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

by Gregory, Susanna

  ‘What is wrong?’ asked Edith, when he had finished. ‘Are you despondent because Drax is to be buried this afternoon, and he was one of Michaelhouse’s benefactors?’

  ‘Lord!’ muttered Bartholomew, disgusted with himself for forgetting. ‘Langelee wants Thelnetham and me to attend that, to represent Michaelhouse.’

  And, he recalled, Michael had asked him to observe the congregation, with a view to assessing whether Drax’s killer might be in attendance. The monk had wanted to be there, too, to judge the situation for himself, but the fire at York Hostel meant he would probably miss it, so it was down to his Corpse Examiner to take advantage of the occasion.

  ‘I am going, too,’ said Edith, reaching for her cloak, a fine, warm garment of dark red. ‘So we shall stand together. I cannot say I like Celia, but she may appreciate my support.’

  ‘Do you know her well, then?’ asked Bartholomew.

  Edith shook her head. ‘She married Drax shortly after he lost his fingers in an accident, and I suspect she was attracted by the compensation he was paid by Yffi. It is difficult to admire such a woman, and I confess I have not tried very hard to befriend her.’

  ‘I heard they argued a lot,’ said Bartholomew, wondering if she would confirm Dickon’s claim.

  Edith laughed. ‘What married couple does not? Do not look dubious, Matt! If you had wed Matilde, you would know it is true.’

  Bartholomew doubted it, but wished he had been granted the chance to find out.

  No one at All Saints Church seemed particularly distressed by Drax’s demise, and few mourners gave more than a fleeting glance at the coffin as they greeted each other cheerfully and loudly. Bartholomew was under the distinct impression that the taverner would not be missed.

  ‘I suspected you might forget so I thought I had better come, too,’ said Langelee to Bartholomew, arriving with Thelnetham at his heels. ‘Drax was a benefactor, and it would not do for our College to be under-represented.’

  ‘Not a very generous benefactor,’ said Thelnetham, fastidiously rearranging the puce bow that prevented his hood from flying up in the wind. ‘He gave us a few candles in exchange for a princely number of masses. The man certainly knew how to drive a bargain.’

  ‘I should not have bothered to come,’ said Edith unhappily. ‘I detest these occasions, and Celia does not look as though she needs the comfort of acquaintances.’

  Bartholomew looked to where she pointed. Celia was composed and vibrant, clearly enjoying the attention that was being lavished on her. Odelina was at her side, simpering at any man who was young and handsome, and evidently thinking that a funeral was as good a place as any to hunt a beau idéal. Emma was there, too, with Heslarton, so Bartholomew excused himself and went to talk to them, intending to pose a few questions on Michael’s behalf.

  ‘Have you found the yellow-headed thief yet?’ he asked.

  Heslarton scowled. ‘No, although not from want of trying. Still, he cannot elude me for ever. Stealing my mother’s box was a vile crime, but harming my daughter …’

  ‘And killing Alice,’ added Emma, almost as an afterthought. ‘But we shall have him. Such a man cannot be allowed to walk the streets with decent, honest folk. We shall ensure he faces justice.’

  ‘He is committing other crimes, too,’ said Heslarton. ‘Just last night, a man matching his description collided with Celia. When he had gone, she found her pilgrim badge missing.’

  ‘He made her stumble, and stole it while he pretended to steady her,’ explained Emma. ‘My new physician has lost a token, too. Well, he told me he dropped it, but I imagine it was stolen.’

  Bartholomew was about to question them further, when a rustle of cloth made him turn around. It was Celia, all smug smiles and expensive new clothes. He did not think he had ever seen her look so radiant. Heslarton apparently thought so, too, because he gazed admiringly at her.

  ‘I have decided not to blame your College for its role in my husband’s demise,’ she said to Bartholomew. ‘So you and your colleagues can leave if you like.’

  ‘That is not why we came,’ said Bartholomew, a little indignant. ‘We are here to pray for Drax.’

  Celia raised her eyebrows. ‘Why? I doubt the Almighty will listen to the petitions of a warlock.’

  ‘I hear you have lost a signaculum,’ said Bartholomew, goaded into introducing a subject he suspected would annoy her. ‘Did you buy it, like your husband bought his?’

