The Killer of Pilgrims (35 page)

‘It is not a new invention – I have read about “wildfire” in texts from the Ancient Near East. It is said to have brought
great armies to their knees.’

Tulyet regarded him balefully. ‘This is deadly knowledge, and you should not share it with anyone else.
I
find it repulsive, and I am a professional soldier, used to slaughtering my enemies. Let us hope your friends will be less
reckless when they are not sodden with wine. Unless …’

‘Unless what?’ asked Bartholomew, suspecting from the tone of Tulyet’s voice that he was about to be told something he would
rather not hear.

‘Unless one of them knew exactly what he was doing. I am sorry to malign men you probably like, but Gyseburne bothers me.
He claims he studied at Oxford and Paris, but the Chancellor told me there is no record of him at either, and there is something
… unsettling about him.’

‘The Chancellor must be mistaken.’

‘I doubt it. And Meryfeld is as bad. I am uncomfortable with the fact that it was he who found Gib’s body, and I am not sure
I believe his tale about the pilgrim badge he claims to have lost. Or Gyseburne’s, for that matter. I think one of
them
may be the killer-thief.’

Bartholomew regarded him coolly. ‘And is Rougham on your list of suspects, too?’

‘He was,’ Tulyet flashed back. ‘But Yolande de Blaston is his alibi for several of these crimes, and I trust her implicitly.
I am not confiding my suspicions to annoy you, Matt, but to warn you to be on your guard. One of them may have been trying
to kill you tonight, to hinder your investigation.’

‘That is ridiculous!’ All four of us were in danger from the experiment, not just me. And even if one of them
is
the culprit, why would he harm me? You and Michael are the ones on his trail.’

‘And we have had our close calls, too,’ said Tulyet soberly. ‘Michael when a rock was lobbed during a skirmish he was trying
to quell, and me when the castle portcullis fell suddenly yesterday.’

‘That portcullis has been threatening to drop for years. Its chains are rusty.’

‘Perhaps. However, just ask yourself whether it was lucky no one was hurt in Meryfeld’s garden, or whether someone
just did not anticipate your speedy reactions when you hurled yourself away from the blast.’

‘You are wrong,’ persisted Bartholomew doggedly. ‘I know you are.’

Tulyet changed the subject. ‘What more have you learned about the case? I hope your antics were a way to gain information,
because you should not have been fooling around when we have a moral obligation to use every available moment to stall tomorrow’s
trouble.’

‘I “fooled around” because I did not want three of Cambridge’s four physicians to be out of action when we might need their
services,’ retorted Bartholomew tartly, thinking it was not the Sheriff’s place to berate him. Then he relented, knowing Tulyet
was apprehensive about the next day, too, and it was worry speaking. ‘I have learned something new: Helia claims Neyll murdered
Jolye.’

‘Really?’ Tulyet was interested. ‘Then do you think he dispatched Gib, too? They often quarrelled over Helia – my men were
called to quell fights between them at least three times.’

‘It is possible. Neyll does seem to be a violent man.’

Tulyet rubbed his chin. ‘Of course, that solution makes no sense. Even Neyll – no great intellect – must know that sticking
a yellow wig on a colleague and shoving him off the Great Bridge is not a good idea. It basically says that Chestre Hostel
is home to the killer-thief.’

‘Neyll may have acted on Kendale’s orders. I agree with you that Gib’s murder
seems
to do Chestre no favours, but Kendale is complex and sly, and may well have devised a way to turn such a situation to his
advantage. I cannot see how, but that means nothing.’

Tulyet groaned. ‘Damn scholars and their love of intrigue! Has Michael arrested Neyll?’

‘I imagine he will wait until after tomorrow’s game. The
tension between the Colleges and hostels is too tight to do it before. Have
you
learned anything new?’

‘Yes, actually. I have eliminated Celia and Heslarton as suspects for the killer-thief.’

‘Really? How?’

‘I have a trustworthy informant in Emma’s household, and Heslarton was with him when Drax was murdered. And if Heslarton did
not kill Drax, then he is innocent of the other crimes, too, given that Michael assures me we are looking for a single culprit.’

‘And Celia?’

‘Reliable witnesses say she was in Emma’s home for the first part of the morning that Drax died, and in mine the second.’
Tulyet grimaced. ‘My wife saw fit to admit to me this morning that Celia came to complain about Dickon. She
claims
he has been spying on her, but of course it is nonsense.’

