‘You think the Gilbertines are killers and thieves?’
‘Hush!’ Michael glanced uneasily at Thelnetham, but the canon was talking to Langelee, and had not heard. ‘No, of course not, but the Gilbertines are popular in the town, because they give charity. Perhaps someone has taken offence on their behalf.’
Bartholomew supposed it was possible. ‘Who else?’
‘The pilgrims, especially Fen.’
‘Fen cannot be the culprit, because he did not dash in from the street and grab Poynton’s badge – he was standing next to Poynton at the time. Moreover, he does not have yellow hair.’
Michael ignored him. ‘And do not forget that Prior Etone showed him our College the morning Drax was murdered – Blaston saw them. Doubtless he thought then that Michaelhouse was a good place to dispose of a body.’
Bartholomew saw the monk was not in the mood for a logical discussion, so changed the subject. ‘Did you speak to Emma about Yffi leaving holes in the roof while he fiddles with the windows?’
‘I did, but she said it is not her place to interfere.’ Michael looked disgusted. ‘She interferes when she feels like it, and is a hypocrite. But here is Langelee at last. Good! I am famished.’
Langelee intoned grace, and indicated that the servants were to bring the food. It was uninspiring fare, and although meals at Michaelhouse were supposed to be taken in silence, it was not long before the Fellows – always the worst culprits for breaking this particular rule – began talking.
‘Pea soup again,’ grumbled Michael, digging his horn spoon into the bowl that was set for him and Clippesby to share. ‘And there is no meat in it.’
‘There is bread, though,’ said William, taking the largest piece from the basket that was being passed around. ‘If you soak it in the soup, it becomes soft enough to eat.’
Bartholomew picked listlessly at the unappealing offerings, still full from the handsome breakfast William had provided.
‘I visited Celia today, too,’ Michael was saying to the table in general. ‘She was sorting through her husband’s belongings, making piles for the poor.’
‘That is laudable,’ said Suttone. ‘They need charity in this bitter weather. Of course, Drax only died two days ago, and it seems rather soon to be disposing of his possessions.’
‘Just because she is not drowning in sorrow does not mean she did not care about him,’ said Langelee. ‘She may just be practical. Like me. I would not wallow in grief if any of you were stabbed and left behind a stack of tiles.’
‘Your compassion overwhelms me, Master,’ said Thelnetham dryly. He turned to Michael. ‘Did you know that Drax went on a pilgrimage to Walsingham? He always wore a badge under his hat. He showed it to me recently, and said he had travelled to Norfolk.’
‘His wife told me he had bought that token to save himself the journey,’ said Michael, puzzled. ‘I wonder which of them was telling the truth.’
‘Celia is,’ said Clippesby, who was feeding soup to the piglet he held in his lap. Bartholomew was amused to note it was the only creature in the hall that was enjoying its victuals.
‘How do you know?’ asked Thelnetham curiously. Then he held up his hand. ‘On reflection, do not tell me. It will be some lunatic tale about a bird or a hedgehog.’
Clippesby had a disturbing habit of finding quiet places and then sitting very still as he communed with nature. It meant he often witnessed events not meant for his eyes, although he tended to make people wary of accepting his testimony by claiming it came from various furred or feathered friends. Of all the Michaelhouse Fellows, Thelnetham was the one who struggled hardest to come to terms with the Dominican’s idiosyncrasies.
‘On the contrary,’ said Clippesby mildly. ‘I know because I saw Drax make the purchase myself. And if you do not believe me, then ask the King’s Head geese, because they were there, too.’
‘Hah!’ Thelnetham grimaced. ‘I knew there would be an animal involved somewhere. Ignore him, Brother. The man is moon-touched.’
‘Unfortunately, none of us could see the seller,’ Clippesby went on. ‘But we can tell you that the transaction took place outside the Gilbertine Priory last Friday night.’
Thelnetham started. ‘Last Friday? Then I saw the transaction, too! And I saw the geese, although I did not notice you. However, I wondered what had set them a-honking. I watched Drax approach a man who gave him something. It was that burly lout – Emma’s son-in-law.’
