‘There is a similar tale that says Gib was dispatched by the Colleges. I heard it as I was coming home. They are calling him the Martyr of the Hostels.’
Michael gazed at him in horror. ‘No! That will make the situation infinitely worse – and it is already dire! I was expecting everything to come to a head on Tuesday at the camp-ball game, but perhaps it will explode sooner.’
They were silent for a moment, each reflecting on the events that had plunged the University into so much unnecessary disorder.
‘I heard about your patient,’ said Michael eventually. ‘And I am sorry: he was a good man. So, because I anticipated that you might not be in the mood for tackling Celia straight away, I arranged something nicer first: an invitation to dine with Dick Tulyet. It will cheer you up, and we can question Celia afterwards.’
‘I am not visiting the Tulyet house,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘Dickon might stab me again.’
‘It will be in the Brazen George, and Dickon will not be there, thank the good Lord. Dick wants a report on our findings, and has information to give us in return.’
A short while later, they were ensconced in the cosy comfort of the tavern, being presented with roasted chicken, salted beef, a dish of boiled vegetables and a basket of bread. Tulyet paid the landlord, who left with a bow, closing the door behind him. Bartholomew was not hungry, and picked listlessly at the meat Michael shoved towards him.
‘What is wrong?’ asked Tulyet, watching him. ‘You have barely spoken since you arrived.’
‘Like me, he is despondent because every time we think we have solved the case, something happens to make us question whether we are looking in the right direction,’ said Michael before Bartholomew could reply for himself. ‘I cannot recall ever feeling so frustrated.’
‘Unfortunately, we do not have time to chase around in circles,’ said Tulyet worriedly. ‘There are rumours that the killer-thief is a scholar – and the town is incensed at the notion. We must apprehend him before Kendale’s damned camp-ball game, or your warring hostels and Colleges will be the least of our worries.’
Michael outlined what more had been learned since the last time they had spoken, and it was clear from Tulyet’s face that he was disappointed by their progress.
‘You are wrong to think Heslarton and Celia might have killed Drax,’ he said. ‘My wife told me yesterday that they have been frolicking for years, and were content with the situation as it was – neither had any desire to murder the other’s spouse. Dickon knew about their relationship, too. He said Heslarton often visited Celia while Drax was out.’
‘I do not suppose he noticed Heslarton paying her court last night, did he?’ asked Michael hopefully. ‘Heslarton claims he was with Celia when Gib was killed, but I am unconvinced.’
‘I will ask,’ said Tulyet. ‘And now I shall tell you my news. Yffi’s apprentices are in something of a state, because he went out this morning and failed to return.’
‘He was among the crowd when Gib’s body was retrieved,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I saw him.’
Tulyet nodded. ‘Afterwards, he told them to keep working on the Carmelites’ shrine until he returned at noon. But he did not return at noon, and was still missing when I left to come here.’
‘What do you mean by missing?’ asked Michael. ‘Do you think he has fled the town?’
‘No, I think something has happened to him. His lads say he never leaves them unsupervised for more than an hour or two, and they are genuinely concerned. Moreover, I think it odd that this should have happened so quickly after the discovery of Gib’s corpse.’
Bartholomew was bemused. ‘Are you saying Yffi killed Gib, and has been dispatched in his turn?’
Tulyet shrugged. ‘The thought has crossed my mind, certainly.’
Michael was thoughtful. ‘Kendale and his students were suspiciously calm about Gib’s death. Perhaps it was because they knew that justice had already been served.’
‘They are an unruly crowd,’ agreed Tulyet. ‘My soldiers say they are always creeping about at night. Meanwhile, you saw them arguing with Drax not long before he was killed, and they are refusing to let you search their hostel. It all adds up to something very suspicious.’
They talked a while longer, then Tulyet stood to leave, saying he was going to spend a pleasant evening in the company of his son, although Bartholomew wondered how he thought he was going to do both. They walked to Bridge Street together, where the two scholars aimed for Celia’s home and Tulyet for the golden, welcoming lights of his comfortable mansion.
