The Killer of Pilgrims (37 page)

Kendale was suddenly pale. ‘But you cannot have evidence, Brother, because there is none to find! We are innocent of these
charges. Why would we kill Gib? He was one of us.’

Michael showed him the box. ‘Here are letters, poison and a stolen
signaculum
. All were found under your bed earlier tonight, so do not deny that they are yours.’

‘But I
do
deny it!’ cried Kendale, shocked. ‘I have never seen that chest before! And do you really think I would own something so
wretched? Not only is it poorly made, but I do not go in for rudimentary puns on the Latin word for Chestre. I have more taste.’

‘The letters are addressed to you,’ said Michael, waving them at him. ‘They are from Drax, and comprise several demands for
more rent.’

‘But Drax never sent letters – he was illiterate. He only ever asked for more rent verbally.’

‘Then what about the poison?’ demanded Michael. ‘There can be no excuse for
that
being here.’

‘This is outrageous and ridiculous!’ shouted Kendale. ‘We have no reason to harm anyone in the de Colvyll household. And may
I remind you, we were
not
angry about the scholarship Emma declined to fund, because we had already decided not to accept it. We did not want to be
in the debt of such a family – we have our principles. Unlike some foundations, it would seem.’

‘And the badge?’ asked Michael, ignoring the dig. ‘How do you explain that?’

‘Clearly, it was left here in a clumsy attempt to implicate us in crimes we did not commit,’ said Neyll hotly, saying much
what Bartholomew had already reasoned. ‘Someone wants us hanged.’

‘Moreover, it is only one badge,’ added Kendale, coming to peer at it. ‘
One
. And do you know why? Because the culprit was reluctant to waste more than that in his effort to frame us. If you do not
believe me, then search the place. You will not find any more.’

‘It is a valid point,’ said Bartholomew, when Michael looked set to argue. He lowered his voice, so Kendale would not hear.
‘I tried to tell you – the choice of evidence in that box is so contrived that it screams foul play. You will not find the
other badges here. Kendale is telling the truth.’

Michael nodded to his beadles, who began a systematic hunt, both in the hall and in the bedchambers above. The Chestre men
gritted their teeth at the indignity of it all, and Bartholomew could tell that Neyll in particular was finding it difficult
to restrain himself. Sure enough, it was not long before the beadles returned empty handed.

‘There is a broken window in the scullery,’ said Cynric, the last to finish. ‘The one with the red shutters. When did that
happen?’

‘We noticed it when we came back from the Guildhall,’
replied Neyll. Then understanding dawned. ‘Obviously, whoever left this so-called evidence broke in that way!’

‘It was not me,’ muttered Cynric to Michael, speaking too softly for his victims to hear. ‘I gained entry through one of the
bedrooms.’

‘What about the cellar?’ asked Meadowman, who had been more assiduous than his colleagues, and had even checked up the chimneys
and assessed the floorboards for hidden cavities. He disliked the Chestre men, and hated the notion that they might go free.

‘We use it for storing old crates and wine,’ said Kendale coldly. ‘But please explore it. I do not want you coming back later
with more nasty accusations. You will prove us innocent
now
.’

Meadowman took him at his word, so Bartholomew and Cynric went to help. Neyll and a lean, red-haired student named Ihon followed,
to monitor the proceedings.

‘Much as it pains me to admit it, I think you are right,’ Cynric whispered to Bartholomew. ‘I was so pleased when I found
that box that I did not stop to consider. But Kendale is devious, and would
not
have left a chest containing those things for any burglar to find. And that broken window says I was not the only one who
slipped in uninvited tonight.’

‘We made a serious mistake in coming here,’ said Bartholomew worriedly. ‘Now Chestre will feel justified in whipping up the
antagonism between hostels and Colleges with even more fervour.’

Knowing there was nothing to find did not encourage Bartholomew to poke through the contents of Chestre’s dismal basement.
He sat on a barrel and watched Cynric and Meadowman work, feeling weariness wash over him. He had been tired
before
he had stayed up all night fiddling with trebuchets, and wondered whether he had the energy
for yet another day of turmoil. Dawn could not be far off, and he doubted he would manage to snatch even a short nap that
night.

Suddenly, Cynric released a yelp of shock, and backed away from the chest he had been exploring.

‘It is Yffi!’ he exclaimed in horror. ‘And he is stone-cold dead!’

