The Killer of Pilgrims (31 page)

‘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 to 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.’

‘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.