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

  Her ever-expanding empire had recently required her to move into the town centre so that she could better monitor her myriad affairs. This had been greeted with mixed emotions by Cambridge’s residents. On the one hand, she was generous to worthy causes, but on the other, most people were rather frightened of her and did not like her being in their midst.

  Bartholomew was about to knock on her door when a movement farther down the street caught his eye. It was the scholars of Michaelhouse, leaving church after their morning devotions. The College’s Master, Ralph de Langelee, headed the procession, and behind him were his six Fellows – they totalled seven with Bartholomew – and sixty or so students, commoners and servants.

  Langelee nodded approvingly when he saw what Bartholomew was doing. Emma had offered to fund the repair of Michaelhouse’s notoriously leaky roofs, although her bounty had not come without a price: in return, she wanted masses for her late husband’s soul, and free medical treatment for herself. Langelee was delighted with the arrangement, but Bartholomew was not: Emma was a demanding client, and tending her meant less time for his teaching and other patients.

  One of the Fellows detached himself from the line, and walked towards the physician. Brother Michael, a portly Benedictine, was a theologian and Bartholomew’s closest friend. He was also the University’s Senior Proctor, which meant he was in charge of maintaining law and order among Cambridge’s several hundred scholars. Over the years, he had contrived to expand and enhance his authority to the point where he now ran the entire University, and its Chancellor was little more than a figurehead – someone to take the blame in times of trouble.

  ‘Has Emma demanded yet another consultation?’ he asked, pulling Bartholomew away from the door so they could talk. ‘You spend half your life with her these days.’

  ‘She summoned me before dawn,’ replied Bartholomew tiredly. ‘But we were interrupted by a burglar. When he ran away, she ordered me to give chase.’

  ‘Lord!’ murmured Michael, round eyed. ‘It is a rash fellow who dares set thieving feet in her domain – she will have him hanged for certain. Did you catch him?’

  ‘No.’ Michael’s words made Bartholomew glad he had not. ‘And I am about to tell her so.’

  Michael frowned. ‘Then perhaps I should accompany you, lest she is seized by the urge to run you through. The presence of the Senior Proctor may serve to curtail her more murderous instincts.’

  Bartholomew was not entirely sure he was joking. ‘Thank you. Personally, I would rather have leaking roofs than be obliged to deal with her. It may sound feeble, but I find her rather sinister.’

  ‘So do I. Unfortunately, Langelee drew up the contract when I was away in Clare, and by the time I returned, all was signed and settled. I was disgusted – not with him, but with the rest of you Fellows for letting him go ahead with it.’

  ‘We did not let him go ahead, Brother,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘He just went. Ever since last autumn, when one of his scholars transpired to be corrupt, he has insisted on making all the important decisions alone. We argued against accepting Emma’s charity, but he overrode us.’

  ‘He would not have overridden me,’ declared Michael, a hard, determined glint glowing in his baggy green eyes.

  ‘No,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘But we should not judge him too harshly. We lost a lot of money on reckless financial ventures last year, and this hard winter means food prices are unusually high. He is only trying to keep us solvent.’

  ‘Then he should have found another way – I dislike the fact that you are at Emma’s beck and call all hours of the day and night. It is not right.’ Michael grimaced as he glanced at their benefactress’s handsome house. ‘I suppose we had better go and break the news that you were less than successful with her thief. But I cannot face her on an empty stomach. We shall eat first.’

  ‘I cannot return to Michaelhouse for breakfast,’ said Bartholomew in alarm, not liking to think what Emma would say if he did. Meals at College could be lengthy, and she would be waiting.

  ‘No,’ agreed Michael. ‘So we shall visit the Brazen George instead. That will not take long, and I do not see why everything we do should revolve around that wretched woman’s convenience.’

  They began to walk the short distance to Michael’s favourite tavern. Trading had started in the Market Square and labourers were at their daily grind, so the cacophony of commerce and industry was well under way – yells, clangs and the rumble of iron-shod wheels on cobbles. The High Street thronged with people. There were scholars in the uniforms of their Colleges or hostels, merchants in furlined cloaks, apprentices in leather aprons or grimy tunics, and even a quartet of pilgrims heading for the Carmelite Priory. The pilgrims were identifiable by the wooden staffs they carried, and by the badges pinned on their clothes that told people which holy places they had visited

  ‘The Carmelites are doing well these days,’ remarked Michael, watching the little party pass. ‘St Simon Stock’s shrine attracts a lot of visitors, and is an important source of revenue for them.’

  ‘Is it?’ asked Bartholomew, not very interested. He grinned suddenly when mention of the Carmelites reminded him of another of the religious Orders. ‘Have you identified the pranksters who put the ox and cart on the Gilbertines’ chapel roof yet?’

  ‘No,’ replied the monk tightly. ‘I have not.’

  ‘It was a skilful trick,’ Bartholomew went on, full of admiration for the perpetrators’ ingenuity. ‘I cannot imagine how they lifted a bull, a cart and thirty sacks of sand on to a roof of that height.’

