The nuns heard the remark, and promptly descended on the box, too, jostling as they vied for a handhold. Under such circumstances, it took some time to tote it the short distance to the chapel.
‘Perhaps we should stand back,’ chuckled Welfry. ‘There are more likely to be thunderbolts than blessings over that display of piety. Have you ever been on a pilgrimage?’
Bartholomew hesitated. He had visited several sacred sites, including Rome and Santiago de Compostela, but only because he had happened to be passing. His real purpose has been to locate the woman he loved, who had left Cambridge before he could ask her to marry him. He had scoured the civilised world, but had found no trace of her. Michael had recently taken to assuring him that Matilde was safe and well, but it had been three years since she had left, and Bartholomew was finally beginning to accept that something terrible had happened to her.
‘You have,’ he said, deftly diverting the question by pointing at the discreet signaculum pinned to Welfry’s habit. ‘Although it is not a token I recognise. It looks like a shoe.’
‘It is,’ said Welfry with a smile. ‘From the shrine of John Schorne in North Marston, who conjured the Devil into a boot. I visited it last year, and found it just as thronged with devout pilgrims as Canterbury, Walsingham or Hereford. I wear it to serve as a reminder.’
‘A reminder of what?’
‘Of the narrow gap between the sacred and the profane – the acceptable and the unacceptable. As you know, I love a practical joke. Well, this boot is to make me remember that my jests must always be amusing, but never irreverent or unkind. Like the physician Hippocrates, I aim to do no harm.’
Bartholomew started to ask him about the illumination of St Mary the Great, but Welfry embarked on a comical account of the Carmelites’ Purification feast, when the two nuns had made a drunken play for Fen. The pardoner had fled in alarm, leaving Poynton to offer himself as a substitute. Welfry was a clever raconteur, and Bartholomew was still smiling when they parted company and he knocked on the door of the Gilbertine Priory.
‘There you are,’ said Prior Leccheworth, an old man with a shock of jet-black hair. It looked incongruous with his wrinkled face, and Bartholomew often wondered whether he dyed it. ‘One of my canons has hurt himself playing camp-ball, and there is blood. He says it is nothing, but …’
‘Camp-ball?’ echoed Bartholomew, startled. ‘Is that a suitable pastime for ordained priests?’
‘He is on our team,’ explained Leccheworth, He saw the physician’s blank look and sighed. ‘For the annual match between us and the Carmelites the day after tomorrow. We usually select ruffians from the town to represent us, but Brother Jude is a talented player, and we thought he might help us win. We have recruited your Master, too, so we are in with a good chance this year.’
‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, although he was still amazed to learn that a canon should be taking part in such a wild event – and that his prior was willing to let him do so.
He followed Leccheworth across the yard and out on to the huge field at the back of the convent. Sitting on the grass was the largest Gilbertine he had ever seen.
‘It is a trifle,’ said Brother Jude, revealing an injury that would have made most men swoon. ‘A scratch. Sew it up, and let me get back to the practice.’
Bartholomew sent for water to rinse the gash, then took needle and thread and began to insert stitches. He was astonished when the big man declared the pain insignificant, because he knew it was not. It was easy work, though, because Jude sat perfectly still, and there was none of the writhing and squirming he usually had to contend with.
‘It should heal neatly,’ he said eventually, sitting back and inspecting his handiwork.
‘Damn!’ muttered Jude, disappointed. ‘I was hoping for an impressive battle wound. By the way, has Prior Leccheworth asked whether you will be Official Physician for Friday’s game?’
‘Not yet,’ said Leccheworth. He smiled at Bartholomew. ‘But the rules stipulate that one must be to hand, because these occasions can turn savage.’
‘I know,’ said Bartholomew dryly. ‘But I do not think I am the right—’
‘You are the only suitable candidate,’ declared Jude firmly. ‘Meryfeld is worthless, Rougham too expensive, and Gyseburne would do nothing but ask for urine. And I do not like Gyseburne, anyway – there is something sly about the cant of his eyes.’
‘Do say yes, Doctor,’ said Leccheworth. ‘It carries a payment of three shillings.’
