The Killer of Pilgrims (30 page)

‘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.’

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.’

‘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.’