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

by Gregory, Susanna

  CHAPTER 5

  Bartholomew returned to Michaelhouse and taught until it was too dark to see. He took Valence and Cynric with him on his evening rounds, Valence so he might learn, and Cynric because the book-bearer was restless and wanted to be out. There were a lot of patients, and he grew steadily more despondent when he realised the list would be reduced by two-thirds if people had access to warmth and decent food. One visit took him to the Carmelite Priory, where Prior Etone wanted another report on his protégé.

  ‘It just needs time to heal,’ he said, after struggling to look down Horneby’s throat with the terrible lamp. ‘The worst is past, and I can tell you no more than I did the last time – that he must sip the blackcurrant syrup I prescribed, and avoid speaking as much as possible.’

  ‘He insisted on visiting Welfry this afternoon,’ said Etone disapprovingly. ‘And he talked then.’

  ‘Welfry is my friend, and I was worried when I heard he had been hurt,’ croaked Horneby. ‘And he did most of the talking, anyway.’

  ‘I can well imagine,’ said Etone, not entirely pleasantly. ‘But I must have Horneby fit by next Tuesday, Matthew. We cannot postpone the Stock Extraordinary Lecture.’

  ‘Why not?’ whispered Horneby. ‘What can it matter if it is delayed a week?’

  Etone’s expression was earnest. ‘Because I want those pilgrims here when it takes place. If they see we are a great centre of learning, they are more likely to be generous when they leave. The pardoner, Fen, has already intimated that he admires good scholarship.’

  ‘We should let Horneby rest,’ said Bartholomew. He could see the younger man was appalled by his Prior’s motives, and did not want him to begin a speech that would strain his voice. He followed Etone out of the dormitory, and was walking across the yard to rejoin Valence and Cynric when he became aware of a commotion near the shed containing St Simon Stock’s relic.

  ‘Now what?’ muttered Etone irritably, beginning to stride towards it. ‘The only problem with having a shrine that attracts pilgrims is that it attracts pilgrims. I know that sounds contrary, but they are volatile creatures, and there is always some problem that needs my attention.’

  It was none of Bartholomew’s affair, so he headed for the gate. Cynric and Valence were nowhere to be seen, but it was late, he still had patients to see, and he was disinclined to hunt for them. He was about to leave them to their own devices, when a clamour wafted across the yard.

  ‘It was not me!’ He recognised the shrill, angry tones of one of the visiting nuns. ‘And I am outraged that you should accuse me of it.’

  ‘It must have been someone from outside the priory,’ came a softer, more reasoned voice. Fen, thought Bartholomew, picturing the pardoner’s handsome face and calm demeanour. ‘The shrine is open to all, so anyone could have come in and made off with it.’

  ‘No!’ Etone’s agonised scream tore through the air.

  Alarmed, Bartholomew ran towards the hut. He pushed through the door and found it full of people. Etone was on his knees, gazing at the jewelled box that held St Simon Stock’s scapular, while several of his friars milled around in agitation. Cynric and Valence were near the back, watching with undisguised curiosity.

  ‘Someone has been in the reliquary, sir,’ explained Valence in a whisper. ‘And used a sharp knife to make off with a bit of St Simon’s scapular.’

  ‘Accusations are being levelled,’ elaborated Cynric, his dark eyes alight with interest. ‘And denials are being made. At the moment that fat nun – Margaret – is being grilled, because she was in here alone for a long time, apparently.’

  ‘I would never defile a holy relic,’ Margaret cried furiously. ‘I am a pilgrim, not a thief.’

  ‘But a pilgrim must be the culprit, because they are the only ones who come here,’ gulped Etone. His face was white with shock as he turned to his friars. ‘I want a list of everyone who has been in today. I know our relic was in one piece at dawn, because I opened the chest to have a look at it.’

  ‘But we do not keep such a list, Father,’ objected one friar. He was a skeletal man named Riborowe, who was a skilled illuminator of manuscripts. ‘We let people come and go as they please.’

  Etone stood and opened the box with hands that shook. Then he sank to his knees again and rested his head on the altar.