  ‘It was stupid,’ countered Michael, whose duty it was to catch the culprits and fine them. ‘Could they not have applied their wits to something less disruptive? It took me two days to assemble the winches needed to lower them all down again.’

  ‘Do not be such a misery!’ said Bartholomew, laughing. ‘Besides, students playing tricks is better than students fighting. Do you have any suspects?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Michael stiffly. ‘And I shall list them all for you once we are out of this biting cold.’

  Bartholomew followed him inside the Brazen George. Taverns were off-limits to scholars, on the grounds that they sold strong drink and contained townsmen, a combin ation likely to lead to trouble. But Michael had decided that such rules did not apply to him, and, as Senior Proctor, he was in a position to do as he pleased. Given that he fined others for enjoying what taverns had to offer, it made him something of a hypocrite, but he did not care enough to change his ways.

  The Brazen George was a pleasant place, and Michael was so well known to its owner that there was a room at the back reserved for his exclusive use. The chamber had real glass in its windows and overlooked a pretty courtyard. A fire blazed merrily and welcomingly in the hearth.

  ‘I am concerned about this thief,’ said Michael, lowering his substantial bulk on to a stool and stretching his booted feet towards the flames. ‘If he is reckless enough to chance his hand against Emma, then no one is safe. He may try his luck on the University, and invade one of the wealthy Colleges.’

  ‘He will not choose Michaelhouse then,’ said Bartholomew, standing as close to the fire as it was possible to get without setting himself alight. Even his high-speed chase had failed to dispel the chill that morning – he had woken shivering and with icy feet, and had remained frozen ever since. Because the College was going through one of its lean phases, fires in the Fellows’ rooms were an unthinkable luxury – unless they could pay for one themselves, which he could not.

  ‘No,’ agreed Michael gloomily. ‘We have nothing to interest a thief, more is the pity.’

  ‘Who are your suspects for the ox and cart trick?’ asked Bartholomew, to change the subject. Michaelhouse’s ongoing destitution was a depressing topic for both of them.

  ‘The Dominicans are partial to practical jokes,’ Michael began. ‘While Principal Kendale of Chestre Hostel is famous for his understanding of complex mechanics. They all deny it of course, presumably so
they can add outwitting the Senior Proctor to their list of achievements.’

  ‘Kendale?’ asked Bartholomew in surprise. ‘I doubt he took part in a jape. He seems too …’

  ‘Surly?’ suggested Michael when his friend hesitated, looking for the right word. ‘Malicious?’

  ‘Humourless,’ finished Bartholomew. ‘I doubt he has a sense of fun.’

  When the taverner appeared, Michael ordered his ‘usual’ – a substantial repast that involved a lot more than he would have been given at Michaelhouse.

  ‘Kendale does have a sense of fun,’ he said, when they were alone again. ‘Unfortunately, it is one that finds amusement in the misfortune of others. When that King’s Hall student was injured in the trick involving the bull last week, he and his students laughed so hard that I was obliged to spend the rest of the day making sure they were not lynched for their heartlessness.’

  ‘I cannot imagine what started this current wave of antipathy between Colleges and hostels,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I know there has always been some jealousy and resentment, but it was never this strong.’

  Cambridge’s eight Colleges had endowments, which meant they tended to be larger and richer than the hostels, and occupied nicer buildings – although Michaelhouse was currently an exception to the rule. They were also more permanent; hostels came and went with bewildering rapidity, and Bartholomew was never sure how many were in existence at any one time. Some Colleges were arrogant and condescending to their less fortunate colleagues, which inevitably resulted in spats, but it was unusual for the ill feeling to simmer in quite so many foundations simultaneously.

  ‘It is Kendale’s doing,’ said Michael bitterly. ‘He is busily fanning the flames of discord as hard as he can, for no reason other than that it amuses him to see two factions quarrel.’

  ‘The rivalry is mostly innocent, though,’ said Bartholomew, watching the landlord bring a platter of assorted meat, bread, custard and a bowl of apples. ‘No one has been hurt – except the student with the bull, and that was largely his own fault.’

  ‘It is mostly innocent so far,’ corrected Michael. ‘But I have a bad feeling it will escalate. It is a pity, because we have been strife-free for weeks now. Relations between town and University have warmed, and the last squabble I quelled was back in October. Damn Kendale for putting an end to the harmony! I really thought we might be heading towards a lasting peace this time.’

  Bartholomew doubted that would ever happen. Even when the town was not at loggerheads with the studium generale it had not wanted within its walls in the first place, academics were a turbulent crowd. The different religious Orders were always fighting among themselves, and there were more feuds within and between foundations than he could count. The concord they had enjoyed since October was an aberration, and he had known it was only ever a matter of time before Cambridge reverted to its usual state of conflict.

  ‘There is a rumour that Jolye was murdered by the hostels, too,’ Michael went on.

