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

by Gregory, Susanna

Bartholomew regarded her in disbelief. ‘Kendale has caused trouble? What about Welfry?’

  ‘Enough talking!’ she shouted suddenly. ‘I should be at Isnard’s barge, not chattering here with you. Say your prayers, both of you. I will try to be merciful.’

  She advanced on Bartholomew, but she had been holding the weapon aloft too long, and her arms were fatigued. She struggled to lift it, and the fractional delay gave him just enough time to lunge forward and grab her arm. The situation had resolved, he realised with sudden clarity, exactly as Horneby had engineered it to, and explained why the friar had been to such pains to keep her talking for so long.

  Unfortunately, Odelina was still strong, while the aftereffects of Bartholomew’s concussion had rendered him more feeble than he had appreciated. Instead of defeating her immediately, a furious tussle ensued, during which he felt himself losing ground.

  When he saw what was happening, Horneby went into action again. He rolled into a ball, and this time Bartholomew grasped his plan a good deal more quickly. He shoved Odelina towards him, so she tripped over backwards, to land with a crash that drove the air from her lungs. While she fought to catch her breath, Horneby removed the rope belt from around his waist.

  ‘Go,’ he said urgently. ‘I will secure her, and stay here until you send help. I am too weak to dash out and help you confront Welfry, but I can do this. Go!’

  With grim resolve, Bartholomew began to stagger to where he could see Michael moving through the spectators. He was obliged to jig away sharply when the camp-ball game surged towards him, and then was slowed by the same gamut of shoves, pokes and jostles that had delayed him on his way out. He was alarmed to note that scuffles had broken out in several places, and the beadles and Tulyet’s soldiers were hard pressed to quell them.

  By the time he reached Michael, he was dishevelled, breathless and his legs threatened to deposit him on the ground. He gasped out his explanation, leaning on the monk’s shoulder for support as he did so.

  ‘Welfry,’ said the monk heavily, dispatching two beadles to rescue Horneby. ‘But why did he order Horneby to steal your brimstone concoction? What does he intend to do with it?’

  ‘He is ingenious, as his practical jokes have shown,’ said Bartholomew, fighting off another wave of dizziness. ‘He will find a way.’

  ‘Horneby must be inside the priory,’ gabbled Thelnetham, dashing up to them. ‘It is cold today, so our new Seneschal has persuaded Leccheworth to serve the free wine and ale in the refectory. Horneby and his diabolical substances will be in there.’

  ‘The culprit is not Horneby,’ said Michael. ‘It is Welfry himself.’

  Thelnetham gaped at him. ‘I do not believe you! He is a lovely man, all smiles, compassion and goodness. Well, and a little malice, too, if the truth be known. His trick with the eggs made Agatha a laughing stock—’

  ‘There is no time for chatter,’ interrupted Michael. ‘Come, both of you. We must stop him.’

  ‘No,’ said Bartholomew, gesturing to the field. ‘There are skirmishes breaking out everywhere, and the Senior Proctor needs to be seen doing his duty here. It will not matter if Welfry blows up the refectory, if there is a massive bloodbath among the spectators first.’

  ‘Then what do you suggest?’ demanded Michael in agitation.

  ‘That you stay outside, and keep the peace. Thelnetham and I will hunt for Welfry in the priory. You can come to help us as soon as you have the situation here under control.’

  Michael screwed up his face, disliking the choice he was being offered, but he knew the importance of the Senior Proctor’s visible presence when scholars were of a mind to fight.

  ‘Can you do it?’ he asked, looking doubtfully at his friend. ‘You will not collapse on us?’

  ‘I will help him if he does,’ said Thelnetham. ‘We will stop this villain together.’

  ‘Very well. But be careful. The University needs its Corpse Examiner.’

  ‘And one of its most talented lawyers,’ added Thelnetham dryly. ‘However, remember that it is only conjecture that Welfry is inside. We may not be able to find him.’

  ‘You must,’ urged Michael. ‘The game will not last much longer, and then everyone will charge towards their free drinks. You must apprehend him before that happens.’

  ‘But if we cannot, you must insist that everyone disarms before entering the refectory,’ said Bartholomew. ‘That should cut down the potential for violence.’