‘Heslarton?’ asked Michael. ‘Why would he be selling pilgrim badges? And why outside a convent, when Drax’s wife is a regular visitor to his home, and he could have given it to her?’
‘Perhaps he did not want his fearsome mother-in-law to know what he was doing,’ suggested Thelnetham. He shuddered. ‘I would certainly not enjoy having the likes of her breathing down my neck at every turn. However, I did hear Heslarton tell Drax that what he was about to purchase – which I now learn was a signaculum – was solid gold, and that it came with a special dispensation for pardoning all sins.’
Clippesby pulled a face. ‘Personally, I do not think God is very impressed by indulgences.’
‘That is heresy,’ said William, who always had opinions about such matters. ‘The Church has been selling indulgences for years, and it is sacrilege to say they are worthless.’
‘You both misunderstand the meaning of indulgences,’ snapped Thelnetham testily. ‘They are not pardons, to secure the buyer’s salvation, and they cannot release the soul from Purgatory.’
‘Thelnetham is right,’ agreed Michael. ‘It is the extra-sacramental remission of the temporal punishment due, in God’s justice, to a sin that has been forgiven—’
‘Rubbish,’ interrupted Suttone. ‘Some writs of indulgence specifically state indulgentia a culpa et a poena, which means release from guilt and from punishment.’
‘That is not what it means,’ declared Thelnetham. Bartholomew felt his eyes begin to close, as they often did when his colleagues embarked on theological debates. ‘Such a notion runs contrary to all the teachings of the Church. What it means is—’
‘It means the rich can buy their way into Heaven,’ said William. ‘It is unfair, but it is not for us to question these things. And anyone who disagrees with me is a fool.’
They were still arguing about the nature of pardons and indulgences when they adjourned to the conclave – the small, comfortable room next to the hall – for a few moments of respite before the rest of the day’s teaching. Thelnetham announced that he had been on a pilgrimage to Canterbury, where he had bought a signaculum – in this case, an ampoule containing a piece of cloth soaked in St Thomas Becket’s blood. He had given it to his Mother House at Sempringham.
‘But they sold it to a merchant for a lot of money,’ he concluded with a grimace. ‘And I learned the lesson that only idiots are generous. It probably ended up with a man like Drax – a sinner who lied about doing the pilgrimage himself. Perhaps it is divine justice that he came to such an end.’
Bartholomew looked at him sharply, thinking it was not a remark most clerics would have made. He also recalled that Thelnetham had not been teaching in the hall when the accident had occurred, although the Gilbertine had joined the Fellows in watching Drax excavated afterwards. He shook himself angrily, and wondered whether he had helped Michael solve too many crimes, because it was hardly kind to think such unpleasant thoughts about his colleagues.
‘Some signacula are very beautiful,’ mused Michael wistfully. ‘I have always wanted to examine one closely. Perhaps even to hold it, and admire its craftsmanship.’
‘I bought you one,’ said Bartholomew, suddenly remembering something he had done a long time ago, and that he had all but forgotten. ‘Although I cannot recall if it was especially beautiful.’
Michael regarded him askance. ‘You never did!’
‘It must still be in the chest in my room. I keep meaning to unpack it, but there is never enough time. I bought it two years ago, when I was looking for … whe
n I was travelling.’
Bartholomew had been going to say when he had been looking for Matilde, but was disinclined to raise a subject that was still painful for him.
‘Where from, exactly?’ asked Michael keenly. ‘I know you went to Walsingham and Lourdes.’
‘From Santiago de Compostela.’
Michael gaped at him. ‘But that is one of the three holiest pilgrim sites in the world, on a par with Jerusalem and Rome! Are you saying you brought me a gift from a sacred shrine, then simply forgot to hand it over, even though you have been home for nigh on eighteen months?’
Bartholomew supposed he was, but Michael was glaring, and it did not seem prudent to say so. He flailed around for a pretext to excuse his carelessness, but nothing credible came to mind.
‘Do you still have it?’ asked Suttone eagerly. ‘I have never seen a pilgrim token from Compostela. Did you touch it against the shrine? Wash it in holy water, and do all the other things that make these items sacred?’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘And the Bishop blessed it for me.’
