‘I did everything I could to stop it,’ countered Michael irritably. ‘But some things are beyond even the power of the Senior Proctor.’
‘Then let us hope that keeping the peace on Tuesday is not one of them,’ said Heltisle acidly.
They were delayed yet again when Michael was obliged to quell a quarrel between Ovyng Hostel and the Hall of Valence Marie – another two foundations that had only recently entered the feud. It was confined to a lot of undignified shoving, but Essex Hostel was not far away, and so was King’s Hall – two places that loved a skirmish – and Bartholomew suspected they would have joined in, had the spat been allowed to continue.
It was late afternoon by the time he and Michael eventually arrived at Emma’s house, and the family was dining. Celia Drax was sitting next to Heslarton, neat, clean and elegant. She picked delicately at a chicken leg, stopping frequently to dab her lips with a piece of embroidered linen. By contrast, Heslarton tore at his hunk of beef with his few remaining teeth; grease glistened on his face and ran down his brawny forearms. Odelina, still clad in her tight red kirtle, ate like her father: not for her the dainty appetites of the ladies in the ballads.
Emma, meanwhile, all fat black body and shiny eyes, appeared slightly feverish. Her plate was full, but she only picked at what she had taken, and when she did raise a morsel to her lips, it was to chew with obvious discomfort.
With cool aplomb, Michael perched on a bench and reached for the breadbasket. Odelina and the servants gaped their astonishment at his audacity, although Heslarton gave him an amiable, oily-handed wave of welcome. Emma merely gave a curt nod to say Bartholomew should join them, too.
‘Yes, come and sit here.’ Odelina patted the space next to her. ‘It is me you have come to see.’
‘Is it?’ asked Heslarton, regarding her in surprise. ‘How do you know?’
‘A woman can tell these things,’ purred Odelina.
She stood and stalked towards the physician. He took several steps away, but the room was crowded, and there was nowhere to go, so it was comparatively easy for her to grab his hand. He tried to disengage it, but Odelina’s fingers tightened and he could not free himself without a tussle – and he did not want to use force while a protective father was watching.
‘You are thin,’ said Odelina, pinching his arm as a butcher might test the quality of meat. ‘Sit with me, and I shall cut you a selection of the fattiest bits of meat.’
‘We cannot stay,’ said Bartholomew, shooting Michael a desperate glance. But the monk was more interested in the food than the plight of his friend. ‘We are very busy.’
‘Then I am doubly flattered that you are here,’ crooned Odelina. ‘Come upstairs, so we can talk without being overheard.’
‘Talk about what?’ asked Bartholomew in alarm.
‘Yes, what?’ demanded Heslarton, a little aggressively.
‘My health,’ said Odelina, giving Heslarton the kind of look all fathers knew to distrust. ‘I do not want to air personal information in public, but he needs my secrets to calculate a horoscope.’
She began to haul on Bartholomew’s sleeve. He resisted, and there was a ripping sound as stitches parted company.
‘Was that you or me?’ asked Odelina, inspecting her gown in concern.
‘It had better be him,’ muttered Heslarton darkly.
‘He is a warlock, Odelina,’ said Celia, watching her friend’s antics with aloof amusement. ‘You should be wary of making him uncomfortable, lest he disappears in a puff of toxic smoke.’
It was enough to make Odelina loosen her grip, enabling Bartholomew to slither free. Celia came to her feet when the younger woman began to advance again, making a gesture to Heslarton to say she had the situation under control. She intercepted Odelina and led her to a corner, where they began whispering, hands shielding their mouths. They looked like a pair of silly adolescents, thought Bartholomew, watching in disgust.
‘My daughter will be a wealthy woman one day,’ said Heslarton, giving the physician a hard look. ‘Many men pay court to her, but I shall not let her go to anyone who is not worthy.’
‘And a poverty-bound scholar is not his idea of a good match,’ said Emma with a smirk that was impossible to interpret. ‘I see his point. I have other ambitions for my only grandchild, too.’
‘Why are you here?’ Heslarton asked. ‘To tell us about Gib, or to ask after my mother’s teeth?’