  ‘It is all here,’ he whispered, relief evident in his voice. ‘The thief must have been disturbed before he could complete his wicked business. He cut the cloth, but the material is thicker than it looks, and he was thwarted. Our relic is damaged, but we still have it all.’

  There were thankful murmurings, and muttered remarks that the saint was watching over what was his. Etone recited a few prayers, then stood and faced the people in the room.

  ‘But a crime has still been committed,’ he said sternly. ‘And I want to know who did it and how it was permitted to happen.’

  ‘I saw the lock on the reliquary had been forced,’ explained Riborowe. ‘So I asked the four pilgrims – who spend more time here than anyone else – whether they had noticed anything amiss.’

  ‘He accused us of being thieves,’ countered Poynton angrily. His face was redder than usual, and veins swelled on his head and neck. Not for the first time, Bartholomew thought he looked ill. ‘We, who are devout pilgrims, and spend our whole lives travelling from shrine to shrine!’

  ‘I did not—’ began Riborowe, shooting a guilty glance at his prior.

  ‘You did,’ interrupted Margaret venomously. ‘You said I broke into the chest and applied the scissors I use for my personal beauty to …’ She waved her hand, unable to continue.

  ‘Clearly, none of us is the culprit,’ said Fen quietly, injecting a tone of reason into the discussion. ‘But perhaps we – without realising it – witnessed something that may help bring the real villain to justice. So let us not argue, but tell each other what we heard and saw, so we may work together to solve this dreadful crime.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Prior Etone with a stiff nod. ‘You may go first.’

  ‘Unfortunately, I have nothing of value to report,’ said Fen apologetically. ‘I prayed here all morning, then left to attend the taverner’s requiem. I went for a walk afterwards, and by the time I returned, Riborowe was already yelling accusations at Sister Margaret. In other words, the misdeed was committed while I was elsewhere.’

  ‘The reliquary lock must have been broken before I came in,’ declared Margaret. ‘But I did not notice the damage, because my eyes are not very good in dim light.’

  ‘What about you?’ asked Etone, turning to Poynton.

  ‘I also prayed here alone,’ replied Poynton. He was still livid, and kept his voice level with obvious difficulty. ‘I find it hard to concentrate when I am surrounded by clamouring peasants, so I always wait until they have gone. But I saw nothing to help you identify the culprit.’

  ‘Neither did I,’ added the second nun. ‘I tend not to notice what other penitents do – I am more concerned with praying for my own soul than with monitoring their squalid activities.’

  ‘It was probably that yellow-headed villain again,’ said Margaret bitterly. ‘He has been going around stealing signacula, so why not set his sights on a priceless relic?’

  ‘Did you see him here?’ asked Riborowe.

  ‘No,’ replied Margaret coolly. ‘But it stands to reason.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said Fen. ‘There is a big difference between making off with badges and stealing St Simon Stock’s scapular.’

  ‘Well, one thing is clear from this unsavoury incident,’ declared Poynton. ‘This nasty little town is full of thieves. You should take measures against them, Father Prior.’

  ‘We never had any trouble before you came,’ muttered Riborowe, although he spoke under his breath and Etone did not hear. The pilgrims did, though, and Poynton stepped forward.

  ‘We should go,’ said Bartholomew to Valence and Cynric, loath to witness any more of the unedifying spectacle. ‘This is not our concer
n.’

  ‘It is Brother Michael’s, though,’ whispered Cynric. ‘He will be obliged to investigate an attempt to deprive Cambridge’s only shrine of its holy relic.’

  The next patient on Bartholomew’s list was Isnard, who had tripped over a cat as he had weaved his way home from the King’s Head. The bargeman denied being drunk, although the strong scent of ale that pervaded his little cottage suggested he was not being entirely honest. Bartholomew felt his spirits lift as he listened to the familiar litany of excuses; there was always something reassuringly predictable about Isnard.

  Yolande de Blaston was there, too. Isnard was one of her ‘regulars’, because he could afford what she liked to charge. Despite only having one leg – Bartholomew had been forced to amputate the other after an accident – Isnard earned a respectable living by directing barges along the river, and had even amassed enough money to purchase a couple of boats himself.