  ‘My beadles will see to it.’ Michael sketched a blessing at them. ‘Now, go.’

  Bartholomew took considerable care as he eased through the crowd, anxious not to provide the spark that would ignite a full-blown brawl. The lads from Batayl Hostel jostled him as he passed, but he ignored them, even when one shove was hard enough to send him sprawling on to his hands and knees. Thelnetham hauled him to his feet, and dragged him on, looking neither to left nor right.

  ‘If they do that to a Michaelhouse student, there will be a riot for certain,’ he muttered. ‘Langelee ordered all the Fellows to stay with them today, to keep them away from provocation, but our colleagues will not find it easy.’

  ‘Then perhaps you had better go and help them,’ said Bartholomew, looking at the Gilbertines’ buildings and experiencing a flutter of dread in his stomach. ‘This is not your fight.’

  ‘Of course it is my fight!’ snapped Thelnetham. ‘It is my University, is it not? And the confrontation with this deranged monster is going to take place in the refectory of my own Order! I am terrified out of my very considerable wits, but I am not leaving you to do it alone. Father William is always talking about College loyalty, so here is my chance to prove myself.’

  ‘Why should you need to prove yourself?’

  Thelnetham looked away. ‘Because it was me who told Celia Drax that you were a warlock. I was being flippant, but she took it to heart, and you lost a wealthy client because of it. I have tried to make amends with small gestures of friendship, but you have been suspicious of them. So I shall have to put my life at your disposal instead.’

  ‘Be careful, then,’ said Bartholomew, supposing a guilty conscience might well explain Thelnetham’s recent curious behaviour towards him.

  ‘I am always careful,’ said Thelnetham with a rueful grin. ‘And I am wearing a new habit – I do not want it damaged by whatever diabolical substance you and your medical colleagues invented.’

  Bartholomew pushed open the refectory door and stepped inside. It was a massive room, with great, thick rafters, dark paintings on the walls and a flagstone floor. One or two lamps had been lit, although they did little to illuminate the place: it was dim and shadowy, a combination of an overcast day and narrow windows. Long tables had been set out, and there were buckets of ale and jugs of wine on them, along with baskets of bread and cakes. There was no sign of Welfry.

  ‘He is not here,’ said Thelnetham. He sounded relieved.

  ‘He must be,’ whispered Bartholomew. ‘I can smell brimstone. He must have brought it here.’

  ‘Then where is he? He is not under any of the tables, and this is a single room with no pillars to hide behind, or chests in which to seek shelter.’

  Bartholomew saw he was right. Perhaps Welfry had given up when Odelina had been caught, and had fled, taking his pilgrim badges with him to pay for a new life. Bartholomew sagged, feeling that the Dominican had beaten him. Then he saw a small, sticky stain on the floor.

  He stepped towards it and crouched down. It was definitely the potion he had helped to create in Meryfeld’s garden. Very slowly, he looked upwards, to the rafters.

  ‘He is here,’ he said softly to Thelnetham.

  The Gilbertine peered to where he was pointing. ‘Ropes and pulleys!’ he exclaimed. ‘Half hidden among the shadows and the darkness. But what are they for?’

  ‘Another practical joke,’ guessed Bartholomew. ‘Except this one will not be amusing, and will end in death and mutilation. I believe he intends to shower the people who come for their free drink
s with a burning substance that cannot be extinguished – a ruthlessly vicious variation on the trick at the Dominican Priory, which saw him brained with a basket.’

  Thelnetham turned white, and crossed himself. ‘Horrible! Can you see him?’

  Bartholomew shook his head. ‘Tell Michael what we have found, and do not let anyone come in. I will try to disarm whatever device he has constructed.’

  Thelnetham pointed to a door. ‘There are the stairs that lead to the roof. God forgive me, but Welfry asked me where they went the other day, and I told him. I thought he was making polite conversation, and he is such a charming fellow …’

  ‘It is not your fault – he deceived us all. Now go.’

  Bartholomew opened the door and began to climb. The steps were narrow, pitch black and very uneven, and he could not go as fast as he would have liked. It seemed an age before he reached another door, which he opened to reveal a small ledge and a dizzying drop. But there was something else, too.