‘Meryfeld tells me his remedy is working, but I am still in agony,’ said Emma, before either scholar could reply. ‘I have reached a decision, though. He has until Wednesday, and if I am not better by then, you may remove my tooth, Doctor. Meanwhile, you can give me some of that strong medicine.’
‘Actually, I cannot,’ said Bartholomew, uncharacteristically pleased to be able to refuse her. ‘It may react badly with whatever Meryfeld has prescribed.’
Heslarton stood suddenly, one greasy hand resting on the hilt of his sword, and for a brief moment Bartholomew thought he was going to take the tonic by force.
But Heslarton merely smiled at Emma. ‘We must listen to him, mother. We do not want you made worse.’
‘The real purpose of our visit is to discuss Gib,’ said Michael, unwisely giving the impression that he did not much care about the state of Emma’s well-being. ‘Who may be your yellow-headed thief.’
‘He is.’ Emma smiled at his surprise, a rather nasty expression with more glittering of the eyes than usual. ‘I went to view his mortal remains when Odelina gave us the news. Gib was the villain.’
‘You knew him,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He brought messages from Chestre when you were thinking of sponsoring a scholarship. So why did you not recognise him when he stole your box?’
‘I do not associate with mere students,’ said Emma in disdain. ‘He delivered his missives to my servants, and I never met him in person. However, the boy in St Clement’s was the villain who invaded my home. He was missing his yellow hair, but his great paunch is distinctive.’
Bartholomew did not recall an ale-belly as he had chased the culprit up the High Street, and again found he was not sure what to believe about Gib. Or about Emma, for that matter.
‘We live in a wicked world,’ she went on softly. ‘I thought your University would be gracious to me, after I spent so much money on your College. But now I learn it was a scholar who broke into my home and left poison for my beloved granddaughter.’
‘We are sorry,’ said Bartholomew, wondering why she had not asked the obvious question: whether her box was in the dead man’s possession. The omission was suspicious, to say the least.
‘You do not need to apologise to me,’ she said, reaching out to pat his cheek. It was all he could do not to cringe away. ‘It is not your fault students are such devious creatures.’
Bartholomew was ready to leave after Emma had identified Gib – Celia had disappeared, muttering something about going to organise a feast to celebrate her late husband’s life, which meant Odelina was on the loose again – but Michael still had questions.
‘Did you hunt the killer-thief again today?’ he asked Heslarton, while Bartholomew backed around the table and took refuge behind Emma’s chair. Odelina started to follow, but sank down on the bench at a warning glare from her grandmother.
‘No,’ replied Heslarton. ‘He is dead, so there was no need for me to scour the marshes. Of course, now I learn the villain was in the town all the time, safely inside a hostel.’
Bartholomew pounced on the inconsistency. ‘You could not have known he was dead until the body was found, which was mid-morning. And if you had intended to “scour the marshes”, you would have been gone long before then, to take advantage of the daylight.’
Heslarton shot to his feet a second time, and Bartholomew saw, belatedly, that he should have put the question more succinctly. ‘My horse was lame. Not that it is your affair.’
‘Do you only have one nag, then?’ asked Michael innocently. ‘I assumed you would have lots.’
Heslarton glared. ‘I only have one trained for riding in bogs. The others are too expensive to risk in such perilous terrain.’
‘Gib was killed between midnight and five o’clock,’ said Bartholomew. He struggled to be more tactful this time. ‘We want to exclude as many people from our enquiries as possible, so would you mind telling us where you were?’
‘Surely, you cannot suspect me?’ growled Heslarton dangerously. Emma’s eyes narrowed.
Bartholomew raised his hands defensively. ‘It is a question we are asking all the killer-thief’s victims. Even my sister,’ he added, when the reassurance did not seem to allay Heslarton’s irritation.
‘I was here,’ said Heslarton shortly. He scowled, daring them to pursue the matter. Bartholomew did not think he had ever heard a more brazen lie. But help came from an unexpected quarter.
‘Tell the truth, Thomas,’ ordered Emma briskly. ‘Someone may have seen you out and about, and that may lead Brother Michael and Doctor Bartholomew to draw erroneous conclusions – ones that may work to our detriment.’