‘All right, then,’ said Bartholomew, capitulating promptly. It would keep the poor in salves and tonics for a month.
He frowned suddenly. There was a large building at the edge of the field, which looked as though it was deserted – its ground-floor windows were boarded over and its door nailed closed – but he thought he had seen a shadow move across one of its upper rooms.
‘That is Edmund House,’ said Leccheworth, seeing where he was looking. ‘It used to belong to our convent, but we were forced to sell it after the Great Pestilence, when we needed some ready cash. Emma de Colvyll purchased it from us.’
‘I remember,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It looks abandoned, but I thought I saw someone inside.’
‘Pigeons,’ replied Leccheworth. ‘It is a pity, because they will ruin it. We are eager to buy it back now we have funds to spare, but Emma refuses to sell.’
‘Has she said why?’ asked Bartholomew. The building looked stable enough, but was showing signs of decay. It made no sense to let it rot when there was a buyer to hand.
Leccheworth grimaced. ‘No. And I do not understand it at all.’
‘Neither do I,’ said Jude. ‘But there is something about her that petrifies me. I am a large, strong man with an unshakeable faith in God, but little Emma de Colvyll turns my knees to water.’
Bartholomew’s last visit of the morning was to Bridge Street, to tend Sheriff Tulyet’s son. Dickon was nine years old, and large for his age. He terrorised the servants, had no friends because the parents of other children declined to let him anywhere near their offspring, and even his mother was beginning to be frightened of him. Tulyet was blind to his faults, though, and Dickon was growing into an extremely nasty individual. Hoping he would emerge unscathed from what was sure to be a trying encounter, Bartholomew knocked on Tulyet’s door.
‘Thank God you are here, Matthew,’ said Mistress Tulyet in relief. ‘Dickon climbed over the wall into Celia Drax’s garden, and fell on a hive of bees. He has been dreadfully stung.’
‘Christ!’ muttered Bartholomew, not liking the notion of extracting stings from a boy who was going to fight him every inch of the way. Then he frowned. ‘But Celia Drax does not live next to you – Meryfeld does. Celia is two doors down.’
‘Well, perhaps he did clamber through the property of more than one neighbour,’ admitted Mistress Tulyet sheepishly. ‘But you had better hurry. Dickon is not very nice when he is in pain.’
Dickon was not very nice when he was not in pain, either, but Bartholomew managed to follow her to the kitchen without saying so. The boy was standing in the middle of the room howling, while servants nervously attempted to divest him of his clothes, to see whether a bee might still be trapped. He held a sword, a gift from his doting father, and stabbed at anyone who came too close. His eyes were swollen with tears, and his face was flushed, although from temper rather than distress. There was a rumour that he had been sired by the Devil, and there were times when Bartholomew was prepared to believe the tale: he suspected this was going to be one of them.
‘No!’ Dickon shrieked when he saw the physician. ‘Go away!’
Bartholomew was tempted to do as he suggested, and then was mildly ashamed of himself. He wondered what it was about the brat that always brought out the worst in him.
‘Put down the sword,’ he ordered. ‘If you cooperate, this will be over in a moment.’
‘No!’ shouted Dickon again. ‘And if you come near me, I shall run you through. I know how, because my
father showed me. I am to be sent away soon to become a squire in Lord Picot’s household. He is a great knight, who will make me a mighty warrior.’
‘Really?’ asked Bartholomew, delighted that someone else would soon have the pleasure of physicking him. ‘Put down the weapon and tell me about it.’
‘It is not true,’ whispered Mistress Tulyet. ‘We have not told him yet, but Lord Picot declines to accept him. We cannot imagine why, a fine, strong lad like him.’
Bartholomew turned to the servants. ‘We will rush him. You three approach from behind, and—’
‘No,’ said the steward, backing away. ‘We are not paid enough to tackle Dickon.’
Bartholomew watched in dismay as they all trooped out, Mistress Tulyet among them. He turned back to Dickon, thinking fast.
‘Do you know what happens if bee stings are not removed? All your fingers drop off. You cannot be a soldier with no fingers.’
