The Killer of Pilgrims (14 page)

‘Under the bed,’ supplied Valence promptly, when Michael told him what they were doing. ‘Right at the back. I have always
wondered what was in it, and would have looked, but it is locked.’

‘Is it?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily. He had no idea where to find the key.

Valence disappeared under the bed, and emerged a few moments later with the small, leather-bound box that the physician had
toted all the way through France, Spain and Italy. It was dusty, battered, and trailed cobwebs. Bartholomew set it on the
bed and sat next to it. The lock was substantial, and of a better quality than he remembered. He doubted he could force it.

‘I do not have the key,’ he said apologetically, wincing when there was a chorus of disappointed groans and cries, the loudest
of them from Michael.

‘Allow me,’ said Langelee, drawing his dagger. ‘I did this for the Archbishop many times.’

He inserted the tip of his blade into the keyhole, and began to jiggle it. Students crowded at the window, curiosity piqued
by the sight of the Master and all his Fellows in Bartholomew’s room. Even Clippesby’s piglet was among
the throng, eyes fixed intently on Langelee’s manoeuvrings.

‘Hah!’ exclaimed the Master, as there was a sharp click and the lock sprang open. He opened the lid and peered inside. ‘Here
is a very fine dagger, although it is not very sharp.’

‘It is a letter-opener,’ explained Bartholomew. ‘I bought it for you.’

‘For me?’ asked Langelee. He grinned his delight. ‘How thoughtful! I shall begin honing it tonight. It is a beautiful implement,
but it will be lovelier still when it is sharp enough to be useful.’

Bartholomew regarded him unhappily, wishing the Master was not always so ready to revert to the soldier he had once been.
It was hardly seemly in an academic.

‘My
signaculum
,’ prompted Michael impatiently. ‘Where is it?’

It was at the bottom of the chest, wrapped in cloth. There were other gifts Bartholomew had forgotten about, too – a mother-of-pearl
comb for William, a tiny painting of St Francis of Assisi for Clippesby, and a book of plague poems for Suttone. There was
an embroidered purse and a silver buckle, too, intended for friends who were now dead, so he gave them to Thelnetham and Ayera.
While they cooed their delight, he spotted two anatomy texts he had purchased in Salerno, and closed the lid hastily. He would
look at them later, when he was alone.

‘What else is in there?’ asked William, running the comb through his greasy locks as he eyed the chest speculatively.

‘Nothing,’ mumbled Bartholomew, careful not to catch anyone’s eye. He was not a good liar.

‘It is exquisite, Matt,’ said Michael, pushing students out of the way so he could examine his gift in the light from the
window. ‘Gold, too.’

‘Is it?’ Bartholomew knew it had been expensive, but
could not recall why. Not being very interested in such things, it had not stuck in his mind.

‘It will not get you into Heaven, though, Brother,’ warned Thelnetham. ‘As I said in the conclave, that only happens through
personal merit, not because you happen to own
signacula
.’

‘I know all that,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘But I am never going to see Compostela myself, so this is the next best thing.’

‘Actually, I believe it
might
reduce your time in Purgatory,’ countered Suttone. ‘Matthew made the pilgrimage, but he was clearly thinking of you when
he did it, so your badge is important. You are wrong, Thelnetham: owning or buying such items
can
help one’s immortal soul.’

‘Drax thought the same,’ said Bartholomew, speaking before they could argue. He knew from experience that debates among theologians
could go on for a very long time, and was eager to return to his teaching. ‘He believed the Walsingham
signaculum
, bought from Heslarton, would help his soul. Why else would he have worn it in his hat?’

William pointed at Michael’s token with his comb. ‘Do you know how much that is worth? A fortune! Not only is it precious
metal and exquisitely made, but it has all the right blessings on it, too. Men will pay dearly for that.’

‘Really?’ asked Langelee keenly. ‘How much?’

‘It is not for sale,’ said Michael firmly. ‘Not even for Michaelhouse’s roof.’

‘My Carmelite brethren sell pilgrim tokens, here in Cambridge,’ said Suttone idly, his attention more on his new book than
the discussion. ‘Our shrine does not attract vast numbers, like the ones in Hereford, Walsingham or Canterbury, but we make
a tidy profit, even so.’

‘Do they hawk bits of St Simon Stock’s relic?’ asked Langelee. ‘I have heard that folk who die wearing a
Carmelite scapular go straight to Heaven, but a scrap of the original will surely set one at God’s right hand.’