Heslarton gazed at her. ‘But it is none of their business!’
‘It is,’ countered Emma. ‘They are trying to solve a nasty crime, and they will not succeed if people mislead them. Tell them what they want to know. It is for the best.’
‘No!’ said Heslarton. He would not meet the eyes of anyone in the room.
‘It is all right,’ said Odelina suddenly. She looked at Bartholomew. ‘My father is reluctant to speak because he does not want to hurt me. But the truth is that he spent the night with Celia.’
‘It is not what you think,’ blurted Heslarton. He licked dry lips, and his eyes were distinctly furtive. ‘It was her first night alone in the house without Drax – she has been staying here since his death – and she was nervous. We read a psalter all night.’
‘Your wife is barely cold,’ said Michael with monkish disapproval. ‘Drax, too.’
‘Nothing untoward …’ blustered Heslarton. Emma was regarding him with wry amusement, indicating the affair was no news to her. ‘She was lonely and unsettled. I did the Christian thing.’
‘Celia lives by the Great Bridge,’ said Michael pointedly. ‘Where Gib died.’
‘I stayed in her house all night,’ said Heslarton firmly. ‘And she can verify it, although I would rather you did not ask her. I do not want her reputation sullied.’
‘We can be discreet,’ said Michael.
‘I am sure you can,’ said Emma. ‘But there is no need to pursue the matter further. Thomas has shared his secret with you, and that should be enough to satisfy your curiosity.’
‘Has your box been returned?’ asked Bartholomew, deciding to come at the matter from a different angle. ‘Or is it—’
Emma’s expression was distinctly unfriendly. ‘I do not object to you questioning Thomas, or even toying with the affections of my foolish granddaughter, but that question was an insult to me. It implies I had something to do with the death of this thief – that I arranged his demise, and removed my property from his person. And that is plain rude.’
‘Far from it,’ countered Michael hastily. ‘He was actually going to ask whether you want us to look for it when we search Gib’s home.’
Emma nodded slowly. ‘My apologies, Doctor. And yes, my box is still missing.’
‘It will have been opened and ransacked by now,’ said Michael. ‘Will you give us a precise description of its contents, so we can identify any individual pieces? You declined to do so before, but if you want them back, we must have some idea of what to look for.’
Emma was silent for a moment. ‘Letters of affection from my husband, a lock of his hair, and three pewter pilgrim badges from the shrine of St Thomas Cantilupe of Hereford.’
‘Is that all?’ asked Michael, disappointed. ‘I thought it held something valuable.’
‘These are valuable,’ said Emma, turning her black eyes on him. ‘They are worth more than gold to me. If you find them, I shall reward you handsomely. I will even order Yffi to finish your College roof before building the Carmelites’ shrine.’
Bartholomew left Emma’s lair confused and uncertain. ‘We learned nothing,’ he said in disgust. ‘Well, we confirmed that Heslarton and Celia are lovers, but that is about all. And the camp-ball game is the day after tomorrow – we are running out of time if we are to present a culprit for these crimes in the hope that it will defuse any trouble.’
Michael nodded although the anxious expression on his face said he was not sure whether having a culprit would help the situation. ‘So we shall have to speak to Celia, to see whether Heslarton was telling the truth about his whereabouts. We had better hurry, though, because time is passing, and I have a bad feeling I shall be needed to quell more hostel–College squabbles tonight.’
‘But Celia lies,’ said Bartholomew morosely. ‘So even if she does corroborate Heslarton’s tale, I am not sure we should believe her. And, before you say it, my antipathy towards her has nothing to do with the fact that she likes to tell everyone that I am a warlock.’
‘Perish the thought. But I wonder what an elegant, attractive lady sees in an ignorant lout like Heslarton.’
‘Perhaps he has hidden depths. And he is infinitely preferable to the rest of his family. But more to the point, why does Celia want the company of a sinister hag like Emma, or whisper and giggle with the brainless Odelina? I have not forgotten the pharmacopoeia in her house, either.’
Michael nodded. ‘You believe Celia poisoned Alice, because her own spouse was dead, and Alice stood in the way of her relationship with Heslarton. It is possible, I suppose. But does that mean she killed Drax and has been stealing pilgrim badges, too?’