  Yolande was cooking – meals were often included in the arrangement she had with Isnard; it was not the first time they had found her stirring something delicious over a pot in his hearth. Hospitably, Isnard indicated that his visitors should sit at the table and share his supper.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Valence, immediately taking a seat and pulling a horn spoon from his belt. ‘College food is getting worse by the day, and I am tired of buying my own all the time.’

  ‘Isnard and I always have a stew on a Thursday evening,’ supplied Yolande conversationally. ‘We work up quite an appetite during our sessions together.’

  Bartholomew saw Cynric purse his lips prudishly and Valence start to snigger, so he hastened to change the subject before Yolande or Isnard noticed, suspecting neither reaction would please them.

  ‘How is your family, Yolande?’

  ‘Well enough, but hungry all the time. This winter is particularly hard.’

  ‘I help her all I can,’ whispered Isnard, when she went to stir her concoction. ‘But fourteen children is a lot to feed. I am glad Blaston has work at Michaelhouse, because there is not much call for carpenters these days, not when people think it is more important to spend money on bread.’

  Bartholomew looked at the telltale bulge around Yolande’s middle, and wondered when the fifteenth child would make its appearance. While she added the finishing touches to her stew, he rubbed a soothing balm on Isnard’s one remaining knee, then sat at the table while she ladled the food into bowls. The soup and the conversation of friends served to lift his spirits a little more – until Valence began to hold forth about Drax.

  ‘In other words, the killer took the body to Michaelhouse, and dumped it there,’ the student concluded indignantly. ‘It was fortunate Agatha chased that dog, or it might have been ages before it was discovered, because Yffi has not been around much for the last few days.’

  Isnard shuddered. ‘Poor Drax! I liked him – he owned several lovely taverns.’

  ‘You like everyone, Isnard,’ said Yolande disapprovingly. ‘But my Robert said he was not very nice. Apparently, he bought himself an expensive pilgrim badge because he knew he was going to need it when his soul was weighed. And you do not spend a fortune on indulgences unless you have a guilty conscience.’

  ‘Or unless you think you might be about to die,’ added Cynric soberly.

  Bartholomew looked at him sharply. ‘What do you mean by that?’

  Cynric shrugged. ‘Just that Drax might have known someone was going to harm him, so he bought a signaculum while he was still able.’

  ‘I heard Emma buys a lot of pardons, too,’ said Yolande confidentially. ‘And the prayers she needs from Michaelhouse are costing her a new roof, so she must have a very guilty conscience.’

  ‘Emma?’ queried Isnard, startled. ‘Never! She is a dear, sweet old lady.’

  Everyone regarded him askance.

  ‘I am talking about Emma de Colvyll here,’ said Yolande. ‘Who is your “dear, sweet old lady”, because we are not discussing the same person.’

  ‘We are,’ said Isnard, stung. ‘She has been nothing but charming to me.’

  ‘You do business with her?’ asked Bartholomew.

  Isnard nodded. ‘She hires my barges to transport materials through the Fens – mostly stone and wood for repairing the various properties she buys. She deals with me honestly and fairly.’

  ‘But she has a reputation,’ said Yolande darkly.

  ‘One designed to stop people from trying to cheat her,’ argued Isnard. ‘She has a generous heart. Take Michaelhouse, for example. She is mending its leaking roofs out of love for her fellow man, and all she asks in return is a few masses from its priests.’

  ‘But my Robert says she will want more in time,’ said Yolande. ‘And Michaelhouse hates being in her debt. Master Langelee told me so when I entertained him last week. He said her charity has caused the biggest rift between him and his Fellows since he took the Mastership. But he said he had no choice – it would have been churlish to refuse her on the basis of their dislike.’

  ‘It would,’ agreed Isnard. ‘His Fellows are being churlish if they are suspicious of kindness. They should learn to accept that not everyone has sly motives.’

  ‘Did you see the ox and cart on the Gilbertines’ roof?’ asked Bartholomew, changing the subject before there was an argument. Cynric and Valence looked ready to pitch in with their views, which were unlikely to be complimentary to Emma, and would annoy Isnard.

  ‘Yes, it was very clever,’ said Yolande, smiling. ‘But not nearly as amazing as when the hostels lit up St Mary the Great.’

