The Killer Of Pilgrims: The Sixteenth Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew)

by Gregory, Susanna

  ‘We must persist,’ said Michael. ‘It stands to reason that Drax was killed nearby – he was not very big, but corpses are heavy, even so. Moreover, a killer would not risk toting one too far.’

  ‘I cannot imagine why a killer would tote one at all,’ grumbled Bartholomew, poking half-heartedly around Physwick Hostel’s old dairy with a stick. The place was filled, for some unaccountable reason, with broken barrels. ‘Unless …’

  ‘Unless what?’ asked Michael, glancing up.

  ‘We saw Kendale arguing with Drax. And Kendale’s hostel is near Michaelhouse. It would not be difficult to carry a corpse to our College from Chestre. Perhaps we should be looking there: not in abandoned outbuildings, but in the hostel itself.’

  Michael grimaced. ‘That has already occurred to me, I assure you. Unfortunately, Kendale is the kind of man to take umbrage, and I cannot risk him taking the College–hostel dispute to a new level of acrimony. I must wait until I have solid evidence before we search his home.’

  ‘Does this qualify as solid evidence?’ asked Bartholomew soberly. He stood back so Michael could see what he had found. ‘It is blood. A lot of it.’

  ‘You think this is our murder scene?’ asked Michael, looking away quickly. The red-black, sticky puddle was an unsettling sight.

  Bartholomew crouched down to look more closely, then nodded. ‘The volume seems right, and you can see a smear here, where a body was moved. However, from the pooling, I suspect Drax lay dead for some time – hours, probably – before he was taken to Michaelhouse.’

  ‘Lord!’ breathed Michael. ‘Then we are dealing with a very bold and ruthless individual, because most murderers do not return to tamper with their victims after they have made their escape. It shows he must have been very determined to cause trouble for Michaelhouse.’

  ‘Which may mean Kendale is the culprit – he hates the Colleges.’ Bartholomew frowned. ‘However, Kendale is clever, and this seems rather crude to me. Perhaps the killer is a member of a College, and he dumped Drax in Michaelhouse because he wants a hostel blamed for it.’

  Michael sighed. ‘Damn this ridiculous dispute! It means that even finding the spot where Drax was murdered does not help us – and we have wasted hours doing it.’

  ‘We had better talk to Physwick,’ said Bartholomew. ‘They are more reasonable than Chestre, so I do not think questioning them will result in a riot.’

  ‘It might, if they are guilty of murder,’ muttered Michael, trailing after him.

  Physwick Hostel was a dismal place in winter. The fire that flickered in its hearth was too small to make much difference to the temperature of the hall, and all its windows leaked. It reeked of tallow candles, unwashed feet, wet wool and boiled cabbage. Its Principal was John Howes, a skinny lawyer with oily hair and bad teeth, who had ten students and three masters under his care.

  ‘We are sorry about Drax,’ he announced, before Michael could state the purpose of his visit. ‘He rented our dairy to store old ale barrels from his taverns, and we need all the money we can get in these terrible times. He did not pay much, but a penny a week is a penny a week.’

  ‘Why did he want to store old barrels?’ asked Bartholomew curiously.

  ‘He was too mean to throw them away,’ explained Howes. ‘He once told me he planned to reclaim the metal hoops, and sell the wood to the charcoal burners.’

  ‘He was killed there,’ said Michael baldly. ‘We found his blood.’

  ‘Did you? How horrible!’ Howes shuddered. ‘That means one of us will have to go out with a mop and a bucket of water, because we cannot afford to pay anyone else to do it. Unless cleaning murder scenes comes under the Corpse Examiner’s remit?’ he asked hopefully.

  ‘No, it does not,’ said Bartholomew shortly. ‘Did any of you see or hear anything on Monday morning that may help us catch his killer?’

  ‘Not really. We went out twice on Monday – once not long after dawn, when we attended a service in the Gilbertines’ chapel, and again mid-afternoon when we were invited to see St Simon Stock’s scapular. We can see the dairy from our hall here, but we do not look at it much.’

  ‘But they would probably have noticed the comings and goings of strangers,’ murmured Michael to Bartholomew, as they took their leave. ‘So their testimony has helped.’

