was not surprised they were succumbing to chills and fevers. His last visit was to a cottage near the Mill Pond, where a young fisherman was suffering from a badly sprained ankle. Bartholomew bound it up with a poultice of pine resin and wax, and advised him not to stand on it for a few days.
‘Thank you,’ said the fisherman, leaning back in relief. ‘It really hurt. It was your Master’s doing – we are on the same camp-ball team, and he is always so damned rough in practices. We ask him to save his violence for the opposing side, but he forgets himself in the heat of the moment.’
Camp-ball was Langelee’s greatest passion. It was hardly a genteel pastime for the head of a Cambridge College, but it was not one he could be persuaded to give up.
‘Would you have a word with him about needless fervour?’ the fisherman went on. ‘Of course it is too late for Friday. I shall not be able to play, which is a wicked shame.’
‘Friday?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Do you mean for the annual competition between the Gilbertines and the Carmelites?’
Each year, the two priories chose teams to represent them on the field – obviously, such dignified gentlemen were not going to indulge in the rough and tumble themselves – and the occasion drew enormous crowds. It was an honour to be selected to play, and Langelee had been beside himself with pride when he had been one of the lucky few.
The fisherman nodded bitterly. ‘And I will not be there, thanks to your Master.’
Bartholomew returned to Michaelhouse, and taught until it was time for his students to attend a mock disputation with Thelnetham, thus leaving him free to see more patients. Before he left, he mentioned the fisherman’s complaint to Langelee, who dismissed it with a careless flick of his hand, muttering something about weaklings not being welcome on his team anyway.
Bartholomew left the College, and tended two fevers and a case of cracked ribs. Then he went to visit Chancellor Tynkell, who was suffering from one of his periodic stomach upsets, and was just leaving when he met Michael. The monk was tired and dispirited.
‘Where have you been?’ he demanded irritably. ‘I needed your help with Drax’s murder today.’
‘What have you learned?’ asked Bartholomew, predicting from the monk’s sour mood that he would rather talk than listen to excuses about teaching and patients.
‘Nothing!’ Michael spat. ‘He was unpopular among his customers because he refused them credit, but that is hardly a reason to kill. And I have been told that he and Celia were not close, but we knew that already – the woman was hardly overwhelmed with distress yesterday.’
‘No,’ agreed Bartholomew. He glanced at Michael, and was surprised to see that a haunted expression had taken the place of his ire. ‘What is wrong?’
‘I have a very bad feeling about this case, and the more I think about it, the more worried I become. Drax’s body was deposited in our College – our home. Clearly, it was a deliberate attempt to harm us, so we must unravel the mystery before the culprit does something worse.’
Bartholomew was thoughtful. ‘Drax’s death must be connected to the theft at the Carmelite Priory – the villain there went straight for the gold badge on Poynton’s saddle, while Drax’s rings and necklaces were ignored but his badge – his hidden badge – was snatched off hard enough to tear his hat. The thief targeted only signacula in both cases.’
‘You may be right,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘But why pick on these particular two men?’
Bartholomew shrugged. ‘Perhaps because they owned valuable tokens. And they may not be the only two victims, anyway – just the only two that you know about. Have you questioned Emma de Colvyll yet? The thief who took her box had yellow hair, and—’
‘It was not the same man,’ snapped Michael. ‘As I told you yesterday, Emma’s assailant will be lying low, hoping Heslarton does not catch him. He would not have returned to Cambridge and committed a very public theft and a murder.’
‘I disagree. Two yellow-haired villains in one day is a curious coincidence. Too curious.’
‘They are different,’ reiterated Michael testily. ‘And if you persist in seeing an association between two entirely separate incidents, we shall lead ourselves astray.’
‘If you say so,’ said Bartholomew, sure that Michael was wrong.
The monk blew out his cheeks in a sigh, and some of the tetchiness went out of him. ‘It has been a wretchedly frustrating morning. I wish you had been with me – you are good at reading people, and I need all the help I can get. Incidentally, did you hear that Welfry has been appointed Seneschal? I like the man, but he is hardly a suitable candidate for a post of such gravitas.’
‘Give him a chance, Brother. I think he means to do his best.’
‘I do not doubt his good intentions, but he will quickly become bored with the rigours of the post, and then we shall be inundated with silly jests. And the exchequer clerks are not noted for their sense of humour. I told the Dominican Prior-General that Welfry was a poor choice, but he said it was either him or Prior Morden.’
‘Morden is a decent man.’
‘So you have always said, but he does not have the wits to deal with sly exchequer clerks, and they would cheat us of our due. At least Welfry is intelligent. But I should not be worrying about him yet – catching the killer-thief is much more urgent. Will you help me?’
‘Later today,’ promised Bartholomew. ‘If I am not needed by patients.’
‘Tomorrow,’ countered Michael. He smiled suddenly. ‘It is the Feast of the Purification of the Blessed Virgin Mary this afternoon, one of my favourite festivals. And not because there will be food afterwards, before you think to cast aspersions on my piety. The truth is that I like the music.’
