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

by Gregory, Susanna

  He did not have much time, so as soon as the pallbearers had gone, he began his work. There was a single ligature mark around Gib’s neck, and no indication that he might have been throttled before he went over the bridge. His arms bore several signs of violence, including the break Bartholomew had noticed earlier. There were also five distinct bruises, where it appeared he had been restrained by someone with powerful fingers. And there was a sizeable lump on his head.

  Bartholomew considered his findings carefully. They told him that Gib had been grabbed with some vigour, and that he had fought back. A blow to his head had subdued him at some point. Then a rope had been tied around his neck and he had been tipped over the bridge. Unfortunately for Gib, the drop had not broken his neck, and the cause of death was strangulation. There was no longer any question in the physician’s mind: Gib had been unlawfully killed. He put all to rights, and left.

  Outside, Heyford regarded him suspiciously. ‘You took a long time.’

  Bartholomew brandished the wig. ‘It took me a while to undo the knots.’

  He could not look the priest in the eye, and was acutely aware that he probably looked very furtive. Silently, he cursed Michael for putting him in a position where lies were required.

  Heyford continued to look doubtful. ‘They did not look that firmly tied to me. And why not cut them with one of the many knives you carry for surgery?’

  ‘Evidence,’ supplied Michael, when the physician had no answer. ‘Small details like knots are important, and may be the clue that leads us to the killer.’

  ‘Killer?’ asked Heyford, very quick on the uptake. ‘You mean he was murdered?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew, when Michael raised questioning eyebrows. ‘I am sure of it.’

  ‘We had better inform Chestre,’ said Michael unhappily. ‘Thank you for your help, Heyford.’

  ‘You are welcome,’ replied Heyford. ‘But I shall hold you to your promise: I want this funeral.’

  ‘Well?’ asked Michael, when the venal vicar had been left behind, and he and Bartholomew were walking towards the town’s centre. ‘What did you learn?’

  ‘That Gib did not go easily. He was a large man, and strong, so I imagine he was dispatched by more than one assailant.’

  ‘And what about the wig? Did he tie it on himself? Or did someone else do it for him?’

  ‘I could not tell, Brother. I am sorry.’

  Michael looked worried. ‘We had better hurry – it will not take long for word to reach Chestre, and we cannot have them taking matters into their own hands. They may wreak revenge on some hapless scholar from a College.’

  ‘Take some beadles with you,’ advised Bartholomew.

  ‘Take some beadles with us,’ corrected Michael. ‘Kendale is extremely clever – he may know exactly why his student was murdered, but may be disinclined to say. I need you to watch him, to assess whether he is telling the truth. And then we shall compare notes.’

  Bartholomew dragged his feet as he and Michael walked down Bridge Street. Regardless of whether Kendale and his students had had a hand in what had happened to Gib, they would make a fuss, and he was tired and dispirited, not in the mood for confrontation. Worse yet, they might decide to honour Gib’s memory with more of their claret, and he felt his stomach roil at the notion of swallowing anything so potent.

  ‘There is Welfry,’ he said, pointing as they passed St John’s Hospital. ‘What is he doing?’

  Michael glared at the Dominican. ‘Crouching behind water butts is hardly seemly behaviour for a Seneschal. Did I tell you that he has already written to the exchequer, requesting tax exemptions for those of our students who are apes? It made for hilarious reading, as it happens, but you do not jest with the King’s clerks. He will get us suppressed!’

  ‘I am hiding from Odelina,’ explained Welfry, when they approached. A pained expression crossed his face. ‘She has taken to stalking me of late.’

  ‘Has she?’ asked Bartholomew, daring to hope it might signal the end of her pursuit of him.

  ‘She said I remind her of a character in some ballad. It is my hand, apparently – her hero had a withered limb, but a lady kissed it and it grew well again. Odelina has offered to kiss mine.’

  ‘Perhaps you should let her,’ said Michael, amused. ‘There is nothing wrong with being cured.’

  Welfry was shocked. ‘I am a friar, Brother! Besides, the reward for this cure is to marry her. And that would be too high a price, even if I were not wed to the Church.’

