The Killer Of Pilgrims: The Sixteenth Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Read online

  There is unease in the chill winter of Cambridge in 1358. A thief is at work in the houses of the wealthy, colleges are vying with each other for funds and academic recognition, and the shrine of St Simon Stock is attracting both pilgrims and those who prey on them – charlatans peddling fake relics and dubious pardons.

  When the body of one of the town’s richest taverners is found in Michaelhouse it at first seems his death was accidental, but when Bartholomew views the corpse he knows it is murder. There is no shortage of suspects to investigate, from the tenants who have publicly argued with the victim to his merrily ‘grieving’ widow, but the trail has been blurred by someone who is using the discovery of the body to try and discredit the college.

  Against a background of rising tension between the colleges and the increasing audacity of the thief, Bartholomew and Brother Michael hunt desperately for the proof that will unmask the identity of the killer and reveal the motivation of someone determined to ruin both Michaelhouse and all those connected to it …

  Also by Susanna Gregory

  The Matthew Bartholomew Series

  A PLAGUE ON BOTH YOUR HOUSES

  AN UNHOLY ALLIANCE

  A BONE OF CONTENTION

  A DEADLY BREW

  A WICKED DEED

  A MASTERLY MURDER

  AN ORDER FOR DEATH

  A SUMMER OF DISCONTENT

  A KILLER IN WINTER

  THE HAND OF JUSTICE

  THE MARK OF A MURDERER

  THE TARNISHED CHALICE

  TO KILL OR CURE

  THE DEVIL’S DISCIPLES

  A VEIN OF DECEIT

  The Thomas Chaloner Series

  A CONSPIRACY OF VIOLENCE

  BLOOD ON THE STRAND

  THE BUTCHER OF SMITHFIELD

  THE WESTMINSTER POISONER

  A MURDER ON LONDON BRIDGE

  COPYRIGHT

  Published by Hachette Digital

  ISBN: 978-0-748-12451-0

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © Susanna Gregory 2010

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.

  Hachette Digital

  Little, Brown Book Group

  100 Victoria Embankment

  London, EC4Y 0DY

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Contents

  Also by Susanna Gregory

  Copyright

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  EPILOGUE

  HISTORICAL NOTE

  For Geoff Parks

  PROLOGUE

  Early Spring 1350, Canterbury

  At last, the Great Pestilence had relinquished its deadly grip. There had not been a new case in three months, and people were allowing themselves to hope that it had gone for good. It had left behind a terrible mark, though. Whole villages lay empty, houses were abandoned and derelict, weeds choked the fields, and every churchyard was full to overflowing with the dead.

  The previous December, the Archbishop of Canterbury had written to the Bishop of London, suggesting it was time to thank God for delivering His people from the dreadful scourge. The devout had hastened to comply – it would not do to be ungracious, and provoke a second wave of the dreadful disease. Some folk, feeling prayers were not enough, had opted to go on pilgrimages, too, to make sure the Almighty truly appreciated the full extent of their gratitude.

  Unfortunately, undertaking such journeys was no easy matter. The devastating sickness meant roads and bridges had been allowed to fall into disrepair, and nature had taken its toll, too – even the most important routes were now blocked by fallen trees, encroached upon by brambles, or washed away by rain and floods. In places, they had disappeared completely, leaving the traveller to wander hopelessly until some helpful local pointed him in the right direction.

  Of course, not everyone on the King’s highways was friendly. Bands of brigands roamed, safe in the knowledge that the forces of law and order had been seriously depleted by death. Because of this, sensible pilgrims travelled in groups, seeking safety in numbers.

  The party that paused at the top of a hill to gaze at Canterbury in the distance had been lucky. The weather had been kind, the tracks easy to follow, and would-be robbers repelled without too much trouble. They were a disparate crowd, comprising clerics, soldiers, merchants and paupers, and they had stayed together only because it would have been dangerous to do otherwise. The sick man had scant respect for any of them, and longed to reach St Thomas Becket’s shrine, so he could dispense with their tiresome company. He waited impatiently for them to finish their gawping and their self-serving prayers, eager to be on his way.

  Canterbury itself was hectic, noisy and filthy. The sick man supposed its streets were cobbled, but they were so deeply carpeted in manure, rubbish and discarded scraps of food that it was impossible to tell. The stench was overwhelming, and made his eyes water so much that he could barely see the cathedral’s soaring towers and delicate pinnacles ahead.

  Once he had battled his way through the array of beggars who clustered around the door, the sick man knelt and gave thanks for his safe arrival. Then he rose and walked slowly through the massive nave. The shrine was at the far end, a cluster of columns, filigreed arches and precious stones. It, too, was encircled by a heaving mass of humanity, all clamouring pleas and demands. More candles than he had ever seen in one place were burning – offerings from grateful penitents – and their collective glow was so bright that it dazzled the eyes.

  The cathedral’s priests were moving through the throng, accepting gifts of money, jewellery, food and whatever else had been brought for the saint’s delectation. No wonder the place was so wealthy, the sick man thought wryly, watching his travelling companions pay their tributes.