‘As long as your choir does not sing and spoil it,’ murmured Bartholomew, but not loud enough for the monk to hear. The College’s singers comprised a large section of the town’s poor, and were famous for their lack of talent. Michael was their conductor.
‘Where are you going?’ the monk asked, when Bartholomew started to walk away from Michaelhouse. ‘It is almost time for the noonday meal.’
‘To the Carmelite Friary. John Horneby has a sore throat.’
‘No!’ exclaimed Michael in horror. ‘Then you must cure him immediately! He is to give the Stock Extraordinary Lecture next week, and it will be one of the greatest speeches ever delivered – one that will have theological ramifications that will reverberate for decades.’
‘So I have heard,’ said Bartholomew flatly. Theologians were always delivering desperately important discourses, and he was a little weary of them. ‘Will you be there?�
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‘Of course. And scholars from all over the country are flocking to hear him, so nothing – nothing – must prevent him from speaking. I had better come with you, to ensure he has the best possible care. The honour of our University is at stake here, Matt.’
The Carmelite Friary was busy that day. A contingent of White Friars had just arrived from London, the usual crowd of penitents milled around the shrine, and a service for the Purification was under way in the chapel. Bartholomew and Michael were just being conducted to the room where the sick theologian lay, when they were accosted by the four pilgrims.
‘Have you found it?’ demanded Poynton without preamble. His florid face made him look unwell, and Bartholomew wondered again whether illness had prompted his pilgrimages. ‘My token from the Holy Land?’
‘I am afraid not,’ replied Michael. ‘Although I spent the entire morning making enquiries. So has my colleague here. Can you see how he is limping? That is caused by the blisters earned from the distances he has walked on your behalf.’
Bartholomew looked at the ground, uncomfortable with the lie. He had been limping, but it was because he had fallen off a horse the previous October, and the cold weather was creating an ache in a bone that was not long healed. It had happened when he and Michael had been travelling to Clare in Suffolk, and had been ambushed by robbers. Michael had decided the incident was God’s way of telling them they were not supposed to go, and had insisted on turning back. But Bartholomew liked what he had been told about the place, and intended to visit it later that year, when spring came.
‘We are very grateful for your efforts,’ said Fen politely.
‘Good,’ said Michael. ‘We shall continue our labours later, despite the fact that this is a holy day and we should be at our devotions. As should you.’
‘I know how to make my devotions,’ snarled Poynton. ‘I have been on twenty-two pilgrimages, and do not need a monk to direct me.’ He looked the Benedictine up and down in disdain.
‘We are on our way to the chapel now,’ said Fen, laying a warning hand on Poynton’s shoulder. ‘So we shall leave you to your business.’
‘I do not like them,’ said Michael, when they had gone. ‘Poynton is nasty, but Fen is worse. He pretends to be reasonable, but you can see the cunning burn within him. You think I say this because I despise his wicked profession, but you are wrong. I feel, with every bone in my body, that there is something untoward about that pardoner.’
‘If you say so,’ said Bartholomew.
He resumed his walk to Horneby’s chamber, reluctant to discuss it. Michael was always accusing pardoners of devious or criminal behaviour. Of course, he was often right – he had accumulated a lot of experience with felons as Senior Proctor, and his intuition did tend to be accurate. But Bartholomew had detected nothing odd about Fen, and thought the monk was letting his prejudices run away with him. Fen seemed perfectly amiable to him.
John Horneby did not look like a famous theologian. He was young, and his boyish appearance was accentuated by the fact that he was missing two front teeth. It was not many years since he had been an unruly novice, who preferred brawling to books, and Bartholomew was not the only one who had been amazed by his sudden and wholly unanticipated transformation into a serious scholar.
‘Bartholomew,’ he croaked, as the two scholars were shown into his room. There was nothing in it except a bed, a table for studying and a hook for his spare habit. The table was piled high with books, though. ‘I hope you can help me, because I cannot lecture like this.’
While Bartholomew inspected the back of Horneby’s throat with a lantern, Michael examined the tomes on the table. Books were enormously expensive, and the fact that Horneby had been allocated so many at one time was testament to the high esteem in which he was held by his Order.
‘You have the theories of Doctor Stokes,’ Michael said, picking up a manuscript. ‘The Dominican. I cannot say I admire his scribblings.’
‘He is dry,’ agreed Horneby. ‘But his thinking on the Indivisibility of the Holy Trinity is—’
‘Do not speak,’ advised Bartholomew. He adjusted the lantern, then turned to the lay-brother who had escorted them to the room. ‘This lamp flickers horribly. Is there a better one?’
‘That is the best light in the whole convent,’ replied the servant. ‘And I tested them all myself, because Prior Etone wants Master Horneby to be able to read at night. The honour of the Carmelites rests on the lecture he is to give, so we are all doing everything we can to ensure he is ready for it.’