  In the gloom of the ancient, dusty rafters, he could see buckets attached to ropes. They were linked by twine that had been smeared with the substance he and his medical colleagues had created, and he understood immediately what was intended to happen: a flame would be touched to the twine, allowing the perpetrator time to escape while it burned. He recalled Welfry admiring the ‘fuse’ Kendale had invented when he had illuminated St Mary the Great: he had stolen the idea.

  Bartholomew tried to pull the twine away from the pails, but it had been tacked very securely to the wood, and he could not do it – he would have to disable the receptacles themselves. But these had been positioned far along the rafters, so they would be directly over the tables below. Cautiously, he stepped off the door ledge, and took several wobbly steps along the nearest beam. Immediately, the door closed behind him.

  ‘Keep walking,’ came Welfry’s voice. ‘I have a knife, and I am not afraid to use it. And even if I only injure you, you will still fall to your death. Walk away from me, and do not turn back.’

  Bartholomew could not have turned back, even if he had wanted to, because the beam was too narrow. With no choice but to obey, he did as Welfry ordered.

  His legs trembled, and he tried not to look down, although it was difficult, because he had to watch where he was putting his feet: the rafter was uneven, and there was a very real risk of him losing his balance and falling to his death without the Seneschal’s knife helping him along. Eventually, he reached the crown-post in the middle of the rafter, and grabbed it gratefully.

  ‘Do not stop,’ called Welfry. ‘There is another door at the far end. Walk to it, and close it after you. The latch sticks, so you will be trapped until someone rescues you, but you will live. However, if you stop, I will be forced to kill you.’

  ‘No,’ said Bartholomew. The next section of rafter was much more uneven, and he was in no state for acrobatics. ‘Lob your knife if you will, but I am not moving.’

  Immediately, a blade thudded into the wood by his face, making him jump so violently that he almost lost his footing.

  ‘Damn!’ muttered Welfry. ‘But I have another, so do not think of starting back.’

  ‘This is over, Welfry.’ Bartholomew sounded a lot more confident than he felt.

  ‘Almost,’ agreed Welfry. ‘My work will soon be completed.’

  ‘How could you do this?’ Bartholomew eased around the post in an effort to put himself out of knife range. ‘You are one of the University’s most popular members – and its latest Seneschal. How could you betray it all for a future with Odelina and a handful of signacula?’

  ‘I am not going anywhere with Odelina. First, Isnard’s barge is unseaworthy. But second, and more importantly, you should credit me with a little integrity – I have never broken my vows of chastity.’ Welfry sighed when he saw Bartholomew no longer represented a clear target. ‘I said keep moving.’

  ‘Michael knows about your crimes,’ warned Bartholomew, not holding much hope of talking the Dominican into giving up, but desperate enough to try. ‘You may not have killed Drax, Alice, Gib, Yffi and Poynton yourself, but you are certainly implicated. And we know it was you who stole the signacula and St Simon Stock’s scapular.’

  ‘Perhaps, but he will never be able to prove it. Please start walking. I do not want to hurt you.’

  ‘He will prove it.’ Bartholomew could see Welfry in the gloom, holding a blade in his gloved hand. He was safe from lobbed knives behind the crown-post, but as long as he was pinned down, he could not stop the Dominican from activating his pulleys. He knew he had to do something quickly, but what? ‘He even knows why you have done these terrible things.’

  Welfry gave a short, bitter laugh. ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘You hate Kendale, so you needled him with gentle tricks, knowing he would respond with vicious ones. But when that failed to see him expelled, you ordered Heslarton to leave Yffi and a box of “evidence” in his hostel, so he would be blamed for the crimes you and your helpmeets had committed. You ordered Drax left in Michaelhouse for the same reason.’

  ‘Unfortunately, it was too subtle for Brother Michael. He failed to make the connection.’ Welfry sounded exasperated. ‘Enough of this! Start walking again, or I will—’

  ‘He failed to make the connection because he does not allow himself to be misled by villains,’ retorted Bartholomew, struggling to keep the unsteadiness from his voice. ‘But why do you—’

  ‘It started when I saw Chestre murder Jolye,’ snapped Welfry. ‘Shoving him in the icy river and then refusing to let him out. It was monstrous!’

  ‘If you witnessed a murder, you should have told Michael. He represents justice, not you.’