‘I had no idea you visited Compostela,’ said Ayera, eyeing him curiously. ‘Why have you never mentioned it? I was under the impression you spent all your time in foreign universities, watching necromancers perform anatomies on hapless corpses.’
‘Not all my time,’ muttered Bartholomew.
Langelee stood. ‘Then let us find this token. Michael and Suttone are not alone in never seeing one from Compostela, although I have handled plenty from Walsingham, Canterbury and so forth.’
‘And Cambridge,’ added Suttone. ‘Cambridge is a place of pilgrimage, too, because it is where St Simon Stock had his vision. At the Carmelite Priory.’
‘You want me to look now?’ asked Bartholomew, startled when all the Fellows followed Langelee’s lead and surged to their feet. ‘But I may not be able to find it, and teaching starts soon.’
‘The students will not mind a delay,’ predicted Langelee. ‘And if they do, I will tell Deynman to read to them. That will shut them up, because his Latin is all but incomprehensible.’
‘Why may you not be able to find it?’ demanded Michael, ignoring the fact that the Master was hardly in a position to criticise someone else’s grasp of the language, given that his own was rudimentary, to say the least.
‘I think it is in that box, but it has been a long time since I have looked in it, and—’
‘Matt!’ cried Michael, dismayed. ‘Are you saying you might have lost it?’
Bartholomew regarded him guiltily. ‘Very possibly, yes.’
With the Fellows at his heels, Bartholomew led the way to his room, wondering why he had forgotten the badge until now. He had been to some trouble to acquire it – cheap signacula were sold by the dozen to pilgrims, but he had wanted something rather better for Michael, who was a man of discerning tastes. He had purchased the best one he could find, then ensured it spent a night on top of the shrine, paid a bishop to bless it, and dipped it in holy water from Jerusalem. And after all that, he had shoved it in a travelling box and neglected to unpack it.
Valence was sitting at the desk in the window, scribbling furiously as he struggled to complete an exercise that should have been finished the previous evening. He looked up in surprise when the Fellows crammed into the chamber. Bartholomew stood with his hands on his hips, desperately trying to remember where he had put the chest in question.
‘Under the bed,’ supplied Valence promptly, when Michael told him what they were doing. ‘Right at the back. I have always wondered what was in it, and would have looked, but it is locked.’
‘Is it?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily. He had no idea where to find the key.
Valence disappeared under the bed, and emerged a few moments later with the small, leather-bound box that the physician had toted all the way through France, Spain and Italy. It was dusty, battered, and trailed cobwebs. Bartholomew set it on the bed and sat next to it. The lock was substantial, and of a better quality than he remembered. He doubted he could force it.
‘I do not have the key,’ he said apologetically, wincing when there was a chorus of disappointed groans and cries, the loudest of them from Michael.
‘Allow me,’ said Langelee, drawing his dagger. ‘I did this for the Archbishop many times.’
He inserted the tip of his blade into the keyhole, and began to jiggle it. Students crowded at the window, curiosity piqued by the sight of the Master and all his Fellows in Bartholomew’s room. Even Clippesby’s piglet was among the throng, eyes fixed intently on Langelee’s manoeuvrings.
‘Hah!’ exclaimed the Master, as there was a sharp click and the lock sprang open. He opened the lid and peered inside. ‘Here is a very fine dagger, although it is not very sharp.’
‘It is a letter-opener,’ explained Bartholomew. ‘I bought it for you.’
‘For me?’ asked Langelee. He grinned his delight. ‘How thoughtful! I shall begin honing it tonight. It is a beautiful implement, but it will be lovelier still when it is sharp enough to be useful.’
Bartholomew regarded him unhappily, wishing the Master was not always so ready to revert to the soldier he had once been. It was hardly seemly in an academic.
‘My signaculum,’ prompted Michael impatiently. ‘Where is it?’