Bartholomew wondered why Tulyet should think so, when the Sheriff knew perfectly well that Dickon regularly spied on their
other neighbours. Prudently, he kept his thoughts to himself.

‘I hate to admit it, but Chestre has bested me,’ said Tulyet, after a while. ‘My engineers have been unable to manoeuvre that
damned trebuchet out of the Guildhall, and your hostels will be laughing at me, knowing their ingenuity is greater than mine.’

Bartholomew stood. ‘Would you like me to try?’

‘What, now?’ asked Tulyet, startled.

‘Why not? It is not so late. Besides, Michael wants Cynric to break into Chestre tonight, to look for evidence that Gib’s
cronies are the killer-thief. I will not be able to sleep until he is safely back.’

Tulyet frowned. ‘Is that a good idea? If a College servant is caught burgling a hostel …’

‘That is what I said, but Cynric assures me that capture is not on his agenda.’

Tulyet’s eyes gleamed. ‘In that case, I have an excellent idea for a diversion.’

‘You do?’

‘The trebuchet. If you really can get it back to the castle, we shall make sure the Chestre boys know we have solved the problem
they have created. They will come to watch, to see whether it is true. And while they do, Cynric can go about his business.’

Bartholomew and Tulyet met Michael on the High Street. The monk was with his beadles, prowling the town to make sure the hostels
did not reply to Welfry’s egg trick with something vengeful. But nothing was happening, and he was almost disappointed to
report that the streets were quiet.

‘They will not stay that way for long,’ warned Tulyet. ‘It is the calm before the storm.’

‘I am at my wits’ end, Dick,’ said Michael worriedly. ‘I can feel a catastrophe looming, but I am powerless to avert it.’

‘Then let us hope Cynric finds evidence to prove the killer-thief is Kendale and his louts,’ said Tulyet. ‘Without its sponsor,
the game will be cancelled, and it will not matter if half the town marches on Chestre and sets it ablaze, because it would
have to be closed down, anyway.’

‘Well, that is one way of solving the problem, I suppose,’ said Michael, round eyed. ‘Although I would prefer a solution that
does
not
involve arson and large numbers of rioters.’

‘It is better than the alternative,’ said Tulyet shortly. ‘Namely that we have battles on and off the playing field, as hostels
and Colleges attack each other, and my town
joins in. And the Chestre men are certainly my first choice of suspects for the killer-thief, anyway.’

‘They are not mine,’ said Michael. ‘I prefer Fen and his nuns. And I have not forgotten the fact that Yffi is conveniently
missing, either. Or that Matt’s medical colleagues are a sinister rabble, who might think a few
signacula
will make them better healers.’

‘They are not—’ began Bartholomew.

‘Thelnetham has been acting oddly of late, too,’ said Tulyet, overriding him. ‘He is not the outrageously cheerful man he
was a month ago, and I have come to distrust him intensely.’

‘Nonsense!’ declared Michael. ‘Our College does not harbour killers.’

Bartholomew said nothing, but his mind ranged back to the past, when he had learned the bitter lesson that not everyone who
enrolled at Michaelhouse was a good man.

They walked the rest of the way in silence. When they reached the Guildhall, Bartholomew studied the war machine for a long
time, working out angles, distances and measurements in his mind. It did not take him long to understand why Tulyet’s engineers
had failed: the device needed to be dismantled in a specific order, or the pieces were never going to fit through the door.
Tulyet soon grew impatient with him.

‘How much longer are you going to stare at the damned thing?’ he demanded. ‘We need it disassembled now if we are to help
Cynric, not next week.’

‘I think I see how they did it,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Do you have six strong soldiers, who can help with the lifting?’

Tulyet nodded, then lowered his voice. ‘But give me a few moments to make a fuss while I assemble them – we must ensure that
Chestre hears what we intend to do, or
Cynric will find himself invading their domain while they are still in it.’

Bartholomew followed him outside, where a large number of people were walking home after Celia’s celebration. Among them were
Rougham, Gyseburne and Meryfeld, evidently having returned to the festivities after the incident in the garden. Meryfeld and
Rougham were still reeling from the wine they had imbibed, but Gyseburne appeared to be sober. In fact, he seemed to have
recovered so completely that Bartholomew wondered whether he had been drunk in the first place.