  ‘I disagree!’ cried Valence. ‘The trick at the church was just the flinging together of a few flammable substances, whereas the ox and cart required real ingenuity. It took Brother Michael days to achieve what we … what the Colleges managed in a single night. And Brother Michael is no fool.’

  ‘I do not like that Kendale,’ said Isnard sullenly. ‘He called me a drunkard – him, who cannot pass a tavern without stepping inside for an ale! And all his lads are fond of a drop or two.’

  ‘They are out a lot at night, too,’ added Yolande, while Valence nodded vigorous agreement with Isnard. ‘I see them when I visit my clients. Tell Brother Michael to watch them, Doctor, because I am sure they mean mischief.’

  ‘Their home, Chestre Hostel, is haunted,’ said Cynric matter-of-factly. ‘It did not use to be, but those hostel men brought an evil aura with them, and now it pervades the building.’

  ‘Cynric!’ said Bartholomew sharply, aware that this was the sort of tale that might be repeated and then blown out of all proportion. He did not want the hostels to accuse the Colleges of rumour-mongering, thus providing an excuse for the full-scale war that everyone sensed was brewing.

  ‘Actually, he is right,’ said Yolande. ‘There is something nasty about Chestre. Why do you think Drax tried to raise the rent? To get rid of them! Of course, it saw him dead for his pains.’

  ‘You think Chestre killed Drax?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Do you have any evidence to suggest—’

  ‘I do not need evidence,’ declared Yolande loftily. ‘Because I have intuition. Kendale and his horrible students live near where Drax died and where he was dumped, and they objected to the fact that he wanted to raise the rent. Of course they are the culprits.’

  ‘Did you hear that Celia Drax was robbed?’ asked Isnard, when the physician was silent. ‘She lost a pilgrim badge, which is odd, because a number of them have gone astray recently.’

  Yolande nodded. ‘Poynton had one filched off his saddlebag, and the Mayor told me just today that he had two pinched from the Guildhall. Then there is Meryfeld the physician – he thought his had fallen off his cloak, but in the light of these other thefts, he has reconsidered.’

  Bartholomew stood. It was getting late and he was tired. He thanked Isnard for his hospitality.

  ‘Be careful,’ said the bargeman as he left. ‘You may think Cambridge is safe at the moment, because we have had no serious trouble for weeks, but there is something n
asty in the air. Perhaps it is the hostels itching for a fight. Or perhaps it is the thief with his penchant for pilgrim relics, which is as black a sin as any. Regardless, our town feels very dangerous to me.’

  His warning sent a tingle of unease down Bartholomew’s spine.

  Cynric slipped away on business of his own when they reached the main road. Bartholomew was tempted to call him back, not liking the notion of him being out alone after what Isnard had said, but then he came to his senses. Cynric was a seasoned warrior, and knew how to look after himself.

  ‘The last patient is none other than the loathsome Kendale himself,’ said Valence. He gave a feeble laugh. ‘I am not sure we should go, given what Isnard has just told us about him.’

  Bartholomew recalled his last encounter with Kendale, when the Principal and his students had accosted him in St Michael’s Lane and initiated a contest about who should have right of way.

  ‘He has a cheek to think you will help him,’ Valence went on when there was no reply. ‘Neyll told Walter that Rougham, Gyseburne and Meryfeld have all refused to visit, and that you are his last hope. But that is no reason to tend a man like Kendale.’

  ‘Did Neyll say what is wrong?’ asked Bartholomew. He did not usually refuse to see patients, but did not relish the prospect of setting foot in a house full of men who hated members of Colleges.

  ‘He has a crushed hand,’ explained Valence. ‘An accident. Neyll told me they have stopped the bleeding, but that it needs stitches and possibly set bones.’

  ‘Then why did you not mention it sooner?’ demanded Bartholomew, aghast. ‘We should have gone there first. You give the impression that it is a routine call, but it is an emergency!’

  ‘I forgot,’ said Valence. He saw Bartholomew’s sceptical glance. ‘I did!’

  There was no point in remonstrating. ‘Tell Michael where I am. And if I do not return by—’

  ‘I am not letting you visit Chestre alone,’ declared Valence, straightening his shoulders defiantly. ‘Michaelhouse students are not afraid of hostel men.’