Meadowman, Neyll and Ihon dashed forward to see what Cynric had found. Ihon jerked away in revulsion, although Neyll was made
of sterner stuff, and poked Yffi with his finger. Meadowman took one look, then shot up the stairs to fetch Michael.

‘I understand your plan now, College man,’ snarled Neyll, regarding Bartholomew with utter loathing. ‘You
planted
that ugly little box, so the Senior Proctor would come. And then you offered to search our cellars knowing exactly what would
be found, because
you
put this corpse here, too. It is Michaelhouse’s revenge for the gates!’

‘We do not tamper with corpses, boy,’ said Cynric reproachfully. ‘Especially in a place like this, where demons lurk. It would
be too dangerous.’

Bartholomew tried to rally his befuddled wits. ‘Are you saying you did not murder Yffi?’

‘Of course we did not!’ snapped Ihon. ‘We are the victims of a monstrous plot, and we were fools to think we could study here
safely. We should leave while we can. Now.’

‘But if we do – especially today, when the camp-ball is on – they will think we are guilty for sure,’ said Neyll angrily.
‘They will say we arranged the game as a diversion, to let us escape.’

There was a clatter of footsteps on the stairs, and Michael arrived, followed by Kendale and his students, with the beadles
bringing up the rear. It was a tight squeeze in such a small chamber. Bartholomew watched the Chestre men
peer into the crate one by one, only to recoil with shock, revulsion or horror when they saw what lay within. He was as sure
as he could be that none of them had known what was there, not even Kendale.

‘Well?’ asked Michael, folding his arms. ‘I think
this
warrants an explanation.’

‘Michaelhouse put him here,’ shouted Neyll. ‘Who else could it have been?’

But Kendale shook his head. ‘The Michaelhouse men are villains to a man, but I do not see them playing pranks with corpses.
Even Langelee would not stoop that low.’

‘Well, if not Michaelhouse, then another of our enemies,’ yelled Neyll, as Bartholomew and Cynric lifted the mason from the
chest and laid him on the floor. ‘Emma de Colvyll—’

‘Emma?’ interrupted Kendale. ‘But she provided us with the wine that you have been downing so merrily.
She
means us no harm.’

Bartholomew listened to the ensuing discussion while he inspected Yffi. The cause of death was obvious: the mason had been
stabbed. He began to look for other clues as to what had happened – ones that would either exonerate Chestre, or prove once
and for all that they were killers.

‘Why should she be generous to us?’ persisted Neyll, tears of impotent rage in his eyes. ‘We have nothing she wants. And she
does not like us, or she would have funded that scholarship.’

‘Why must you always be so suspicious?’ sighed Ihon. ‘Some folk
are
decent, and
do
mean us well. When we first arrived, Michaelhouse tried to make friends, but your surliness drove them off. I wish we had
not let it, because we might have been living in peace now if—’

‘Peace?’ howled Neyll, livid. ‘I do not want peace with
a College! And I was right to be wary, because look where we are now – on the brink of being charged with crimes we did not
commit.’

‘I abhor the Colleges too,’ interjected Kendale, raising his hand to quell the debate. ‘And you were right to reject Michaelhouse’s
sly advances, Neyll. However, you are wrong about Emma, because we have something she wants very much. Namely our collection
of hunting trophies.’

‘Hunting trophies?’ blurted Bartholomew, startled.

‘She thinks they will look nice in her solar, and wants to buy them,’ explained Ihon.

‘So she gave us claret, in an effort to convince us to sell,’ said Kendale. He turned to the rest of the students. ‘Who else
means us harm? And do not recite a list of the Colleges, because that will not convince the Senior Proctor. I want names and
believable motives.
Think
, because our lives depend on your answers.’

‘Clearly, the
real
thief is the culprit,’ said Ihon, after a moment during which the cellar was totally silent. ‘The man responsible for killing
Drax, Alice and Gib, and stealing all those pilgrim badges. One of the missing
signacula
was in the “evidence” box, so—’

‘That much is obvious,’ snapped Kendale. ‘But
who
is it? Why does he bear us so much malice? I heard a rumour that it is a scholar, but which of the Colleges is home to such
a ruthless villain?’

While they debated, Michael crouched next to Bartholomew, eyebrows raised questioningly.