‘The trebuchet will be gone tonight,’ Tulyet was announcing in a ringing voice to a group of men from the Guild of Corpus
Christi. ‘Do not worry – you shall have your meeting in here tomorrow.’

A number of people stopped to listen, and Bartholomew was pleased when he saw Kendale and Neyll were among them. It would
save adopting more creative measures to ensure they had heard.

‘We will not convene before the game, though,’ said one of the Guild. He was Burgess Frevill, a thickset, loutish fellow who
was one of the killer-thief’s victims. ‘I am looking forward to that.’

‘Are you?’ asked Tulyet in distaste. ‘Why? There may be violence and bloodshed.’

‘Quite,’ said Frevill gleefully. ‘It will be great sport to see the University tear itself to pieces. And I may join in –
I have heard a scholar is responsible for murdering Drax and stealing pilgrim badges – including the one I bought from the
time I went to Hereford. I dislike a large number of those snivelling academics, and one might confess if I give him a taste
of my fists.’

‘I would not recommend taking matters into your own hands,’ said Tulyet, his voice deceptively mild. ‘I shall not
be pleased if you make my task tomorrow any harder than it needs to be.’

Frevill backed away with his hands in the air: only fools crossed the Sheriff. But Bartholomew had a bad feeling that the
burgess’s words reflected the views of others, and suspected it would be a miracle if Kendale’s game passed without incident.
The Chestre men had heard the exchange, too, and exchanged smug grins at the notion that the Sheriff was anticipating serious
trouble. Unable to look at them, Bartholomew went to speak to his medical colleagues.

‘We might be wise to abandon our experiments,’ he said, thinking he could at least put an end to one area of mischief. ‘The
Sheriff was unimpressed, and we do not want any more explosions.’

‘As you wish,’ said Meryfeld. He sounded pleased, and Bartholomew found himself wondering whether he planned to continue the
tests on his own, so he would not be obliged to share any profits that might accrue from the invention. ‘I have plenty of
other business to occupy me.’

‘What other business?’ asked Gyseburne immediately.

‘Nothing to concern you,’ said Meryfeld, rubbing his hands together. ‘And now I must bid you goodnight. Oh, dear! I seem to
have walked rather a long way past my front door. You should not have distracted me, Gyseburne.’

‘He is an odd fellow,’ said Gyseburne, watching Meryfeld totter back the way he had come. ‘But it is late and I am tired,
so I shall bid you goodnight, too. Take care in your dealings this evening, Bartholomew. Whatever they might be.’

‘That was a peculiar thing to say,’ said Michael, narrowing his eyes as Gyseburne strode away, Rougham at his side.
‘What did he mean by it? It sounded uncannily like a warning.’

Uneasily, Bartholomew was forced to admit that it did

He walked back inside the Guildhall, and went to work with Tulyet’s engineers and a team of burly soldiers. The door was ‘accidentally’
left open, to encourage folk to stay and watch.

‘All the Chestre men are among the crowd outside, and I am ready,’ muttered Cynric in Bartholomew’s ear, making him jump.
He had not heard the book-bearer approach.

‘Are you sure?’ he asked. ‘They have not left a guard? I would have done, if I were Kendale. They have attracted a lot of
ill feeling.’

‘It is all of their own making,’ replied Cynric. He grinned. ‘I am pleased to be invading them. It will serve them right for
stealing our gates. Did I tell you I found them, by the way?’

Bartholomew gaped at him. ‘No! Where were they?’

‘Master Clippesby had a tip from a ferret, so I followed up on it and learned that Neyll and Gib were not as clever as they
thought they were, because the riverfolk saw everything.’

‘The riverfolk,’ mused Bartholomew, thinking of the poverty-stricken men and women who inhabited the hovels by the waterside,
and who never admitted to seeing or hearing anything; it was safer for them that way. They liked Cynric, though, because his
sense of social justice often entailed purloining items from Michaelhouse’s kitchen for distribution among those who were
poorer still.

‘Neyll was the ringleader,’ Cynric went on. ‘Kendale was not involved – it was too crude a trick for him. They hid the gates
in the Carmelite Priory, under the rubble that
Yffi has excavated for the foundations of St Simon Stock’s new shrine.’

‘Why there?’ asked Bartholomew. He had assumed they were at the bottom of the river and would be found in the summer when
the water level dropped.