  He watched Heslarton, to see if he would react to this remark, but he remained impassive, and Bartholomew was not sure what to think. However, a flash of something unreadable from Emma’s black eyes warned him that he was on dangerous ground.

  Celia smiled slyly. ‘It was a gift from an admirer. I decided to wear it on my cloak, but then some yellow-headed thief jostled me, and it was gone. Master Heslarton has promised to see him at the end of a rope for his crime.’

  ‘I am recovered,’ came a voice at Bartholomew’s shoulder. It was Odelina, smiling in a way that was vaguely predatory. ‘You saved my life, and I shall always be grateful.’

  ‘He probably did it with sorcery,’ said Celia snidely.

  Suspecting denials would serve no purpose – and a little uncomfortable when Emma regarded him as if she was favourably impressed – Bartholomew returned to Edith, to begin studying the mourners for Michael. He looked around rather helplessly, not sure where to start.

  The gloomy Prior Etone and gap-toothed Horneby stood near the front, but although they chanted the responses and stood with heads bowed, their expressions were distant, as though they were thinking of other things. Welfry was with them, his boot-shaped signaculum dwarfed by the larger badge that marked him as the University’s new Seneschal.

  Etone’s wealthy pilgrims knelt to one side. Muttering furiously, the two nuns leaned towards each other, and Bartholomew realised with astonishment that they were competing to see who could recite the fastest psalms. Meanwhile, Fen’s eyes were fixed on the high altar, and his face wore an oddly ecstatic expression. Bartholomew followed the direction of his gaze, but could see only a wooden cross and two cheap candles. Poynton yawned, apparently struggling to stay awake.

  Isnard and several cronies from the Michaelhouse Choir were behind them, and Welfry had trouble controlling his laughter when they joined in some of the musical responses. But his mirth faded abruptly when Emma edged away, one hand to her jaw. He was not a man to find amusement in the discomfort of others.

  The surly scholars of Chestre Hostel were near the back, jostling anyone who came too close. Their victims included Brother Jude and Prior Leccheworth of the Gilbertines. Leccheworth stumbled impressively when he was shoved, but it was Neyll who reeled away clutching a bruised arm when the manoeuvre failed to have a similar effect on the beefy Jude.

  Yffi and his lads lounged in the aisle. The apprentices looked bored, obviously wishing they were somewhere else. About halfway through the ceremony, Emma beckoned Yffi towards her and began whispering. Yffi nodded frequently, and there was an expression of sly satisfaction on the old woman’s face that was distinctly unsettling.

  Odelina passed the time by making eyes at two knights from the castle. Celia was next to her, hands folded prayerfully. But the ritual was a protracted one, and it was not long before she began to sigh her impatience. Heslarton stared longingly at her all the while, clearly smitten.

  Finally, there was a large contingent of Drax’s customers, including Blaston and a number of his artisan friends. Blaston was pale and suitably sombre, but the others were more interested in discussing whether it would be ale or wine provided after the ceremony for mourners.

  Bartholomew looked around unhappily. The occasion had attracted a large crowd, but virtually everyone was there because it was expected of them – or for the free refreshments afterwards – not because they felt any sadness at Drax’s passing. Of course, he thought with a guilty pang, he was no different. Chagrined, he bowed his head and said his prayers, although Celia’s words kept e
choing in his head, and he could not help but question whether the petitions of a man thought to commune with the Devil were doing Drax any good. At last the service ended. He saw Edith home, visited two more patients, then walked back to Michaelhouse.

  When he arrived, Cynric was waiting to tell him he was needed at the Dominican Priory. With a weary sigh, he made for the gate again, grateful when the Welshman fell in at his side. His spirits were oddly low that day, and he welcomed the company.

  The Dominicans’ convent lay outside the town, and to reach it Bartholomew exited through the Barnwell Gate and walked along the Hadstock Way. With no buildings for shelter, it was bitterly cold, and the wind sliced wickedly through his cloak. It was not raining, but the sky was overcast, and he wondered if there was snow in the air. He said as much to Cynric.

  ‘No,’ replied the book-bearer. ‘It will not snow again this year.’

  ‘You seem very sure,’ remarked Bartholomew suspiciously.