  ‘My word against an entire hostel, including the wily-tongued Kendale? No one would have believed me. But they will pay for their crime.’

  ‘What happened to you, Welfry?’ asked Bartholomew softly. ‘What brought you to this?’

  ‘You ask me such a question?’ asked Welfry with a short, mirthless laugh. ‘A man abandoned by God because of his heretical ideas and fondness for sorcery?’

  Bartholomew winced, but pressed on. ‘How could you throw in your lot with Odelina?’

  ‘Odelina,’ sighed Welfry. ‘That was the worst part: enduring her attentions to secure her help. However, she dispatched Gib, Alice – and probably Drax, too, although she denies it – of her own volition. And her father was responsible for Yffi and Poynton. I had nothing to do with any of it.’

  ‘No, but you took advantage,’ countered Bartholomew, watching Welfry finger the dagger restlessly. ‘Leaving corpses in Michaelhouse and Chestre, and tying a yellow wig on Gib to make everyone think the badge thief was dead. The thief was you, although Heslarton did not know it at the time.’

  Welfry inclined his head. ‘And neither did Odelina – both would have killed me for targeting Emma and Celia, so I kept it from them until I had her completely in my thrall. But enough chatter, Matthew! Start walking towards the door.’

  The benefits of Thelnetham’s tonic had finally worn off, and Bartholomew felt sick and dizzy. He knew he would fall if he moved along the beam as ordered. And how could he thwart Welfry, if he was trapped behind a door that would not open, anyway? He began speaking again, hoping the delay would allow him time to devise a plan – although nothing had come to mind so far.

  ‘I do not understand why you stole so many pilgrim badges. Do you intend to sell them, to make yourself a fortune?’

  ‘No, of course not. I know why you are struggling to keep me talking, by the way. You expect Thelnetham to fetch Michael and save you. Unfortunately, Thelnetham met with an accident.’

  He jabbed his thumb downwards, and Bartholomew risked a quick glance. The Gilbertine was lying on the floor: there was blood next to his head.

  ‘So walk to the far end of the beam and go through the door,’ directed Welfry. ‘I am willing to spare your life, but not at the expense of spoiling my plans. Go, or I will come and stab you.’

  ‘If you d
o, you may fall yourself,’ said Bartholomew, not moving.

  Welfry sighed. ‘I have been scampering around these beams for days, and I have a good head for heights. You cannot prevent what is about to happen, so do as I say, and save yourself.’

  ‘What is about to happen?’ pressed Bartholomew, hearing the desperation in his own voice.

  ‘In a moment, scholars and townsmen will come racing in for their free ale and wine. My little trick will swing into action, and I shall escape in the ensuing chaos. When the commotion eventually dies down, your cries for help will be heard and you will be released – if you walk towards the door. If you continue to be awkward, you will suffer a rather different fate.’

  ‘But people will see Thelnetham’s body, and—’

  ‘Not until it is too late to matter.’

  ‘Please do not do this,’ begged Bartholomew, appalled by the meticulous planning. ‘Our friends will be among those drinking this wine. And how can you leave Horneby to take the blame?’

  Welfry winced and looked away. He regretted Horneby’s fate. ‘He will be dead by now. Odelina is nothing if not thorough.’

  ‘She is in Michael’s custody, and Horneby has escaped.’

  ‘I do not believe you.’ Welfry took a step along the beam. ‘I gave you your chance, Matthew, and you refused to take it. I dislike killing, but you leave me no choice.’

  Bartholomew had no strength left to repel an attack. ‘All right,’ he said wearily. ‘I am going. But bear in mind that even if your plan succeeds, you will never be safe. Michael will find you.’

  ‘I doubt even his influence extends to the place where I am bound,’ said Welfry softly.

  Bartholomew frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

  Welfry held up his gloved hand. ‘I tell everyone my hand is marred by a childhood palsy, but it is leprosy. I shall end my days shunned by all, dead before I am in my grave. That is why I shall not sell the signacula and St Simon Stock’s scapular – their collective holiness will release me from Purgatory. I started amassing them after a pilgrimage to Canterbury, some eight years ago.’

  ‘But there has not been a case of leprosy in Cambridge for years!’ cried Bartholomew. ‘It is almost certain to be something else. Let me examine it.’