  Bartholomew nodded. ‘It tells us for certain that Drax was killed shortly after dawn, when they went out the first time. The pooled blood proves the body lay for several hours in the dairy, then was moved to Michaelhouse when they went out for the second time – probably after I started teaching, when Blaston was in the stable, and when Yffi and his boys were on the roof discussing Yolande’s skills in the bedchamber.’

  ‘A discussion that ensured all attention was drawn upwards,’ said Michael. ‘Away from the yard. I see we shall have to have another word with Yffi and his louts.’

  Once outside, they began to walk towards the Carmelite Priory, to check Physwick’s alibi, although both believed Howes’s testimony. They had not gone far before Bartholomew was diverted to Trinity Hall, where a student was nursing a bleeding mouth. There had been a fight between that College and Cosyn’s Hostel.

  ‘It would never have degenerated into blows a week ago,’ said the Master, Adam de Wickmer worriedly. ‘Our relationship with Cosyn’s has always involved cheeky banter, but never violence, and I am shocked that punches have been traded.’

  ‘So am I,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I do not understand why previously amiable relationships have suddenly turned sour.’

  ‘Oh, I understand that,’ said Wickmer bitterly. ‘The paupers in the hostels have always been jealous of our wealth, and they are probably hoping that there will be an all-out battle in which they can invade us and steal our moveable possessions.’

  Bartholomew stared at him. ‘I hope you are wrong.’

  ‘So do I,’ said Wickmer. ‘But the hostels are suffering from the expense of a long, hard winter, and Kendale has been fanning the flames of discontent and envy. I have a bad feeling it will all end in blood and tears.’

  Later that evening, Bartholomew set off to meet his medical colleagues. Meryfeld had been intrigued by the notion of devising a lamp with a constant flame, and had decided that if university-trained physicians could not invent one, then nobody could. He had sent messages asking all three of his colleagues to come to his house, so they might commence the project.

  Bartholomew was the last to arrive, because his students, alarmed by their poor performance during his earlier inquisition, had tried to make amends with a plethora of questions. The delay meant he was obliged to run all the way to Bridge Street, where Meryfeld occupied the handsome stone mansion that stood between Sheriff Tulyet’s home and Celia Drax’s.

  When he was shown into Meryfeld’s luxurious solar, Bartholomew was astonished to see that Rougham of Gonville Hall had accepted the invitation, too. Rougham was a busy man, or so he told everyone, and Bartholomew was amazed that he should deign to spare the time to experiment with colleagues. He was an unattractive fellow, arrogant and overbearing, and although he no longer cried heresy every time Bartholomew voiced an opinion, the two would never be friends.

  ‘Meryfeld’s proposition sounded intriguing,’ he explained, when he saw Bartholomew’s reaction to his presence. ‘I struggled to read my astrological charts last night, and may have made an error when I calculated the Mayor’s horoscope. A bright lamp would be very useful.’

  ‘It is not so much the lamp as the fuel,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We need a mixture that will burn steadily – one that does not require too many exotic ingredients or the cost will be prohibitive.’

  ‘Not for me,’ said Rougham smugly. ‘I make a respectable living from medicine, and so do Gyseburne and Meryfeld. You are the only one who lets the poor dictate his income.’

  ‘I plan to devote more time to the poor in future,’ announced Gyseburne. He shrugged when the others stared at him. ‘It will be good for my soul, and God will take it into account w
hen I die.’

  ‘Yes – dealing with the indigent is a lot safer than doing a pilgrimage,’ said Meryfeld. His face clouded for a moment. ‘I was robbed and almost killed en route to Canterbury.’

  ‘I have been to Canterbury, too,’ said Gyseburne. ‘Although I had no trouble with brigands, thank the good Lord. Here is the signaculum I bought there. It contains real Becket water.’

  He showed them a tiny bottle filled with a pinkish liquid, attached to his hat by means of a silver wire. With a flourish, Meryfeld presented his, which was almost identical, but in gold, and which he wore pinned to his cloak. Bartholomew was somewhat ashamed to realise that he had seen the badges on many previous occasions, but had never thought to question their meaning.

  ‘I am not risking it again,’ said Meryfeld with a shudder. ‘Of course, there will be no need for penitential journeys if I accept a few pro bono cases from Bartholomew.’