‘I will not have Dickon much longer,’ said Tulyet with a sad sigh. ‘It is almost time for him to begin his knightly training – assuming I can find someone good enough to take him. I half hope I fail, because I shall miss him terribly when he goes. Everyone will. He is such a good-natured boy.’
‘I am tempted to consult a witch about Dick,’ said Michael, as he rapped on Celia’s door. ‘Someone must have put a spell on him, because his opinion of that little hellion is not normal. Of course, if Celia is right, I could ask you to do it, and save myself some money.’
‘Do not jest about such matters, Brother,’ said Bartholomew wearily. ‘It is not funny.’
‘It is very late for callers,’ said Celia, opening her door a crack, and making it clear that the scholars were not to be permitted inside. ‘What do you want?’
‘To talk to you,’ said Michael. Like Bartholomew, he had noticed a shadow in the room beyond: she was not alone. ‘May we come in? It is cold out here.’
‘I am not letting a warlock in my house after sunset,’ said Celia. ‘It would be asking for trouble.’
‘Let them in, Celia,’ came a girlish voice from behind her. Bartholomew’s heart sank when he recognised it as Odelina’s. ‘We do not want the poor Doctor to catch a chill.’
‘Or the poor Senior Proctor,’ added Michael, shoving past Celia to step inside. She staggered.
There was a fire burning in the hearth, and two goblets stood on the table. So did two sets of sewing, and if Heslarton had been there, they had been very quick to eliminate the evidence.
‘We shall not take much of your time,’ said Bartholomew, ducking behind Michael as Odelina surged towards him. ‘We want to know what you did last night.’
Celia raised her eyebrows. ‘Why, Doctor! Is that any sort of question to ask a lady, when you have been told she entertained her lover? Do you want details of our intimate activities, then?’
‘But my father said you spent a romantic but chaste night looking at a psalter,’ objected Odelina, regarding her friend uncertainly. ‘Him on one side of the hearth, and you on the other. He said he would not do anything … improper until a decent amount of time had passed.’
‘Of course,’ said Celia, eyeing her pityingly. She smiled at Bartholomew. ‘So there you are. We spent the night with a book. However, I would appreciate a little discretion. People talk, and I do not want a reputation.’
‘It is a little late for that,’ said Michael bluntly. ‘You have been seen with Heslarton on previous occasions, too, especially ones when Drax happened to be away on business.’
Celia’s pretty face creased into something ugly. ‘Dickon! He is always spying, and you are friends with his father. I should have left the little beast to the bees.’
‘So are you saying you read here all last night?’ asked Michael, treating her to a searching look. ‘Neither of you left the house for any reason?’
‘Why should we?’ said Celia shortly. ‘There is much here to occupy us. And now, if that is all …’
‘This is an impressive library,’ said Michael, ignoring her dismissal and indicating the collection of books with a flabby hand. ‘Are they all yours?’
‘I have been through this with the warlock,’ replied Celia irritably. ‘They belonged to my husband. He could read, I cannot.’
‘Then how did you peruse this book with Heslarton?’ pounced Bartholomew, recalling that Agatha had claimed it was the other
way around. ‘He cannot read, either – he has already told me he has no Latin. Surely, it would be tedious for you both to stare at words neither of you understand?’
‘That particular tome is very prettily illustrated,’ replied Celia icily. ‘It was prepared in the Carmelites’ scriptorium, and—’
Whatever else she had been about to say was lost, because there was another knock on the door. The two women exchanged an uneasy glance, and Bartholomew wondered if they were afraid it was Heslarton, come to pay suit to his woman, and that he might contradict the tales they had told. But it was Cynric, who always seemed to know where his master was.
‘You are needed urgently at Trinity Hall,’ he said without preamble. ‘And then at the Swan tavern in Milne Street, where there has been a fight and there are wounds that need stitching.’
Bartholomew shrugged apologetically at Michael and took his leave.
Bartholomew walked briskly towards Trinity Hall, where two scholars had been injured by flying glass when rocks had been tossed through their chapel windows. The stones were believed to have been thrown by a contingent from Batayl Hostel.