It was at the bottom of the chest, wrapped in cloth. There were other gifts Bartholomew had forgotten about, too – a mother-of-pearl comb for William, a tiny painting of St Francis of Assisi for Clippesby, and a book of plague poems for Suttone. There was an embroidered purse and a silver buckle, too, intended for friends who were now dead, so he gave them to Thelnetham and Ayera. While they cooed their delight, he spotted two anatomy texts he had purchased in Salerno, and closed the lid hastily. He would look at them later, when he was alone.
‘What else is in there?’ asked William, running the comb through his greasy locks as he eyed the chest speculatively.
‘Nothing,’ mumbled Bartholomew, careful not to catch anyone’s eye. He was not a good liar.
‘It is exquisite, Matt,’ said Michael, pushing students out of the way so he could examine his gift in the light from the window. ‘Gold, too.’
‘Is it?’ Bartholomew knew it had been expensive, but could not recall why. Not being very interested in such things, it had not stuck in his mind.
‘It will not get you into Heaven, though, Brother,’ warned Thelnetham. ‘As I said in the conclave, that only happens through personal merit, not because you happen to own signacula.’
‘I know all that,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘But I am never going to see Compostela myself, so this is the next best thing.’
‘Actually, I believe it might reduce your time in Purgatory,’ countered Suttone. ‘Matthew made the pilgrimage, but he was clearly thinking of you when he did it, so your badge is important. You are wrong, Thelnetham: owning or buying such items can help one’s immortal soul.’
‘Drax thought the same,’ said Bartholomew, speaking before they could argue. He knew from experience that debates among theologians could go on for a very long time, and was eager to return to his teaching. ‘He believed the Walsingham signaculum, bought from Heslarton, would help his soul. Why else would he have worn it in his hat?’
William pointed at Michael’s token with his comb. ‘Do you know how much that is worth? A fortune! Not only is it precious metal and exquisitely made, but it has all the right blessings on it, too. Men will pay dearly for that.’
‘Really?’ asked Langelee keenly. ‘How much?’
‘It is not for sale,’ said Michael firmly. ‘Not even for Michaelhouse’s roof.’
‘My Carmelite brethren sell pilgrim tokens, here in Cambridge,’ said Suttone idly, his attention more on his new book than the discussion. ‘Our shrine does not attract vast numbers, like the ones in Hereford, Walsingham or Canterbury, but we make a tidy profit, even so.’
‘Do they hawk bits of St Simon Stock’s relic?’ asked Langelee. ‘I have heard that folk who die wearing a Carm
elite scapular go straight to Heaven, but a scrap of the original will surely set one at God’s right hand.’
‘We would never sell that,’ declared Suttone, looking up in horror. Then he reconsidered. ‘Well, we might, I suppose, if the price was right.’
‘White Friars are not going to get to Heaven before Franciscans,’ declared William hotly. ‘And I do not know what the Blessed Virgin thought she was doing when she gave that scapular to Simon Stock. She should have appeared to a Grey Friar instead, because we would not be charging a fortune for folk to see the spot where this delivery occurred.’
‘Yes, you would,’ countered Suttone. ‘It is an excellent opportunity for raising much-needed revenue, and the Franciscans would have seized it with alacrity. Look at how much money they are making from Walsingham – more than we will see in a hundred years!’
‘That is different,’ said William stiffly, although he did not deign to explain why.
‘I think I had better make a pilgrimage to the Carmelite Priory,’ said Langelee. ‘I did one or two dubious favours for the Archbishop of York, you see, and I would not like to think of them held against me on Judgment Day.’
Clippesby regarded him reproachfully. ‘If you want forgiveness for past sins, Master, you must be truly penitent. Walking to Milne Street is not enough.’
‘It is, according to Suttone,’ replied Langelee cheerfully. ‘And it suits me to believe him.’
Bartholomew had intended to spend what remained of the day teaching, but Michael had other ideas. Ignoring the physician’s objections, he commandeered his help to search the area around Michaelhouse, to find the place where Drax had been stabbed. Unfortunately, St Michael’s Lane was home to several hostels, all of which owned a number of disused or infrequently visited sheds, and the task proved to be harder than he had anticipated.
‘We are wasting our time,’ said Bartholomew, after a while. ‘This is hopeless.’
The Killer Of Pilgrims: The Sixteenth Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 12