  Cynric nodded. ‘I am sure. I dislike snow, because it makes you leave tell-tale footprints when you visit haunts you would rather no one else knew about. So I went to a witch, and enquired how much more we might expect this year. She told me none.’

  ‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, not liking to ask what sort of places Cynric frequented that he would rather were kept secret. ‘You should ask for your money back, because it is snowing now.’

  Cynric inspected the flecks of ice that were settling on their clothes, and sniffed dismissively. ‘This is not snow, it is a flurry. There is a difference.’

  Bartholomew did not see how, but they had arrived at the priory, so he knocked on the gate. It was a large complex, comprising a church, chapels, refectory, dormitory, chapter house and a range of outbuildings. Virtually all the Dominicans had died during the plague, because they had bravely ministered to the sick and dying and had become victims themselves. But their numbers had grown since, and now they numbered about forty. They were under the command of Prior Morden – no academic but a popular leader. When a lay-brother opened the door, a gale of laughter wafted out.

  ‘I am not coming in,’ said Cynric, backing away. ‘Last time, they put a bucket of water over the door, so I was doused as I passed through. These Black Friars have a childish sense of humour.’

  They did, and Bartholomew doubted the situation had improved since the arrival of the ebullient Welfry. He entered the convent cautiously, stepping over the almost invisible rope that had been placed to make visitors trip.

  Prior Morden came to greet him. He had clearly been enjoying himself: there were tears of laughter in his eyes and he could hardly keep the smile from his face. He was one of the smallest men Bartholomew had ever met, although his head and limbs were in perfect proportion to the rest of his body. He wore a beautiful cloak and matching habit, and a pair of tiny leather boots.

  ‘We had a mishap during our afternoon meal,’ said Morden, leading him towards the infirmary. He began to chortle. ‘I thought we should dine on something special today, you see. The winter has been exceptionally hard, and we are all tired of bread and peas.’

  ‘How special?’ asked Bartholomew warily, hoping the entire convent had not been provided with bad meat or some such thing. He did not think Morden’s idea of a joke was to poison everyone, but with the Dominicans, one could never be sure.

  Morden grinned. ‘I added a little colouring to the pottage, so it turned blue. But that was not what caused the real trouble. It was the roof.’

  ‘The roof,’ echoed Bartholomew flatly, wondering what was coming next.

  ‘Brother Harold arranged for part of it to come down during the meal,’ explained Morden. ‘Well, not the roof exactly, but several baskets containing leaves, scraps of parchment, feathers and other sundries – things that float. It was his intention to shower the novices, and give them a start.’

  ‘And I suppose the baskets fell, too, and someone happened to be underneath one,’ surmised Bartholomew. ‘Really, Father! This is not the first time you have summoned me to treat members of your community who have suffered physical harm from these jests. They are getting out of hand.’

  ‘I will order them curtailed,’ said Morden sheepishly. ‘Come. Your patient is waiting.’

  ‘Who is it?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking it was testament to the wildness of the Dominicans’ sense of humour that he knew most of them fairly well.

  ‘Welfry. He was sitting with the novices today because he has been teaching them Aristotle. Oh, well, he will know better next time.’

  ‘Let us hope there will not be a next time,’ muttered Bartholomew.

  Welfry was lying on a cot in the infirmary. His normally smiling face was pale, and feathers and leaves still adhered to his habit. They stuck to the glove on his left hand, too, while a scrap of parchment had lodged itself in the boot-shaped signaculum that was pinned at his shoulder.

  ‘Ah, Matthew,’ he said weakly as Morden conducted the physician to his bedside. ‘I have been brained by a basket, and my head feels as though it might split asunder.’

  ‘I understand you were the victim of a joke,’ said Bartholomew, kneeling next to him and inspecting the abused pate under its mop of tawny hair.

  ‘A joke,’ growled Welfry, looking pointedly at Morden. ‘Is that what you call it?’

  ‘It was funny,’ objected Morden.

  ‘No,’ corrected Welfry sternly. ‘It ended in bloodshed, which means it was not amusing. Harold needs to make sure this kind of thing does not happen when he executes his pranks. I am proud of my intellect, and I do not want it splattered all over the refectory in the name of humour.’