  Gyseburne gave the grimace that passed as a smile. ‘I am glad, because it is unfair that he sees all the poor, while we tend the rich. We should share the burden.’

  ‘Well, I do not think I shall oblige, if it is all the same to you,’ said Rougham haughtily. ‘My soul is not in need of any such disagreeable sacrifices.’

  Loath to waste time listening to whose soul needed what – and afraid someone might conclude that he, who did so much charity work, might own one that was especially tainted – Bartholomew turned the conversation back to the lamp. The four medici spent a few moments discussing the benefits their invention would bring, then turned to the practical business of experimentation. Gyseburne had brought some brimstone, Bartholomew a bag of charcoal, Meryfeld some pitch, and Rougham provided a sticky kind of oil that he said burned well.

  They opened the window when the stench became too much, then were compelled to take their research into the garden when Rougham claimed he felt sick. Bartholomew began to wonder whether they were wise to meddle with substances none of them really understood, but the venture had captured his imagination, and he was intrigued by it. He was also enjoying himself – he was beginning to like his new colleagues, while Rougham seemed less abrasive in their company.

  He was about to ignite their latest concoction when he saw a movement over the wall that divided Meryfeld’s house from the property next door.

  ‘Perhaps we should do this elsewhere,’ he said uneasily, realising that four physicians standing around a reeking cauldron was exactly the kind of spectacle that would attract Dickon.

  ‘Unfortunately, that is impracticable,’ said Rougham. ‘If we go to Michaelhouse or Gonville Hall, we will be pestered by students. And Gyseburne has no garden.’

  ‘But Dickon Tulyet is watching,’ explained Bartholomew. ‘I would not like him to copy what we are doing, and hurt himself.’

  ‘I would,’ said Meryfeld fervently. ‘He lobs rotten apples at me when I walk among my trees, and his language is disgusting. When I complained, Sheriff Tulyet did not believe me.’

  ‘The boy is not his,’ said Rougham, matter-of-factly. ‘It is common knowledge that the Devil sired Dickon one night, when his father was out.’

  ‘Mistress Tulyet would not have gone along with that,’ said Bartholomew, feeling compelled to defend the honour of his friend’s wife, although he did not care what people thought about Dickon.

  ‘I find it strange that Dickon is so large, but his father is so small,’ said Gyseburne. ‘So I am inclined to believe that there is something diabolical about the lad.’

  ‘Now, now,’ said Bartholomew mildly. ‘He is only a child.’

  ‘I am not so sure about that,’ muttered Rougham, tossing something into the pot.

  ‘Watch what you are doing!’ cried Gyseburne, as there was a sudden flare of light. Then the flames caught the potion in the pot, and there was a dull thump.

  The next thing Bartholomew knew was that he was lying on his back. At first, he thought he had turned deaf, because everything sounded as though it was underwater, but then there was a peculiar pop and it cleared. Immediately, Dickon’s braying laughter played about his ears. He eased himself up on one elbow and saw his colleagues also beginning to pick themselves up.

  ‘I do not think that was the right ratio of brimstone to pitch,’ said Gyseburne in something of an understatement, as they approached the pot and peered cautiously inside it.

  ‘No,’ agreed Meryfeld. ‘But the light it produced was very bright – I still cannot see properly – so we are working along the right track.’

  Bartholomew started to laugh when he saw the soot that covered Rougham’s face. Rougham regarded him in surprise, but then Meryfeld began to chuckle, too.

  ‘You think this is funny?’ demanded Rougham irritably. ‘We might have been killed. Worse yet, our failure was witnessed by that horrible child, and the tale will be all over Cambridge tomorrow.’

  ‘No one will believe him,’ said Meryfeld, although Bartholomew suspected Rougham was right to be concerned: such a tale was likely to be popular, whether it was true or not.

  ‘I should have paid more attention to the alchemy classes I took in Paris,’ said Gyseburne. ‘Because then I might have been able to prevent that unedifying little episode. Rougham is right: we might have been killed.’

  ‘Did you study with Nicole Oresme?’ asked Bartholomew, referring to that city’s most celebrated natural philosopher. He knew Gyseburne had attended the University in Oxford, but not that he had been to Paris, too, He was pleased: it was another thing they had in common.