  ‘Here she comes,’ said Michael. ‘But you need not worry, because she seems to have transferred her affections to Valence. God help him.’

  ‘That means nothing,’ said Welfry gloomily, watching Valence effect a hasty escape. ‘She is quite capable of entertaining a fancy for more than one gentleman at the same time. Please go away. You will attract her attention, and—’

  ‘It is too late,’ said Michael. ‘She is almost here. Stand up, man, or she will wonder what you are up to. You are our Seneschal, and kneeling behind barrels is hardly dignified.’

  Odelina had donned a kirtle with a tight bodice of scarlet. It was identical to one Celia Drax owned, and Bartholomew could only suppose she wore it to emulate the woman she so admired. Unfortunately, it was not a style that suited Odelina’s paunch and generous hips.

  ‘Well!’ Odelina exclaimed. Her eyes gleamed, and Bartholomew was reminded unpleasantly of her grandmother. ‘Two handsome gentlemen in one place.’

  ‘Two?’ asked Michael, puzzled. ‘Which of this pair do you consider unattractive, then, because there are three of us here.’

  ‘I am expected at the Dominican Friary,’ said Welfry, beginning to edge away.

  Odelina snagged his arm. ‘Surely, you can spare a few moments to converse with a pretty lady?’

  ‘You are a pretty lady, mistress,’ said Welfry, gently disengaging his wrist. ‘And one day, you will find a fine husband, who will make you very happy. I shall pray for it to happen soon.’

  ‘I do like him,’ said Odelina, watching the Dominican scuttle away. ‘And I am sure I could cure his withered hand, if only he would let me kiss it. Love is a powerful thing, you see, and can overcome all manner of obstacles. It is how you saved me from death, Doctor.’

  ‘Actually, what saved you was vomiting,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It purged—’

  ‘No, no, no!’ cried Odelina in distaste. ‘That was not it at all. I told you: we share something special, because you snatched me from the grave. But where are you going? To visit my grandmother, and give her a better horoscope than the one Meryfeld has devised?’

  ‘Actually, we are going to Chestre Hostel, to inform them that one of their students is dead,’ said Bartholomew, supposing Emma’s household would also have to be told the news. ‘He was wearing a yellow wig, but we cannot say for certain yet whether—’

  ‘You have the villain who poisoned me and my mother?’ whispered Odelina, crossing herself. Her face was suddenly pale. ‘Thank God! Who is he? What was his name?’

  ‘Gib,’ replied Michael. ‘But we have many questions to ask before we can say for certain that he is the culprit. And we must be sure, before we besmirch his name.’

  Odelina swallowed hard, seeming young and rather vulnerable. ‘Gib is the one with the big ale-belly, is he not? There was a time when my grandmother considered funding a scholarship at Chestre, and Principal Kendale used Gib as a messenger. She decided to pay for the repairs to your roof instead, in the end, but Gib certainly knew his way around our house.’

  ‘Well,’ said Michael, watching her hurry away to inform her grandmother and father of what had happened. ‘The noose around Chestre tightens further still.’

  As it happened, Bartholomew and Michael did not need to visit Chestre, because they met Kendale and his students emerging from the Round Church. They all carried wax tablets, indicating they had been attending a lecture there, although most of the tablets were clean – few had taken notes.

  ‘
What do you want now?’ demanded Kendale, when Michael put out a hand to stop them. His calculating eyes immediately took in the beadles, along with the fact that they were heavily armed. ‘We have indulged in no pranks today, so do not accuse us of it. I have been pontificating on the Aristotelian pre-concept of the mean speed theorem, and all my lads were in attendance.’

  ‘We have some sad news,’ said Michael. ‘Perhaps we might return to Chestre and—’

  ‘No,’ said Kendale frostily. ‘You are not welcome there.’

  ‘I see,’ said Michael, cool in his turn. ‘Did you say all your students attended this lecture?’

  ‘Yes, and they are keen to discuss it with me. At home. Good afternoon, Brother.’

  ‘Wait,’ ordered Michael, as Kendale started to move away. ‘I have come about Gib.’

  ‘He is the most eager of them all,’ snapped Kendale. ‘So if you will excuse us now—’

  ‘He is dead,’ interrupted Michael. ‘I am sorry to break the news in so brutal a fashion, but you left me no choice. Now, let us go to Chestre, so we can consider the matter quietly.’