  ‘It will not happen again,’ said Morden. ‘He is mortified by what has happened, and I have ordered him to work in the gardens for the next month, as a punishment.’

  Welfry waved a weary hand. ‘It would be better if you let me have him for a month instead. He could learn a lot – including how to secure baskets to rafters.’

  ‘It is not a good idea to encourage Harold’s penchant for clownery,’ said Bartholomew in alarm.

  ‘We shall see,’ said Morden. ‘But what can you do to help poor Welfry? We are all delighted by his appointment as Seneschal, but he says he might have to resign if his injury is irreparable.’

  ‘It is not irreparable,’ said Bartholomew, rummaging in his bag for the poultice of elder leaves, poppy petals and oil that he used in such situations. ‘He has a nasty lump, but that is all.’

  ‘Thank God,’ said Morden, crossing himself. ‘I had better tell Harold, because he is beside himself with worry. Thank you, Matthew. Here is a shilling for your pains – more than we usually pay, because I know you will spend it all on medicines for the poor.’

  He was gone before the physician could thank him, tiny feet clattering across the flagstones. Bartholomew turned his attention back to the poultice.

  ‘I keep meaning to ask you about the illumination of St Mary the Great,’ he said as he worked. ‘Do you know how it was managed?’

  ‘That was Kendale, not me.’ Welfry smiled wanly. ‘But I wish it had been! It was an incredible achievement, especially the device he called a “fuse”.’

  ‘A fuse?’

  ‘Yes – a piece of twine smeared with some substance that made it burn at a steady and reliable rate. It allowed all his buckets of sludge to be ignited simultaneously, and was highly ingenious.’

  ‘I see,’ said Bartholomew. ‘What did his sludge comprise, exactly?’

  ‘I wish I knew. I tried to question him, but he was … let us say less than forthcoming.’

  ‘You are friends with him?’

  ‘Hardly! My Order has taken the side of the Colleges in this ridiculous spat with the hostels, so he would sooner die than forge a friendship with me. In fact, when I asked for details of his trick, all enthusiasm and admiration, he said that unless I got out of his way, he would skewer me.’

  Bartholomew shook his head in disgust. ‘And that is why I am sceptical of the claims that he wa
s the instigator. It seems too harmless a prank for him.’

  ‘It was a challenge to the Colleges,’ said Welfry, mock-serious. ‘There was nothing harmless about it. Besides, Valence thinks his real intention was to set Gonville Hall alight.’

  ‘Do you believe that?’

  Welfry considered the question carefully. ‘No. It would be malicious beyond words, and I cannot believe a fellow scholar would stoop so low. But it is a pity Kendale is so sullen, for he possesses a formidable intellect. I would relish some mental sparring with him.’

  ‘Are you sure you do not know the formula for his sludge?’ pressed Bartholomew. ‘You cannot even hazard a guess?’

  ‘From the odour that lingered afterwards, I would say it contained brimstone and some sort of tarry pitch. But there will have been other ingredients, and I cannot begin to imagine what they were.’ Welfry brightened. ‘We answered the challenge by putting the ox and cart on the Gilbertines’ roof. And no one was maimed, incinerated or brained while we did so.’

  ‘The next time the hostels play a prank, it might be best not to respond. Michael spent much of today trying to quell disturbances, and more tricks will only exacerbate the matter.’

  ‘I beg to differ,’ argued Welfry. ‘The ox and cart served to calm troubled waters – it made scholars laugh instead of fight, and hostilities eased for several days. Until Kendale thought up that nasty business with the bull. Then the situation turned angry again.’

  ‘I hope it ends soon,’ said Bartholomew fervently. ‘I do not want the streets running with blood.’

  ‘Nor do I,’ said Welfry. ‘But I shall do all in my power to make people smile, because I honestly believe humour is the best way to defuse this horrible tension.’

  ‘You may be right,’ conceded Bartholomew. ‘I suppose it is worth a try.’

  Welfry’s smile turned rueful. ‘I know I am not much of a friar, with my love of laughter, but if I can use my wits to confine this feud to a series of harmless pranks, then perhaps God will overlook my flaws. And if not, I can always go on a pilgrimage – this time to somewhere rather more holy than the site where John Schorne conjured the Devil into a boot.’