‘We would never sell that,’ declared Suttone, looking up in horror. Then he reconsidered. ‘Well, we might, I suppose, if the
price was right.’

‘White Friars are
not
going to get to Heaven before Franciscans,’ declared William hotly. ‘And I do not know what the Blessed Virgin thought she
was doing when she gave that scapular to Simon Stock. She should have appeared to a Grey Friar instead, because
we
would not be charging a fortune for folk to see the spot where this delivery occurred.’

‘Yes, you would,’ countered Suttone. ‘It is an excellent opportunity for raising much-needed revenue, and the Franciscans
would have seized it with alacrity. Look at how much money they are making from Walsingham – more than we will see in a hundred
years!’

‘That is different,’ said William stiffly, although he did not deign to explain why.

‘I think I had better make a pilgrimage to the Carmelite Priory,’ said Langelee. ‘I did one or two dubious favours for the
Archbishop of York, you see, and I would not like to think of them held against me on Judgment Day.’

Clippesby regarded him reproachfully. ‘If you want forgiveness for past sins, Master, you must be truly penitent. Walking
to Milne Street is not enough.’

‘It is, according to Suttone,’ replied Langelee cheerfully. ‘And it suits me to believe him.’

Bartholomew had intended to spend what remained of the day teaching, but Michael had other ideas. Ignoring the physician’s
objections, he commandeered his help to search the area around Michaelhouse, to find the place where Drax had been stabbed.
Unfortunately, St Michael’s Lane
was home to several hostels, all of which owned a number of disused or infrequently visited sheds, and the task proved to
be harder than he had anticipated.

‘We are wasting our time,’ said Bartholomew, after a while. ‘This is hopeless.’

‘We
must
persist,’ said Michael. ‘It stands to reason that Drax was killed nearby – he was not very big, but corpses are heavy, even
so. Moreover, a killer would not risk toting one too far.’

‘I cannot imagine why a killer would tote one at all,’ grumbled Bartholomew, poking half-heartedly around Physwick Hostel’s
old dairy with a stick. The place was filled, for some unaccountable reason, with broken barrels. ‘Unless …’

‘Unless what?’ asked Michael, glancing up.

‘We saw Kendale arguing with Drax. And Kendale’s hostel is near Michaelhouse. It would not be difficult to carry a corpse
to our College from Chestre. Perhaps we should be looking there: not in abandoned outbuildings, but in the hostel itself.’

Michael grimaced. ‘That has already occurred to me, I assure you. Unfortunately, Kendale is the kind of man to take umbrage,
and I cannot risk him taking the College–hostel dispute to a new level of acrimony. I must wait until I have solid evidence
before we search
his
home.’

‘Does this qualify as solid evidence?’ asked Bartholomew soberly. He stood back so Michael could see what he had found. ‘It
is blood. A lot of it.’

‘You think this is our murder scene?’ asked Michael, looking away quickly. The red-black, sticky puddle was an unsettling
sight.

Bartholomew crouched down to look more closely, then nodded. ‘The volume seems right, and you can see a smear
here, where a body was moved. However, from the pooling, I suspect Drax lay dead for some time – hours, probably – before
he was taken to Michaelhouse.’

‘Lord!’ breathed Michael. ‘Then we are dealing with a very bold and ruthless individual, because most murderers do not return
to tamper with their victims after they have made their escape. It shows he must have been very determined to cause trouble
for Michaelhouse.’

‘Which may mean Kendale
is
the culprit – he hates the Colleges.’ Bartholomew frowned. ‘However, Kendale is clever, and this seems rather crude to me.
Perhaps the killer is a member of a College, and he dumped Drax in Michaelhouse because he wants a hostel blamed for it.’

Michael sighed. ‘Damn this ridiculous dispute! It means that even finding the spot where Drax was murdered does not help us
– and we have wasted hours doing it.’

‘We had better talk to Physwick,’ said Bartholomew. ‘They are more reasonable than Chestre, so I do not think questioning
them will result in a riot.’

‘It might, if they are guilty of murder,’ muttered Michael, trailing after him.

Physwick Hostel was a dismal place in winter. The fire that flickered in its hearth was too small to make much difference
to the temperature of the hall, and all its windows leaked. It reeked of tallow candles, unwashed feet, wet wool and boiled
cabbage. Its Principal was John Howes, a skinny lawyer with oily hair and bad teeth, who had ten students and three masters
under his care.