  Kendale’s face was impossible to read, although it was certainly several shades paler. ‘He is not dead,’ he said after a moment. ‘He is …’

  ‘He is where?’ asked Michael when he faltered. ‘Not here with the other students, certainly.’

  ‘He must have slipped away for a moment,’ said Kendale. ‘A call of nature.’

  ‘That is right,’ said Neyll, equally pallid. ‘None of us noticed, because we were all entranced by Aristotle’s mean theory about speed concepts … or whatever Principal Kendale was talking about.’

  ‘When did you last see Gib?’ asked Bartholomew, eager to ask his questions and leave. He did not feel easy among the Chestre men; not even with armed beadles at his back.

  ‘I told you,’ said Kendale. ‘He must have slipped away for a moment. To a latrine.’

  ‘That is untrue,’ said Bartholomew quietly. ‘He has been dead for hours. I doubt any of you have seen him since five o’clock this morning.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ demanded Neyll, dark eyes flashing. ‘Have you anatomised him?’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Bartholomew, aware of several hands dropping to daggers. The beadles tensed, too. ‘But the soldiers on the bridge relax their guard between midnight and five, and it seems likely that was when Gib died.’

  Kendale’s expression was still inscrutable. ‘I suppose I have not seen him today, now you mention it. But he was a quiet soul, and I often overlooked his presence. What happened to him?’

  ‘Is it true that Emma de Colvyll considered funding a scholarship at Chestre?’ asked Michael, unwilling to answer questions until he had been provided with answers he could trust. ‘And Gib acted as your messenger for a while?’

  ‘Yes, but she elected to mend your roof instead,’ said Neyll unpleasantly. ‘We bear her no grudge, if that is what you are thinking. In fact, we were relieved she decided to post her charity elsewhere, because we were never comfortable about the notion of being in her debt.’

  ‘That is true,’ agreed Kendale. ‘Indeed, we would not be in Michaelhouse’s shoes for a kingdom. You will be repaying her “kindness” for years to come.’

  Bartholomew had a very bad feeling he might be right.

  ‘So when did you last see Gib?’ asked Michael. ‘And please be honest. I will find the truth eventually, and lies will just waste everyone’s time.’

  Neyll shot him a nasty look. ‘He went out last night. He has a whore, you see, and often stays with her, so we thought nothing of it.’

  ‘Who is the whore?’ asked Bartholomew. She would have to be questioned.

  ‘Helia, who lives in the Jewry,’ replied Neyll. ‘She is my whore, too, and we see her on alternate evenings. Now Gib is gone, I shall have her all the time.’

  Bartholomew stared at him. Had he dispatched his classmate? Spats over women were not uncommon in a town where willing partners were few and far between. Of course, it would have to be a very heady passion that led to murder.

  ‘Did any of you quarrel with him?’ asked Michael, also studying the students’ reactions intently.

  Kendale gave his sly smile. ‘Why would we do that? He lived in our hostel, so we were all the best of friends. It is the Colleges with whom we have arguments.’

  ‘So you love each other, and Chestre is a haven of peace and tranquillity?’ asked Michael acidly.

  Kendale inclined his head. ‘Yes. And if Gib has been murdered – as your questions lead me to surmise – then you must look to a College for the villain. They are the ones who mean us harm.’

  ‘Any particular College?’ asked Michael.

  Kendale met his gaze evenly. ‘The louts at Michaelhouse do not like us.’

  ‘Speaking of Michaelhouse,’ said the monk, declining to be baited, ‘I have been told that you spied on us on Monday morning.’

  ‘Yes, I did,’ replied Kendale glibly. ‘Your porter saw me, did he? I thought he might. I was looking for Gib.’

  ‘Why did you expect him to be in Michaelhouse?’ asked Bartholomew suspiciously.

  ‘Because he was missing, and I was afraid someone there might have kidnapped him. And I was right to be concerned: less than a week later, he is unlawfully slain.’

