The Killer of Pilgrims (32 page)

‘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.

‘I shall assume the role of Prior until Etone has recovered,’ Horneby was saying. ‘God knows, I am no administrator, but no
one else is willing to step into the breach, and we cannot be leaderless at such a time.’

‘Well, you need not worry about accommodating us much longer,’ said Fen kindly. ‘We intend to leave soon – Poynton’s family
must be informed of his death as quickly as possible.’

They all looked around as the gate was opened, and Seneschal Welfry stepped inside. The Dominican saw Horneby, and ran towards
him, his face a mask of shock.

‘I am
so
sorry! When Prior Morton told me what had happened, I thought it was his idea of a joke. I would have come last night had
I known – I could have helped search for these vile scoundrels.’

‘It would have made no difference,’ said Horneby sadly. ‘We hunted all night and found no trace of them – and we had Cynric.
If
he
could not catch them, then no one could.’

‘Cynric is the physician’s man,’ said one of the fat nuns unpleasantly. Bartholomew thought she was Agnes. ‘Perhaps he did
not try as hard as he might have done.’

‘What do you mean by that?’ demanded Michael, hands on hips.

‘What was he doing here in the first place?’ Agnes snarled. ‘It was late, dark and wet. Yet he was lurking around the shrine,
unaccompanied by Carmelites. It is suspicious, to say the least!’

‘It is not,’ said Horneby quietly. ‘He and Bartholomew
saw the gate ajar and came to investigate. And thank God they did, or we would not have known the scapular was missing until
this morning. Besides, they did their best to tackle the invaders.‘

‘
Did
they?’ sneered the other nun – Margaret. ‘Are you sure about that?’

‘Ladies!’ said Welfry sharply. ‘You would be wise to keep such nasty insinuations to yourself. There is no room for them here.’

‘You are right,’ said Fen softly. ‘My fellow pilgrims speak out of turn. Please accept our apologies, Doctor. It has been
a long night, and we are all tired.’

‘Yes, you
should
beg his forgiveness,’ said Horneby firmly. ‘Bartholomew did all he could to prevent the thieves from escaping. I saw him
knocked to the ground myself.’

‘Then why did
you
not give chase?’ demanded Margaret. ‘If you were that close?’

‘I am unwell,’ said Horneby stiffly. ‘Confined to my room, and—’

‘I know you have postponed the Stock Extraordinary Lecture,’ said Agnes, regarding him doubtfully. ‘But you do not look unwell
to me.’

‘He
is
ill,’ said Welfry, indignant on his friend’s behalf. ‘He should not be out of bed now, as a matter of fact, but he has rallied
because of this crisis. Please do not rail at him. And do not rail at Matthew, either. He is the last man in Cambridge to
steal relics.’

‘I am not so sure about that,’ said Agnes snidely. ‘There are rumours that he dabbles in sorcery, and sacred objects are very
useful when performing dark rites.’

‘So we are told,’ added Margaret hastily.

‘You overstep the mark, sisters,’ said Welfry coldly. ‘And although successful physicians attract this sort of
from half-wits, I am appalled to hear it from you. You should know better.’

‘Matt said the front gate was open,’ mused Michael, when the nuns seemed unable to think of a reply to the rebuke, and only
shuffled their feet. ‘Yet the thieves did not leave that way. Why?’

‘Probably because they were afraid of being seen by the patrons of the Swan tavern opposite,’ supplied Fen. ‘The bell was
ringing at that point, and everyone would have been looking over.’

‘Or because they were already home,’ whispered Michael to Bartholomew. ‘In other words, Fen and his two fat nuns had no need
to tear out of the convent, because they intended to spend the night in its comfortable guest hall. And now we hear they will
soon be leaving.’

There was no more to be learned from the White Friars, so Bartholomew and Michael left them to their grieving and walked towards
the High Street. Alice was going to be buried that day, and the monk was so desperate for clues regarding her death that he
had already said he wanted both of them to mingle with the mourners, to see what might be gleaned from questions and eavesdropping.

‘Fen and his nuns are scoundrels,’ Michael growled as they walked. ‘I wager
they
stole the scapular, then tried to have you blamed for the crime, to shift attention from themselves.’

‘It is possible, I suppose,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘Still, assuming the killer-thief – with helpmeets – did steal the
scapular last night, at least we can say that Gib was not the culprit. You cannot have a better alibi than being dead. In
other words, someone probably
did
tie the yellow wig on him in order to mislead us.’

‘Our other suspects remain the same, though,’ said
Michael grimly. ‘Fen and his nuns at the top of the list, followed by the devious scholars of Chestre, Yffi—’

‘But not Blaston,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘He would never tamper with holy relics. And neither would my medical colleagues, before
you think to include them in your inventory.’