  The hubbub around the tomb was far too distracting for meaningful prayer, so he wandered through the cathedral’s echoing aisles, thinking to wait for a quieter moment before asking for a cure. Little stalls had been set up there, selling food, books, candles, clothing and anything else that travellers might need. The last booth was peddling pilgrim ‘badges’, its wares laid out in neat lines on a smart black cloth. There were crude pewter images of St Thomas that could be pinned on hats or cloaks, to tell all who saw them that their wearers had visited the shrine, and there were expensive ampoules of ‘Becket water’.

  ‘These little phials each contain a drop of the saint’s blood,’ declared the pardoner who owned the display. ‘That means they are sacred. Relics in their own right.’

  Impressed, the sick man inspected them more closely. Many were works of art, the tiny bottles enmeshed in delicate strands of gold and silver. The liquid inside was faintly pink – blood mixed with holy water.

  ‘What are these?’ he asked, pointing to a row of scallop shells.

  ‘Tokens from the shrine of St James at Santiago de Compostela,’ replied the pardoner, a handsome man with very white teeth. He grinned, sens
ing a sale. ‘And here is a cross from Jerusalem, and a leaden image of the Virgin from Rocamadour in France.’

  ‘But if I wore those, everyone who saw them would assume I had been to these places,’ said the sick man, bemused. ‘And I have not. Not yet, at least.’

  The pardoner lowered his voice conspiratorially. ‘These are sacred things, so that even touching them will confer blessings on you. And if you do not need such a boon yourself, then you can give them to a loved one who does. Or you can sell them, of course.’

  ‘Sell them?’ The sick man was rather shocked.

  The pardoner nodded earnestly. ‘They fetch high prices, especially in this day and age, when no one knows for certain whether the plague is really gone. People buy my tokens for protection.’

  ‘I see,’ said the sick man, nodding. Then he frowned. ‘Why do you have so many? Surely, their owners cannot have sold them to you? If folk have been to Jerusalem, Santiago or Rocamadour, they will want to keep these blessings for themselves.’

  A distinctly furtive expression crossed the pardoner’s face. ‘Sometimes they need money to get home again, which I can provide. And sometimes the tokens just drop off their clothes when they hurl themselves in front of St Thomas’s tomb. I usually look around at night, when the cathedral is quiet, and I am often lucky.’

  The sick man stepped back when his travelling companions descended on the stall, clucking and cooing over the merchandise. Several made purchases, and he was staggered by the amount of money that exchanged hands. The pardoner was right: his was a lucrative business. And if the badges really were holy, then perhaps they would work miracles, too. For the first time since the onset of his disease, the sick man felt the stirrings of hope.

  Surreptitiously, he looked at the scallop shell he had palmed while the pardoner had been talking. He did not feel as though he was about to be struck down for stealing it. Indeed, he had the sense that it was better off with him than with a villain who would hawk it for silver. Could it cure him? It had not eased his symptoms as far as he could tell, but perhaps it would take more than one badge to combat the disease that was eating him from the inside out. He needed more – as many as he could get. Smiling to himself, he eased into the shadows and began to make his plans.

  January 1358, Cambridge

  There was a fringe of ice along the edge of the River Cam, and its brown, swirling waters, swollen with recent rain, looked cold and dangerous in the grey light of pre-dawn. Frost speckled the rushes in the shallows, and John Jolye wondered whether it would snow again. He hoped so. The soft white blanket that had enveloped the town the previous week had been tremendous fun, and he and his friends from the College of Trinity Hall had spent a wonderful afternoon careening down Castle Hill on planks of wood.

  ‘Have you finished yet?’ he called softly, stamping his feet in an attempt to warm them. Acting as lookout was not the most exciting of tasks, and he wished he had been allocated a more active role in the prank. It had been his idea, after all. ‘I am freezing.’

  ‘Almost.’ The reply was full of suppressed laughter. ‘And if this does not confound the dunces from the hostels, then I do not know what will. They will never work out how we did it!’

  Jolye was not so sure about that – hostel scholars were not stupid. But he did not want to spoil his friends’ sport, so he held his tongue. Besides, it had been more than a week since members of Essex Hostel had sneaked into Trinity Hall when everyone was asleep and filled it with scores of roosting chickens, and it was becoming urgent that the challenge was answered. Honour was at stake, after all – it would not do for a poverty-stricken, lowly hostel to get the better of a fine, wealthy College.

  ‘Someone will come along soon!’ he hissed, becoming impatient. What was taking them so long? ‘It is already getting light, and this is a public footpath.’

  ‘It is far too early for anyone else to be up,’ came the scornful response. ‘There! It is done! Chestre Hostel’s boats are now standing stern to bow on top of each other, rising in a column that is almost the height of three men. When they try to dismantle it, the pegs we used to lock the boats together will drop unseen into the water, and they will assume we did it by balance alone.’

  ‘They will marvel at our ability to confound the rules of nature!’ crowed another. ‘Well done, Jolye! This plan was a stroke of genius.’