‘They want to murder us,’ said the one of the wounded resentfully. ‘In revenge for Gib.’
‘There is nothing to suggest that Gib was killed because he belonged to a hostel,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘This madness must stop.’
‘That is what we said, but Batayl would not listen,’ said another student bitterly. ‘But they will not get away with it – we will have our revenge.’
Bartholomew tried to reason with them, but could tell his words were falling on deaf ears. He left feeling anxious and unsettled, and his peace of mind was not much helped when he reached the Swan tavern, which stood opposite the Carmelite Friary. Apparently, a gang of youths wearing hoods and red ribbons had stormed the place, and engaged in a vicious fist fight with several lads from Bene’t and Clare colleges. Townsmen had joined the mêlée, and the invaders had fled when they saw they were outnumbered.
People were milling about in the street, as they always did after an incident, and voices were raised in excitement. A dog barked furiously on the other side of the road, and as Bartholomew glanced across at it, he saw the friary gate was ajar. He was surprised, because it was usually kept locked after dark. As no one at the Swan seemed to need him urgently – the remaining combatants were more interested in quarrelling with each other than in securing his services – he walked towards the convent, Cynric at his heels.
‘There!’ hissed the book-bearer urgently, peering through the gate and stabbing his finger into the darkened yard. ‘I see three shadows lurking.’
‘They are heading for the shrine,’ said Bartholomew.
‘Thieves,’ said Cynric grimly. ‘After St Simon Stock’s scapular again, I imagine. What shall we do? Catch them ourselves, or sound the alarm?’
‘Sound the alarm. Ring the bell by the chapel, while I make sure they do not escape.’
He crept forward. There was a lamp in the shrine, kept burning as a symbolic presence of the saint. He pushed the door open further, but it issued a tearing creak. By the altar, there was a brief exclamation of alarm, and the light was promptly doused. Without it, the building was pitch black.
Then the bell began to clang. Whoever was in the shrine bolted and, either by design or accident, Bartholomew was bowled from his feet. Then he was struck a second time as two more people hurtled past. He grabbed the hem of a flying cloak, but it was moving too fast and he did not have it for long. Then there were running footsteps and the yard was full of flickering lanterns as friars, lay-brothers, visitors and servants poured out of the buildings to see what was going on.
‘What happened?’ cried Prior Etone, leaping over the prostrate physician to dash into the hut.
‘Thieves,’ explained Cynric tersely.
‘No!’ wailed Etone as he reached the altar. ‘The scapular! It has gone!’
‘Are you sure?’ asked Fen. The pardoner’s face was white, and he was breathless. The two nuns stood behind him, their clothing awry.
‘Of course I am sure!’ shrieked Etone. ‘Look for yourself. The reliquary is empty.’
There was immediate consternation, and the convent’s residents began to hunt wildly and randomly around the yard. Etone dropped to his knees, and began to sob.
‘Even without the scapular, this is a holy place,’ said Fen comfortingly. ‘Pilgrims will still come.’
‘But not so many,’ wept Etone. ‘And probably not such wealthy ones, either.’
‘Brother Michael wanted me to burgle Chestre tonight,’ whispered Cynric in Bartholomew’s ear. ‘But I think we had better see what can be done to find this relic instead. I do not like the notion of such a holy thing in the hands of felons – the saint may be angry with us for failing to protect it.’
He and Bartholomew organised a systematic search of the convent’s buildings and grounds that lasted well into the night, but it was to no avail. Thieves and scapular had gone.
The following morning was so dark with rain clouds that Walter misread the hour candle, and was late sounding the bell. But even with the extra hour in bed, Bartholomew was still tired. As he struggled to prise himself away from his straw mattress, he wondered when it was that he had last enjoyed a good, uninterrupted night’s sleep.