He did not usually resort to underhand tactics with patients, but Dickon was a special case. The boy regarded him silently. His eyes glistened, and Bartholomew had the uncomfortable sense that they belonged to a much older person.
‘You lie,’ the boy said eventually.
Bartholomew smiled. ‘Then let us try an experiment. If I am lying, nothing will happen to you. But if I am telling the truth, you will be fingerless by tomorrow. What do you say?’
Dickon continued to study him. Suddenly, the sword dipped and he proffered an arm. ‘Very well. You may remove it.’
‘It’ was the operative word, because although Dickon claimed to have catapulted himself on top of the hive, he had only been stung once. Bartholomew wondered if the hapless creatures had been too intimidated to attack. The sting was quickly extracted with a pair of tweezers, and when the operation was over, both sat back in relief.
‘What were you doing in Drax’s garden?’ Bartholomew felt compelled to ask.
‘She killed her husband,’ declared Dickon with utter conviction. ‘So I decided to visit her – I have never talked to a murderess before, you see.’
‘What makes you think Celia Drax is a murderess?’ asked Bartholomew, startled.
‘Because they were always arguing – they did not love each other. But she dragged me off the hive and let me out of her front door, so I do not care what she did to him. I like her.’
‘Was she stung, too?’ Bartholomew supposed he had better go to see whether she needed help.
Dickon nodded. ‘A lot more than me.’
Bartholomew stood, eager to be away. He was just congratulating himself on escaping without harm to either of them when Dickon snatched up the sword and lunged. Bartholomew felt a sharp pain in his side, and Dickon danced away, eyes flashing with malice.
‘It hurt when you pulled out the sting, and my father said bullies are not to be tolerated,’ he declared, as Bartholomew regarded him in disbelief. ‘Now we are even.’
‘My husband did say bullies are not to be tolerated,’ acknowledged Mistress Tulyet, when Bartholomew reported that her son had stabbed him; fortunately, in a fit of common sense, Tulyet had filed off the weapon’s point. ‘But Dickon is the bully. Unfortunately, he has developed a habit of interpreting our reprimands in ways that suit him.’
Bartholomew saw the unease in her eyes and knew she was beginning to see the child for the tyrant he was, even if Tulyet remained obstinately blind. There was no more to be said, so he left and headed for Celia Drax’s home, rubbing his bruised side.
As Bartholomew knocked on the door to Celia’s house, it occurred to him that it would be a good opportunity to quiz her about her husband. Determined to make the most of the occasion, he followed a servant into an enormous hall-like room with polished wooden floors and painted walls. At the far end was a shelf containing books, a considerable luxury, given that they were so expensive. Celia was sitting on a bench with a pair of tweezers.
‘It is good of you to come,’ she said reluctantly as he perched next to her and began to remove stings from her hands and arms. ‘Did Dickon tell you what happened? From an upstairs window, I saw him invade my garden, and was on my way to box his ears, when he fell on the hive. Naturally, the bees objected. I dragged him away as quickly as I could, and shoved him out of my front door. Hateful brat! But never mind him. Has Brother Michael recovered my pilgrim badge yet? Such items are valuable, and I would like it back.’
Bartholomew saw she was still wearing the gold medallion she had retrieved from her husband’s corpse. It made him shudder. ‘Not yet.’
When she coyly left the room to look for other stings that might require his attention, he wandered towards her little library. There was a psalter, two texts by Aristotle, and a rather lurid tome of contemporary romantic poetry, which he assumed belonged to Odelina. There was also a large, brown volume that looked rather more well thumbed than the others. He took it down, and saw it was a pharmacopoeia. He frowned. Why would a taverner and his wife own such a thing? Glancing uneasily towards the door, he leafed through it until he found the entry for wolfsbane.
The page was grimy, but so were all the others, and he could not decide whether it had been marked in any particular way. At the bottom was a section about antidotes, describing how to swallow the plant without harm. He knew the claims were false, because gulping down a dose of quicksilver was likely to bring its own set of problems, while milk would have no effect one way or the other. He turned to the entry for mandrake, and read with disbelief that no one would die from taking it, if they first lined their stomachs with a paste of dried earthworms.