Bartholomew shrugged. ‘Well, we know she and Drax were not a happy couple, and she illustrated her penchant for signacula when she ordered us to strip his body. But then what? Did she and Heslarton kill Gib, and tie a yellow wig on him to make you think the case is closed?’
‘It would make sense. However, I have seen Heslarton’s amorous glances, and it sounds as though last night was the first time they have been alone together since Drax died. Would he really have gone out a-killing when he could have been doing something rather more enjoyable?’
‘He might, if she told him that murdering Gib was the price of her favours. However, the two of them may be innocent, and we should not let our suspicions blind us to our other solutions.’
Michael nodded agreement. ‘Incidentally, Kendale asked the Gilbertines if he can use their field for his camp-ball game. I told Prior Leccheworth to refuse, but Thelnetham argued against me.’
Bartholomew looked at him sharply. ‘Thelnetham? What business is it of his?’
‘He said cancelling the game would cause ill feeling in the town, because Kendale has promised free ale and wine afterwards. He is afraid the resulting disappointment will be turned against the Gilbertines. He has a point, of course.’
‘So, we can expect trouble no matter what Leccheworth decides,’ said Bartholomew heavily. ‘It will be between the Colleges and hostels if the match goes ahead, and it will be between the University and town if it does not. Kendale has a lot to answer for.’
‘He has managed the situation with diabolical skill,’ agreed Michael. ‘He masquerades as the open-handed philanthropist, while I am the villain who wants to deprive the town of fun and free refreshments.’
‘How will he pay for it? Ale and wine in that sort of quantity will be expensive. Or do you think he intends to hawk a few stolen signacula to cover his costs?’
‘He might.’ Michael closed his eyes in sudden despair. ‘I do not see how we will ever get to the bottom of this case, Matt! I am at my wits’ end!’
‘You mean some murdering, thieving scoundrel has bested the Senior Proctor?’
Gradually, resolve suffused Michael’s chubby features. ‘No. Not yet, at least. But we need evidence if we are to make progress, and the situation is now so desperate that we must do whatever it takes t
o acquire some.’
‘How will we do that?’
‘You will slip into Chestre Hostel tonight, and ascertain why Kendal and Neyll were so determined that we should not examine Gib’s belongings.’
Bartholomew gaped at him. ‘What?’
‘You have done it before, so do not look so appalled. It has to be you – I will not fit through their tiny windows. And I cannot send a beadle on such a sensitive mission.’
‘No, but you can send Cynric.’
Michael smiled his relief. ‘Cynric, yes! Why did I not think of that?’
Bartholomew shrugged. ‘Corpse Examiners are useful in more ways than one.’
Before Bartholomew and Michael could reach Celia’s house, the monk was called to mediate in a dispute between Peterhouse and Maud’s Hostel – a silly argument regarding a horse that he learned Kendale had engineered – while the physician received a summons from a patient. The patient was an elderly man whose death was not unexpected, but the physician hated standing among distraught relatives while a loved one slipped away, and was in a bleak frame of mind as he walked home to Michaelhouse. Dusk had faded to night and the streets were cold, foggy and damp.
He went to his room, and stared at the puddles that covered the floor. His students had cleared everything out, except the desks, which were covered in oiled sheets. They had done the same with his medicine store, although the two locked chests that contained his most potent remedies had been left, and so had the mattress on which he slept. He slumped wearily on to one of the boxes, his thoughts full of the old man he had been unable to save.
‘There you are,’ said Michael, coming in a few moments later. He glanced around. ‘My quarters look just as bad, although at least you still have a ceiling.’
‘For the moment,’ said Bartholomew, wondering how long it would take Michael’s floorboards to rot from damp and exposure, and come crashing down on top of him.
‘I had just resolved that ridiculous spat between Peterhouse and Maud’s, when there was yet more trouble,’ Michael went on. ‘And this time blood was spilled – three scholars from Bene’t were injured when stones were lobbed by Maud’s. It was over the rumour that Jolye was murdered by the hostels.’
The Killer Of Pilgrims: The Sixteenth Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 27