The previous evening, Langelee had decided that the physician and his students should sleep in the hall while their own quarters were uninhabitable. It had sounded like a good idea, and Bartholomew was grateful to have somewhere dry to lie down when he had finished hunting for St Simon’s Stock’s relic. But rain thundered on the roof like a drum roll, and he discovered that Thelnetham and Clippesby were in the habit of using the library at night. Their reading lamps kept him awake, and so did the College cat, which insisted on trampling over him.
Michael also slept poorly – Tulyet’s fears about renewed hostilities with the town had unsettled him. Feeling there was not a moment to lose, he rose long before dawn, and discussed the brewing troubles with his beadles. Then he visited the Carmelite Priory. The friars were still distraught, particularly Etone. They clamoured at him, urging and pleading with him to get their treasure back before the villain chopped it into pieces and sold them off.
‘It must be the killer-thief,’ he said unhappily to Bartholomew, as Langelee led the scholars back to Michaelhouse after morning mass. ‘At least, I hope so – I do not have the resources to hunt another audacious felon.’
‘If so, then it is the first time he has worked with accomplices,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps it was Kendale and a couple of his pupils.’
‘Unfortunately, it might be anyone,’ said Michael bitterly. ‘No one can give me a decent description. Not even you, who had actual physical contact.’
‘I am sorry, Brother. It was very dark, and they were no more than shadows.’
‘Incidentally, Fen said they might not have succeeded, had you tried harder to catch them.’
‘He said as much last night, although he went quiet when I said the same applied to him. He arrived very quickly after the alarm was raised, and so did the nuns. None of them looked as though they had been sleeping.’
‘They spun me a tale about praying together in the chapel.’ Michael regarded his friend strangely for a moment, and then looked away. ‘I have something terrible to confess.’
Bartholomew regarded him in alarm. ‘Why? What have you done?’
‘Lost the signaculum you gave me. I was vain enough to wear it in my hat this morning, but the pin must have been faulty. By the time I returned, it had gone.’
Bartholomew heaved a sigh of relief. ‘Is that all? I was afraid it was something dreadful.’
‘It is something dreadful!’ cried Michael, agitated. ‘Not only was it a gift from a man who rarely gives his friends anything other than medicine and impractical advice about diets, it was something I really wanted. It was a beautiful thing, and I feel bereft.’
‘Are you sure it is lost?
A lot of people have had theirs stolen.’
Michael’s expression hardened. ‘Fen! He must have taken it when I was at the Carmelite Friary! Or do you see the likes of Etone and Horneby as signaculum thieves?’
‘I would hope not,’ said Bartholomew noncommittally.
Michael was thoughtful. ‘Of course, I bumped into Meryfeld and Gyseburne on my way home, too. Gyseburne reached out to brush a cobweb from my head, but I am sure I would have noticed him removing my badge. No – it was Fen.’
Bartholomew was not sure what to think, so said nothing.
‘He will never be able to sell it here,’ said Michael, still worrying at the matter, ‘because my beadles are circulating its description. Of course, it serves me right for wearing it in the first place – I have not been on a pilgrimage, and it was sheer vanity.’
‘That does not seem to stop anyone else from doing it.’
Michael sighed, then became practical. ‘Come with me to see the Carmelites. The theft of the scapular is serious and urgent, and we must do all we can to retrieve it.’
‘Before breakfast?’ asked Bartholomew in surprise. Michael hated missing meals.
The monk nodded, and his expression was sombre. ‘As I said, it is serious and urgent. The camp-ball game is tomorrow, and time is running out far too fast.’
Michael set a brisk pace to the convent, where friars stood in huddled groups and there was an atmosphere of shocked grief, as though someone had died. Etone was so distraught that Bartholomew was obliged to prepare him a tonic, to soothe him.
‘Find it, Brother,’ the Prior whispered brokenly. ‘Please find it.’
Michael muttered some reassurances, patted his hand, and left him to Bartholomew’s care. The physician did not leave until Etone slept, at which point one of his novices came to sit with him. When Bartholomew walked into the yard, he found Michael talking to Horneby, Fen and the two nuns. The women were rosy cheeked and seemed well rested, although Fen was wan.
The Killer Of Pilgrims: The Sixteenth Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 28