‘Yffi was killed by a single wound to the chest,’ the physician replied. ‘The shape of the injury is indicative of a knife,
rather than a dagger, but that does not help – every man, woman and child in Cambridge owns a knife.’

‘Is there nothing else?’ asked Michael, disappointed.

Bartholomew nodded, then pointed to several places
where Yffi’s clothes were torn. There was also a deep abrasion on his stomach, where pieces of wood had embedded themselves
in the skin.

‘This did not bleed much,’ he said. ‘Which indicates it happened after he died.’

‘You mean when he was stuffed in the crate?’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘You can see for yourself that there are no jagged edges on it. However, if you look closely at
the wound, you will detect flecks of red. And Cynric said the broken window in Chestre’s scullery was red.’

Michael stared at him. ‘In other words, Yffi was killed elsewhere, and his body was brought into Chestre via a window?’

‘The evidence seems to point that way. But the Chestre men would have no reason to manhandle Yffi through a window – they
would use a door.
Ergo
, I think they are telling the truth. Someone
has
left a body in their domain in the hope that they will be accused of murder. It is not the first time someone has done it
– Drax was left in Michaelhouse, do not forget.’

There was a sudden clatter of footsteps on the stairs, and one of Tulyet’s soldiers arrived.

‘Trouble, Brother,’ he called. ‘Bene’t College is marching on Batayl. And Maud’s, Ovyng and Cosyn’s hostels are empty. We
think they are planning a joint assault on King’s Hall.’

‘You see what you have done?’ Michael rounded on Kendale. ‘All this unrest is
your
doing – the rivalry between hostels and Colleges was never so bitter until
you
came along.’

‘Oh, yes, it was,’ snapped Kendale. ‘Only you, being from a College, never paid heed to it. I am right to encourage the hostels
to stand up for themselves. It is
grossly unfair that the Colleges should wallow in riches while the hostels are poor, and it is high time the inequity was
removed.’

‘Michaelhouse is not wealthy,’ said Bartholomew quietly. ‘Sometimes, there is barely enough to eat, and we have debts. Why
do you think Langelee accepted Emma’s charity? Because we are desperate.
We
could never afford wine and ale for the whole town after a camp-ball game.’

Kendale stared at him. ‘Well, that is not how it appears.’

‘We prefer people not to know,’ said Michael stiffly, shooting Bartholomew an angry glance for his indiscretion. ‘But enough
of this. I want you to cancel the camp-ball game, and—’

‘No,’ said Kendale. ‘I could not, even if I wanted to. The town is expecting entertainment and free refreshments, and will
attack the University if we renege. And even if
they
managed to restrain themselves, the Colleges would attack the hostels for breach of promise. Calling off the game is not
the way to avert trouble. Not now.’

‘He is right,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Your best hope for peace is a short game, and enough food and drink to appease all the would-be
rioters.’

‘I shall see what can be done about both,’ offered Kendale. ‘But only if you acknowledge our innocence of these crimes. It
is obvious that someone is trying to frame us.’

The soldier coughed meaningfully – there was no time to debate the matter. Reluctantly, Michael nodded, and his capitulation
was greeted by a chorus of triumphant jeers from the Chestre students. The heckling continued until he was outside. The moment
the door closed behind him, there was a clink of jugs on goblets and a rousing cheer: Kendale and his lads were going to celebrate
their deliverance from what had initially appeared to be a hopeless situation.

Michael glowered at the building with its lopsided leer, while Bartholomew leaned against a wall and wished he had been more
forceful in voicing his reservations earlier, because it was not going to be easy living with Kendale’s righteous indignation.

‘I hate them,’ muttered Meadowman venomously. ‘And I do not think they are innocent, no matter how clever they were with their
logic and their explanations.’

‘There you are, Doctor,’ shouted Valence, flushed and breathless. ‘I have been looking for you everywhere. Emma de Colvyll
has fallen into a terrible fever, and you are needed to cure her.’

‘She is Meryfeld’s—’ began Bartholomew.

‘He has been dismissed,’ said Valence. ‘They want you, because they fear she is dying.’

Bartholomew ordered Valence back to Michaelhouse, unwilling for his student to be out when the town felt so uneasy. The lad
was reluctant to be deprived of excitement, but did as he was told.

‘Stay with Michael, Cynric,’ said Bartholomew, aiming for the High Street. ‘He will need you.’