‘We are sorry about Drax,’ he announced, before Michael could state the purpose of his visit. ‘He rented our dairy to store
old ale barrels from his taverns, and we need all the money we can get in these terrible times. He did not pay much, but a
penny a week is a penny a week.’

‘Why did he want to store old barrels?’ asked Bartholomew curiously.

‘He was too mean to throw them away,’ explained Howes. ‘He once told me he planned to reclaim the metal hoops, and sell the
wood to the charcoal burners.’

‘He was killed there,’ said Michael baldly. ‘We found his blood.’

‘Did you? How horrible!’ Howes shuddered. ‘That means one of us will have to go out with a mop and a bucket of water, because
we cannot afford to pay anyone else to do it. Unless cleaning murder scenes comes under the Corpse Examiner’s remit?’ he asked
hopefully.

‘No, it does not,’ said Bartholomew shortly. ‘Did any of you see or hear anything on Monday morning that may help us catch
his killer?’

‘Not really. We went out twice on Monday – once not long after dawn, when we attended a service in the Gilbertines’ chapel,
and again mid-afternoon when we were invited to see St Simon Stock’s scapular. We can see the dairy from our hall here, but
we do not look at it much.’

‘But they would probably have noticed the comings and goings of strangers,’ murmured Michael to Bartholomew, as they took
their leave. ‘So their testimony
has
helped.’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘It tells us for certain that Drax was killed shortly after dawn, when they went out the first time. The
pooled blood proves the body lay for several hours in the dairy, then was moved to Michaelhouse when they went out for the
second time – probably after I started teaching, when Blaston was in the stable, and when Yffi and his boys were on the roof
discussing Yolande’s skills in the bedchamber.’

‘A discussion that ensured all attention was drawn upwards,’ said Michael. ‘Away from the yard. I see we shall have to have
another word with Yffi and his louts.’

Once outside, they began to walk towards the Carmelite Priory, to check Physwick’s alibi, although both believed Howes’s testimony.
They had not gone far before Bartholomew was diverted to Trinity Hall, where a student was nursing a bleeding mouth. There
had been a fight between that College and Cosyn’s Hostel.

‘It would never have degenerated into blows a week ago,’ said the Master, Adam de Wickmer worriedly. ‘Our relationship with
Cosyn’s has always involved cheeky banter, but never violence, and I am shocked that punches have been traded.’

‘So am I,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I do not understand why previously amiable relationships have suddenly turned sour.’

‘Oh, I understand that,’ said Wickmer bitterly. ‘The paupers in the hostels have always been jealous of our wealth, and they
are probably hoping that there will be an all-out battle in which they can invade us and steal our moveable possessions.’

Bartholomew stared at him. ‘I hope you are wrong.’

‘So do I,’ said Wickmer. ‘But the hostels are suffering from the expense of a long, hard winter, and Kendale has been fanning
the flames of discontent and envy. I have a bad feeling it will all end in blood and tears.’

Later that evening, Bartholomew set off to meet his medical colleagues. Meryfeld had been intrigued by the notion of devising
a lamp with a constant flame, and had decided that if university-trained physicians could not invent one, then nobody could.
He had sent messages asking all three of his colleagues to come to his house, so they might commence the project.

Bartholomew was the last to arrive, because his students, alarmed by their poor performance during his earlier
inquisition, had tried to make amends with a plethora of questions. The delay meant he was obliged to run all the way to
Bridge Street, where Meryfeld occupied the handsome stone mansion that stood between Sheriff Tulyet’s home and Celia Drax’s.

When he was shown into Meryfeld’s luxurious solar, Bartholomew was astonished to see that Rougham of Gonville Hall had accepted
the invitation, too. Rougham was a busy man, or so he told everyone, and Bartholomew was amazed that he should deign to spare
the time to experiment with colleagues. He was an unattractive fellow, arrogant and overbearing, and although he no longer
cried heresy every time Bartholomew voiced an opinion, the two would never be friends.

‘Meryfeld’s proposition sounded intriguing,’ he explained, when he saw Bartholomew’s reaction to his presence. ‘I struggled
to read my astrological charts last night, and may have made an error when I calculated the Mayor’s horoscope. A bright lamp
would be very useful.’