The Killer of Pilgrims (29 page)

It was a good idea, and Bartholomew hastened to do as he was bidden.

‘Yffi has just told us what happened,’ said Fen as he approached. ‘Have you found Poynton’s stolen
signaculum
on this villain’s person?’

‘We have not examined the body yet,’ said Michael coolly.
‘Earthly baubles are not my first consideration when discovering a corpse.’

‘This was not an earthly bauble,’ snapped the fat little nun called Agnes, although Fen flushed at the monk’s implied criticism.
‘It was a valuable token from the Holy Land. Let me see him, Brother. I want to look on his treacherous face.’

‘Certainly,’ said Michael, gesturing to the corpse with a courtly sweep of his hand. Bartholomew hid the wig behind his back.
‘Look all you like.’

‘That is him,’ Agnes declared immediately. ‘I would know that evil visage anywhere.’

‘You are wrong,’ countered Margaret. ‘His hair is different.’

‘There
is
something familiar about him,’ mused Fen. ‘But I am uncertain …’

‘Put the wig back, Matt,’ ordered Michael. ‘Let us see what difference that makes.’

‘Yes!’ exclaimed Margaret, when the headpiece was in place. ‘That is him!’

‘Actually, now I think it is not,’ countered Agnes. ‘I have changed my mind.’

Fen stared at the body for a long time. ‘I am sorry,’ he said eventually. ‘I still cannot be sure.’

Michael watched them walk away. ‘We can dismiss the nuns’ testimony as nonsense – they do not seem entirely rational to me.
But Fen is another matter. He knows something, yet declines to share it. He probably wants to assess the pitfalls and advantages
to himself before—’

‘Stop,’ interrupted Bartholomew. ‘Wild claims will not help us solve this case. We need to review the evidence logically,
not invent theories based on personal prejudice.’

‘I noticed you did not find it easy to remove the wig,’ said Michael, changing the subject rather than admit
Bartholomew was right. ‘It was tied on very securely.’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘Very. I suppose it was either because Gib thought he might have to run, and he did not want it to fall
off and reveal his true identity. Or because someone else wanted to make sure it remained in place for the whole town to see.’

Michael sighed his exasperation. ‘So even a simple thing like the tying of the wig cannot yield an unambiguous clue!’

‘Then let us consider the murders for a moment,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Assuming Gib
is
the killer-thief, I understand why he left poison in Emma’s house – she and her family are universally unpopular. And his
reason for killing Drax is obvious, too – Drax was going to raise Chestre’s rent, and Kendale quarrelled with him about it.’

‘Blaston heard two sets of footsteps when the body was dumped, suggesting Gib had an accomplice. It must have been Kendale,
whom Walter saw peering through our gates earlier that day. Chestre hates the Colleges, so they left the corpse at Michaelhouse
– the nearest one to the dairy where the murder was committed – in the hope that it would see us in trouble with the town.’

‘It all fits very nicely,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Yet …’

‘Yet what?’

‘Yet I have the distinct feeling that we are being pointed in a way some devious mind wants us to go. And the notion that
anyone can tie a wig on a corpse bothers me.’

‘What are you saying? That Gib is
not
the culprit?’

‘I have no idea whether he is our villain or not,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘Perhaps I am looking for overly complex solutions,
and we should simply accept what seems obvious.’

‘No,’ said Michael. ‘Because I have an odd feeling about
this case, too. And I have learned not to ignore my instincts. Or yours.’

St Clement’s Church was a spacious, airy building, and its vicar, William Heyford, was famous for preaching colourful sermons
that attracted enormous crowds of people. Bartholomew had attended one once, but had found it sensational and lacking in logic.

‘I most certainly shall
not
house a corpse in my chancel,’ Heyford declared indignantly, when Michael told him what he wanted. ‘I am holding a mass in
an hour, and I do not want the congregation to stay away because the place is stuffed with cadavers.’

‘One body hardly equates to a stuffing,’ Michael objected.

‘I do not care: he cannot stay. Besides, I recognise him – he is one of those obnoxious lads from Chestre Hostel. He and his
cronies have made a lot of enemies among the Colleges, and his presence here may encourage them to come and do something unspeakable.’

‘Our students are not in the habit of doing unspeakable things to the dead,’ protested Michael.

‘Your Corpse Examiner is, though,’ countered Heyford. ‘And I am not having it, not in
my
church. It is a holy place, and I do not permit the mauling of mortal remains.’

‘If you let Gib lie here, I will arrange for you to do the funeral,’ cajoled Michael. ‘You will be well paid.’

‘All right, then,’ agreed Heyford, capitulating with a speed that had even Michael blinking in astonishment. ‘You should have
said that money was involved.’

‘Matt will see him settled,’ said Michael, indicating that Bartholomew should follow the bier-bearers inside the church.

Bartholomew rolled his eyes, knowing the monk wanted
him to examine Gib while he kept Heyford busy outside. It was sordid, and if he was caught it would make him appear even
more sinister than ever. But he could not argue when Heyford was there, so he did as he was told, muttering something vague
about making sure Gib was decently laid out.

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—’