‘And I am sure it will be superb,’ said Michael warmly, smiling at the Carmelite. ‘I have heard you speak on several occasions, and I know you will do your Order and our University justice.’
The monk possessed a fine mind himself and did not often compliment people so effusively, so Bartholomew could only suppose Horneby had reached heights he had not yet appreciated. Horneby started to thank him, but stopped when he caught the physician’s warning glance.
The friar’s throat was red, although Bartholomew could not see well enough to tell whether there were also the yellow flecks that would be indicative of infection. He decided to assume the worst, and prescribed a particularly strong medicine to rectify the matter. Horneby sipped the potion, and nodded to say the pain was less. Bartholomew left him to rest, cautioning the lay-brother to keep him quiet, and not to let him engage in unnecessary chatter.
As Bartholomew and Michael headed for the gate, the monk pulled a disapproving face when Poynton, Fen and the nuns sailed past the queue that had formed to pay homage to Simon Stock’s scapular, and pushed themselves in at the front. There were indignant glances from the other pilgrims, but no one seemed inclined to berate them for their selfishness, perhaps because Poynton and his companions were the Carmelites’ honoured guests. Idly, Bartholomew wondered whether the White Friars would be quite so accommodating if the quartet were not so obviously rich.
‘Do you think that scapular is genuine?’ Michael asked, speaking softly so as not to be overheard and offend anyone. ‘I find it hard to believe that a saint who lived almost a hundred years ago, and who died in some distant foreign city, should have left a bit of his habit in Cambridge.’
‘I am not qualified to say,’ replied Bartholomew. The notion that half the town considered him a warlock made him wary of voicing opinions that might be construed as heretical, even to Michael. ‘Prior Etone showed it to me yesterday, though. It looked old.’
‘So do I at times, but that does not make me an object to be venerated. Personally, I am uncomfortable with this particular shrine. For years, St Simon Stock’s vision was said to be a legend, with no actual truth to it, but all of a sudden here we are with a holy place of pilgrimage. And it is attracting pardoners, which cannot be a good thing.’
‘And thieves, if yesterday was anything to go by.’
‘True,’ agreed Michael. ‘The shrine will draw scoundrels as well as benefactors, and Poynton will not be the last visitor to fall prey to sticky fingers.’
By the time they returned to the College, it was nearing the hour when the rite of Purification would begin, so Bartholomew went to change into his ceremonial robes – a red hat and a scarlet gown that were worn only on special occasions. Unfortunately, both were looking decidedly shabby, but he could not afford to buy replacements when there was so much medicine to be purchased.
‘Ask your sister for new ones, sir,’ suggested Valence. ‘She can well afford them.’
It was true enough, and Edith was always pressing gifts of food and money on her impecunious brother, but he was acutely conscious of the fact that he was rarely in a position to reciprocate. It was not a comfortable feeling, and he disliked being so often in her debt.
‘She will give you whatever you want,’ Valence went on when there was no reply. ‘And you repay her in kind, by turning out every time one of her husband’s apprentices has a scratch or a snuffle. She told me the other day that she was lucky to have you.’
‘Yes, because she does not like any of the other physicians. She says Rougham is arrogant, Gyseburne is sinister, and Meryfeld does not know what he is talking about.’
‘Oh,’ said Bartholomew, deflated. He jammed the hat on his head, and supposed people might not notice the state of his clothes if the light was poor – it was an overcast day.
‘The feast this afternoon promises to be good,’ Valence chatted on happily. ‘Agatha has cooked a whole pig! We have not had a decent pile of meat in weeks!’
‘No,’ agreed Bartholomew. But his mind was on medicine, pondering how he had struggled to see Horneby’s sore throat with the Carmelites’ best lamp. ‘Are you friends with Welfry the Dominican? I have seen you with him several times.’
Valence immediately became wary. ‘He lives in his friary, sir. And Master Langelee prefers that we do not fraternise with men from other foundations, so we rarely meet.’
‘He prefers that you do not visit taverns, either, but that does not stop you from doing it,’ Bartholomew remarked tartly. ‘How well do you know Welfry?’
‘I may have had a drink or two in his company,’ acknowledged Valence. He coloured furiously when he realised what he had just admitted. ‘Not in a tavern, of course.’
‘Of course. Did he tell you how he managed that trick with the flaming lights last week? The one where St Mary the Great was illuminated as if by a vast candle?’
‘That was not Welfry, sir. Kendale from Chestre Hostel did that.’
Bartholomew regarded him askance. ‘Are you sure? Lighting up St Mary the Great seems too innocent a stunt for him. I imagine he would have devised something more … deadly.’
‘The Dominicans are notorious pranksters,’ acknowledged Valence. ‘And the affair at the church is the kind of escapade they love. But they are innocent of that particular jape.’
The Killer Of Pilgrims: The Sixteenth Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 7