  Kendale was clever, thought Bartholomew, regarding him with dislike. It was cunning to claim Gib as his reason for sticking his head around Michaelhouse’s gate on the morning Drax had died, because Gib was not in a position to confirm or deny the tale.

  ‘I do not believe you,’ said Michael.

  Neyll drew his dagger, a great, wicked-looking thing that had been honed to a savage point. ‘You accuse my Principal of lying?’

  Kendale raised his bandaged hand to stop him. ‘Then ask your porter precisely what he saw,’ he said to Michael. ‘If he is an honest man, he will say I looked briefly around your yard and left. No more and no less. And I have explained exactly why I did it.’

  ‘Then did you see anything suspicious?’ asked Michael, although his expression remained sceptical. ‘The reason I ask is because Drax’s body was dumped there not long after.’

  ‘No,’ said Kendale blithely. ‘I did not see Drax, his killer or anyone else.’

  ‘You quarrelled with Drax not long before his murder,’ said Michael. ‘I saw you myself. Why?’

  ‘Because he wanted to raise our rent,’ replied Kendale. He laughed suddenly, a humourless, bitter sound. ‘And do you know why? Because he claimed evil spirits inhabit the place with us, and so should pay their share. Have you ever heard anything more ridiculous?’

  Bartholomew found himself uncertain whether the ‘ridiculous’ referred to the notion of evil spirits in the building, or the fact that Drax had expected them to pay for their lodgings.

  ‘May we inspect Gib’s room?’ he asked, supposing that if Gib really were the yellow-headed thief, then the proof would be in the place where he kept his other belongings.

  ‘No,’ said Neyll immediately. ‘You may not.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Kendale. ‘It would be most improper. His goods will be parcelled up and returned to his family, without suspicious fingers pawing through them.’

  ‘What are you afraid we might find?’ asked Michael keenly.

  ‘We are afraid of nothing,’ snapped Kendale. ‘And all you will find are spare clothes, a psalter, a few rings and a handsome saddle, which we all covet. But I deny you access, so you will just have to take my word for it.’

  ‘You say you love each other, but you do not seem overly distressed by Gib’s demise,’ remarked Michael, turning his thoughtful stare from Kendale to Neyll, and then around at the others. ‘Why is that? Could it be there is trouble in paradise?’

  ‘We are men,’ replied Kendale coldly. ‘We do not shame ourselves by weeping. We do not shame ourselves by talking to impertinent College men, either.’ He turned to his scholars. ‘Come.’

  ‘I could not read them at all,’
said Bartholomew, watching them slouch away. ‘Their evasive answers may have been intended to throw you off the scent of their guilt, but might equally well have been to confound you, because you belong to a College.’

  ‘Our news about Gib did not surprise them in the slightest, though – I believe they already knew. So the question is, did they know because someone ran to tell them, or because they are his killers?’

  ‘We spent time at St Clement’s, and with Welfry and Odelina,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘So the tale may well have preceded us. And despite Kendale’s claims of manliness, Neyll had been crying – his eyes were inflamed. Of course, they could have been tears of rage.’

  ‘And Kendale’s hands were shaking,’ added Michael. ‘They were upset, all right, although they did an admirable task of masking it. Of course, we have no way of telling whether it was guilty fear or innocent distress.’

  ‘What about the other matter? Kendale’s explanation for spying on Michaelhouse on Monday?’

  The monk grimaced. ‘It was a pack of lies – of course he did not expect to see Gib there.’

  ‘So we learned nothing at all?’

  ‘It is all grist for the mill,’ said Michael, although he did not look convinced by his own optimism. ‘And now we must tackle Heslarton.’

  CHAPTER 9

  Bartholomew and Michael were silent as they continued to walk along the High Street, each pondering the questions they had failed to answer. There were too many, and Bartholomew did not think he had ever been involved in an investigation that was so full of people he could not read.

  The streets were still busy, and he was alarmed by the proliferation of students who had taken to wearing blue or red. Heltisle, the haughty Master of Bene’t, waylaid Michael to complain about it.

  ‘We were managing to stay aloof from the dispute, but then Kendale announced his camp-ball game, and now our lads feel compelled to take a stand. I cannot imagine what possessed you to give him permission to hold such an event, Brother. It was hardly sensible.’