‘Found anything interesting?’ Celia’s voice so close behind him made him jump.
‘Not really,’ he replied, turning to face her. ‘Are you interested in herbs?’
‘No, and I cannot read, anyway. John could, though, and he was always pawing through that book, and it made me rather nervous, to tell you the truth. Perhaps he intended to poison me, but God struck him down first.’
‘God did not kill your husband,’ said Bartholomew quietly. ‘Do you have any idea who—’
‘No,’ interrupted Celia curtly. ‘As I told you before, no one would want to kill John. He was not a saint, but he was not a villain, either. He was just a man, with a man’s failings. He was not generous to those who patronised his taverns, but he was honest. And while he drove a hard bargain with the scholars who rent Chestre Hostel, they never had to wait long for repairs.’
‘I have heard you and he quarrelled, and—’
‘Of course we quarrelled: we were married! But you will not understand that, living away from the society of women. You will know nothing of the ups and downs of marital life.’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew sadly. ‘What about his friends? You are close to Odelina, but he—’
‘He was not a man for forming close relationships. You may go now. Thank you for coming.’
It was hardly a profitable interview, and Bartholomew felt as though he had squandered an opportunity as he returned to the College. When Michael arrived, he told him about the encounter, along with Dickon’s claim that the couple had argued. The monk listened thoughtfully.
‘You think one of their spats turned violent, and she stabbed him? And then she carried him to Michaelhouse, although there is no sensible reason for her to do so, and left him behind the tiles?’
‘Well, someone did,’ said Bartholomew tartly. ‘And she was married to Drax, and she frequents the house where Alice was poisoned.’
Michael sighed. ‘True. But your suspicions are not enough to let us arrest her. We need solid evidence. So I suppose I had better visit Drax’s taverns, and ask his patrons what they thought of the pair of them. If I have time, I shall ask for Fen’s alibi for Drax’s murder, too, although I shall be home for a little something to eat by mid-afternoon, naturally.’
‘Naturally,’ said Bartholomew.
CHAPTER 4
While Michael embarked on his trawl of Drax’s taverns, Bartholomew dedicated himself to teaching. As a resu
lt, his pupils found themselves subjected to one of his vigorous questioning sessions, and by the time the bell rang to announce that the next meal was ready, their heads were spinning. Bartholomew was despondent, disappointed by their performance. He ignored both their indignant objections that he had quizzed them on texts they had not yet studied, and their grumbles that he had no right to push them as hard as he pushed himself.
‘Emma de Colvyll sang your praises today,’ said Michael, as they stood at their places at the high table, waiting for Langelee to say grace. ‘You made a friend when you saved Odelina.’
‘I thought you planned to spend your day in alehouses.’
‘I did, but it was tedious and unprofitable, so I visited Emma instead, to see whether I could winkle out more information about this yellow-headed thief.’
‘And did you?’
Michael shook his head. ‘No, although I hope to God we catch him before she does – she will have him torn limb from limb and dumped in the marshes. Heslarton is conducting a thorough and sensible search, which surprises me. I thought him a brainless lout, but he is showing intelligence over this manhunt, and I am afraid he might succeed.’
‘Perhaps the intelligence is Emma’s,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘He would not be averse to taking instructions from her. They respect each other.’
‘They do. Perhaps Heslarton is a brainless lout, then, although he is by far the most likeable member of that family. Alice was spiteful and cruel, Odelina is a spoiled brat, and Emma … well, the less said about Emma the better.’
‘Do you have any new suspects for poisoning Alice or stabbing Drax?’
‘Yes, unfortunately. There are a lot of people who would like to see Emma’s entire household poisoned, and who are delighted that Drax is dead. These same folk may also be inclined to steal pilgrim badges in the hope that they will save them from Purgatory.’
‘Who are they?’
‘People who object to the ruthless business practices of Drax and Emma. Especially Emma – I have not met anyone yet who likes her. Then there is Edmund House. She bought it from the Gilbertines in a very sly manner, and now she flaunts the incident by letting the place fall into disrepair under their very noses. They must find it galling.’
The Killer Of Pilgrims: The Sixteenth Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 11