  ‘I might have done,’ said Gyseburne shortly. Evidently not of a mind to discuss mutual acquaintances, he indicated the sticky mess that covered the pot. ‘Now what shall we do?’

  ‘We need to reduce the amount of brimstone,’ said Meryfeld. ‘But not tonight. We are all tired, and weariness might be dangerous while dealing with potent substances. But we have made some headway, and I am pleased with our progress. Moreover, we have learned three important lessons.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘First, we definitely need to conduct these tests outside, and second, we should experiment with smaller amounts of the stuff. But what is the third?’

  ‘That we are all as mad as March hares,’ said Meryfeld with a conspiratorial grin. ‘Let us hope we are not taken to Stourbridge Hospital as lunatics!’

  The following day was the Feast of St Gilbert of Sempringham, and because it was Thelnetham’s turn to recite the dawn offices – and St Gilbert had founded his Order – Michaelhouse found itself subjected to a much longer service than usual. Michael complained bitterly about hunger pangs, then grumbled about the quality of the food presented at breakfast. He slipped away when the meal had finished, and when Bartholomew saw him in the hall a little later he was wiping crumbs from his mouth with the back of his hand.

  Bartholomew was about to remark on it to Suttone, when he saw the Carmelite doing the same thing. In fact, he thought, looking around, all his colleagues seemed to have fortified themselves from supplies in their rooms, and he was the only one destined to be hungry all morning. He was about to feel sorry for himself when Thelnetham pressed something into his hand.

  ‘Seedcake,’ he whispered. ‘Made by a certain young baker I like. Eat it quickly. Teaching is due to start in a few moments, and I cannot pontificate when you have that half-starved look about you.’

  Somewhat startled that a self-absorbed man like Thelnetham should deign to notice a colleague’s discomfort, Bartholomew did as he was told. The cake was cloyingly sweet, and he felt slightly sick when he had finished it. There was also a curious flavour that he could not quite place, and that was not entirely pleasant. He wondered, ungraciously, whether it was past its best, and that was why Thelnetham was willing to share.

  Unusually, there were no summonses from patients that morning, and as Michael was busy briefing the new Seneschal – and so unable to pursue his investigation into the killer-thief – Bartholomew was able to teach uninterrupted until noon. Again, he put his students through th
eir paces, although he relented somewhat when the youngest one burst into tears. When the bell rang to announce the end of the morning’s teaching, he found himself suddenly dizzy, and was obliged to sit on a bench until the feeling passed.

  ‘What is the matter?’ asked Michael, back from his proctorial duties and regarding him in concern. ‘You are very pale. Shall I send for Rougham?’

  ‘Christ, no!’ Bartholomew saw Michael’s disapproving expression – the monk rarely cursed. ‘Sorry. I must have inhaled some toxic fumes in Meryfeld’s house yesterday.’

  ‘Or perhaps Dickon poisoned the tip of his sword before he stabbed you,’ suggested Thelnetham. Bartholomew jumped – he had not known the Gilbertine was there. ‘Shall I fetch you some wine?’

  Bartholomew stood. ‘Thank you, no. Cynric is beckoning, so there will be patients to see.’

  ‘Now?’ asked Michael in dismay. ‘I hoped we might make some headway with our enquiries.’

  ‘You cannot do that, Brother,’ said Cynric, overhearing as he approached. ‘Part of York Hostel is ablaze, and they are claiming arson by the Colleges. Beadle Meadowman says it is nothing of the kind, but the victims will take some convincing.’

  ‘Damn this ridiculous feud!’ snapped Michael, beginning to stamp towards the door. ‘Am I to have no time for important business?’

  Bartholomew felt better once he was out in the fresh air, although there was still an unpleasant ache in his innards. He wondered what he could have eaten to unsettle them, and supposed it was the seedcake – the other Fellows might be used to rich foods, but he was not, and should have known better than to wolf down so much of it in one go.

  He visited Chancellor Tynkell, and was sympathetic when the man complained of a roiling stomach, then trudged to the hovels in the north of the town, where three old people were dying of falling sicknesses. There was nothing he could do for any of them, and he left feeling as though he had let them down. Next, he went to his sister’s house on Milne Street, where one of the apprentices had caught a cold. He felt even more of a failure when he was obliged to say he could not cure that, either, and the ailment would have to run its course.