‘So might you,’ argued Cynric. He glanced up at the sky, which was beginning to lighten almost imperceptibly. ‘It will be
dawn soon, and I do not like what the day promises.’

Neither did Bartholomew. ‘We are back to the beginning as regards suspects,’ he said in frustration, breath coming in short
gasps as he ran. ‘We have been up all night, but have gained nothing – and I doubt Kendale’s measures will see the game pass
off peacefully.’

‘They might help,’ said Cynric, although with scant conviction. ‘I was certain
he
was the villain, but now I am not even sure the culprit is a scholar, as we have been led to believe these last few days.’

He hauled the physician into a doorway when a gaggle of lads from Ovyng Hostel appeared. Bartholomew did not think they would
harm him, given that he was their physician, but he was wearing a tabard that said he was from Michaelhouse, and there was
a risk they might punch first and ask for names second. Nevertheless, he fretted at the moments that ticked away as Ovyng
sauntered past – moments that might mean the difference between life and death for Emma.

‘The only evidence that the villain is a scholar comes from the fact that your sister’s token was stolen during an event that
comprised mainly members of the University,’ whispered Cynric. He sensed his master’s agitation and was keen to take his mind
off it, lest he decided to bolt before it was safe. Bartholomew tended to be single minded when it came to his patients’ welfare.

‘An event at the Gilbertine Priory,’ said Bartholomew, trying to concentrate on what Cynric was saying. ‘But the canons’ guests
included all the Carmelites, the Chestre men, my medical colleagues, Ayera, Emma and the pilgrims. With that many people,
it would have been easy to don a disguise and walk about unnoticed.’

‘In other words, the culprit might be anyone,’ said Cynric, nodding to indicate they should begin running again. ‘He might
even be someone we have never met – a visitor to St Simon Stock’s shrine, who considers our town fair game for his villainy.’

‘No, he must be a local,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘A stranger would have no reason to poison Emma’s wine – or put Drax’s body
in Michaelhouse.’

When they reached Emma’s house, it was mostly in darkness, in stark contrast to the other High Street homes, which were brightly
lit. Some residents, anticipating trouble, had boarded up their windows and barricaded
their doors, but Emma had taken no such precautions. Bartholomew wondered why, when she was by far the most unpopular person
in the town, and so most likely to be targeted for mischief. Was it because she thought no one would dare? He rubbed his head,
simply too tired to think about it.

‘We should go around the back,’ said Cynric, setting off in that direction. ‘Banging on the front door will wake the entire
household, and I would sooner Heslarton stayed in bed.’

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew, trotting after him. ‘You do not like him? He is not our killer-thief, because he has an alibi for
Drax’s murder – one that has satisfied the Sheriff.’

‘I like him well enough,’ replied Cynric. ‘He is a soldier, like me – honest and uncomplicated. But he is protective of his
mother-in-law, and you will find it easier to work when he is not there.’

Bartholomew was not sure he would have described Heslarton – or Cynric, for that matter – as honest and uncomplicated. He
reached the back gate, and stepped through it.

He was surprised to find the yard busy, with horses saddled and a cart loaded with chests and furniture. A number of servants
moved around them, although none spoke. One stumbled in the gloom, and he wondered why they did not light torches, because
Emma could certainly afford them. Cynric jerked him roughly into the shadows.

‘What are you doing?’ Bartholomew demanded, freeing himself irritably. ‘There is no need to—’

‘None of Emma’s family have mentioned a journey,’ hissed Cynric urgently. ‘So why are they loading up so softly and secretly
– and in the dark? Moreover, all the servants seem to be up, so why are there no lamps lit in the house?’

‘Perhaps they do not want to disturb Emma,’ replied Bartholomew impatiently. ‘Her fever—’

‘No,’ whispered Cynric, doggedly determined. ‘It is something more. We should leave.’

‘I cannot leave,’ objected Bartholomew, pulling away from him and beginning to walk towards the rear of the house. ‘The pus
from Emma’s rotting tooth has finally …’

He faltered when someone materialised in front of him, carrying a lantern. It was Heslarton, but what caught Bartholomew’s
attention was the garment he wore. The lamplight showed it to be dark red, and the last time he had seen it was on Edith,
when she had donned it for Drax’s funeral. Later, it had been stolen from the Gilbertines’ chapel, and her
signaculum
with it.