  Jolye felt a surge of pride. At fifteen, he was one of Trinity Hall’s youngest students, and his cronies did not often praise him. He was about to respond with a suitably nonchalant remark when he heard voices from farther along the path. His classmates heard them, too, and began trotting towards the lane that would take them home.

  Jolye started to follow, but he had not been involved in the warm work of lugging heavy boats around, and his feet were like lumps of ice. He tried to break into a run when the footsteps drew closer, but could only manage a totter. Suddenly, there was a hand in the middle of his back, and he was shoved roughly forward. He stumbled, and a second push sent him face-first into the river.

  The shock of the frigid water took his breath away, and for a moment all he could do was lie there. Then his body reacted, and he found himself turning and flailing back towards the bank. It was not easy, because the current was strong, and threatened to sweep him away.

  ‘That was a stupid thing to do!’ he gasped angrily to the three dark figures that stood by the boats. His teeth chattered almost uncontrollably. ‘Help me out.’

  He held out his hand, expecting to be hauled to safety, but none of them moved. He blinked water from his eyes, trying see their faces. Were they hostel lads? But the hostel–College competition was only a bit of fun, and certainly not serious enough to warrant shoving rivals in icy rivers. Or were they townsmen, who hated the University and would love to see a scholar get a soaking? Unfortunately, the light was not good enough for him to tell, and they were just silent silhouettes.

  ‘Please!’ he croaked. The water was so cold it hurt. ‘You have made your point. Now help me.’

  He staggered forward, and had almost reached dry land when an oar touched his shoulder, and he found himself prodded backwards. He floundered, choking as his head went under. The current tugged him downstream. What were they thinking? Did they want him to drown? He managed to grab a rotten pier as he was washed past, and struggled towards the bank again.

  ‘No!’ he screamed, as the paddle pushed him back a second time. The river caught him, carrying him some distance before swirling him into a slack pool near the back of Michaelhouse. Again, he tried to escape the water’s icy clutch, but the silhouettes were waiting and so was the oar.

  ‘I am sorry,’ he whispered pitifully. He glanced at the opposite bank, knowing he could escape his tormentors if he managed to reach it, but he had never learned to swim, and it might as well be a hundred miles away. ‘Whatever I have done to offend you, I am sorry. Now please—’

  The next poke propelled him into the middle of the river, where the current was strongest. Water filled his mouth and nose. He tried to call for help as he was swept under the Great Bridge, but no one heard. His head dipped under the surface and did not rise again.

  CHAPTER 1

  Early February 1358, Cambridge

  When the yellow-headed thief reached the Griffin, a large tavern located just beyond the Great Bridge, Matthew Bartholomew knew he was going to escape. Sure enough, the fellow tore into the stables, and emerged moments later on a prancing stallion.

  Bartholomew put on a last, desperate spurt of speed and made a grab for the reins, but the man kicked him away. Bartholomew fell backwards, landing heavily among the frost-hardened ruts that scarred the road. A cart bore down on him, its driver yelling for him to move, and he only just managed to roll away from its lumbering wheels. Heart pounding, he scrambled to his feet, and watched his quarry disappear along the track that led to the nearby village of Chesterton.

  Bartholomew was a physician, who taught medicine at the College of Michaelhouse. Thanks to his uno
rthodox ideas, he was not one of the University’s most respected scholars, but even so, he knew he should not have been haring after thieves at an hour when he should have been in church. It was hardly dignified.

  He had been summoned before dawn by one of his patients, a fierce old lady named Emma de Colvyll. As she had been describing her symptoms to him, they had heard noises coming from her parlour – a burglar was in her house, and instinct had led Bartholomew to obey her screeched command to give chase. As he rested his hands on his knees, struggling to catch his breath, he recoiled at the notion of telling her he had failed. Despite her advanced years, she was a force to be reckoned with, and even the Sheriff – one of the bravest men in the shire – freely admitted that she terrified him.

  He waited until his breathing returned to normal, then began to retrace his steps. There was always a market on Mondays, and despite the early hour, the streets were already crowded with carts bearing fish, grain, pottery, candles, wool, baskets and vegetables. There were also animals, herded in hissing, honking, lowing and bleating packs towards Butchery Row, and he ducked smartly behind a water-butt when a feisty bull decided it had no intention of being taken anywhere and made a determined bid for escape.

  When he arrived at Emma’s High Street mansion, he paused for a moment to admire it. It was unquestionably one of the finest buildings in Cambridge, boasting three spacious chambers on the ground floor, and a number of smaller ones above that provided sleeping quarters for her family and sizeable retinue. The window shutters were new and strong – a wise precaution, given that disagreements between town and University were frequent and often turned nasty – and there was a very sturdy front door.

  Of course, Bartholomew thought acidly, Emma had other reasons for being conscious of her security. She had grown rich on the back of the plague, a ruthless opportunist who had made her fortune by buying up properties left vacant after the deaths of their owners. She had paid the grieving heirs a pittance, and was now reaping the benefits of a sellers’ market.