  Bartholomew regarded him askance. ‘The boy who fell in the river after Trinity Hall did that clever balancing act with Chestre Hostel’s boats? I thought you had decided that was an accident.’

  ‘You told me it was an accident,’ countered Michael. ‘I was led by your expertise.’

  In addition to teaching medicine and being a physician, Bartholomew was also the University’s Corpse Examiner, which meant he was obliged to supply an official cause of death for any scholar who died, or for any townsman who breathed his last on University property.

  ‘I said there was nothing to suggest foul play,’ he corrected. ‘No suspicious bruises or marks. However, I also said that a lack of evidence did not necessarily mean there was no crime.’

  ‘Well, Jolye’s fellow students agree with you. They have declared him a College martyr.’

  Bartholomew was alarmed. ‘Do you think they will retaliate with a murder of their own?’

  ‘Not if I can help it,’ said Michael grimly. ‘My beadles are ever vigilant, and so am I. But eat your apples, Matt. We cannot sit here all day.’

  Bartholomew followed him outside, and back on to the High Street. He looked around uneasily, searching for signs of unrest. He was horrified to see some immediately: the lads of Essex Hostel were enjoying some unedifying jostling with Clare College’s law students. They desisted sheepishly when they became aware that the Senior Proctor was glaring in their direction.

  ‘You see?’ asked Michael, continuing to scowl until both groups had slunk away. ‘At first, the rivalry was light-hearted and harmless – amusing exercises in resourcefulness and intelligence. But then Kendale sent the crated bull to King’s Hall – he denies it, of course, but I know it was him – and now the competition will turn vicious.’

  ‘There he is,’ said Bartholomew, nodding to where Chestre’s Principal was yelling at one of the town’s burgesses. Kendale was a large, handsome man, who wore his thick, fair hair in a braid that made him look like a Saxon pirate. By contrast, John Drax, the town’s wealthiest taverner, was small, dark and unattractive. Both had lost their tempers, and their angry voices were accompanied by a lot of finger-wagging.

  ‘Kendale leases his hostel building from Drax,’ said Michael, watching intently. ‘They are doubtless quarrelling about the rent. It is a pity they are not gentlemen enough to keep their disputes private, because if they carry on like that, others will join in and we shall have a brawl.’

  As if he sensed Michael’s disapproving gaze, Kendale grabbed Drax’s arm and hustled him down an alley. Drax resisted, but Kendale was strong, and they were soon out of sight.

  ‘Good!’ said Michael, relieved. ‘Why could they not have done that in the first place? But we had better visit Emma de Colvyll, or she will be wondering what has happened to you. Did you know she currently owns more than fifteen houses in the town, not to mention estates and manors all across the Fens?’

  ‘I know she owns Edmund House, near the Gilbertine Priory,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The canons are eager to buy it from her, to use as a student hostel, but she refuses to sell it. I cannot imagine why she is so determined to keep it. It is not an especially attractive place.’

  ‘She will have her reasons,’ said Michael. ‘And they will be concerned with profit, you can be sure of that.’

  Bartholomew knocked at Emma’s door, shivering as he did so; the wind was biting, and he wondered whether it might snow again. A servant answered almost immediately. The fellow was white-faced and trembling, and Bartholomew supposed he had been given a dressing-down for not being on hand when a thief had invaded his mistress’s domain.

  ‘She is waiting for you,’ was all he said.

  Bartholomew and Michael followed him along a short corridor and into the solar Emma used for business. It was a luxuriously appointed room, with tasteful hangings on the walls and a plethora of thick rugs. As she was wealthy enough to afford the best, her glass window panes had been fitted in such a way as to exclude draughts. A fire blazed in the hearth, and an appetising selection of nuts, sweetmeats and dried fruits sat on a table nearby. They were clearly for Emma’s consumption only, and even Michael, a shameless devourer of other people’s treats, was sufficiently wary of her to refrain from descending on them.

  Emma’s family was with her that morning. Her daughter Alice, who was sewing by the fire, was a heavy, sullen woman who rarely spoke unless it was to voice a complaint. Her husband was Thomas Heslarton, a powerfully built soldier with a bald head and missing teeth. He was a ruffian, but there was a certain charm in his quick grin and cheerful manners, and Bartholomew found him by far the most likeable member of the clan.

  With such hefty parents, their daughter Odelina was not going to be a petite beauty, and nor was she. Her fashionably tight kirtle revealed an impressive cascade of bulges, and her hair was oddly two-tone, as if she had attempted to dye it and something had gone horribly wrong. She was twenty-four, and had so far rejected the suitors her family had recommended, because a fondness
for romantic ballads was encouraging her to hold out for a brave and handsome knight.

  But by far the most dominating presence in the room was Emma de Colvyll herself. Extreme age had wasted her arms and legs, although she still possessed a substantial girth, and she never wore any colour except black. There was something about her that always put Bartholomew in mind of a fat spider. She had beady eyes, which had a disconcerting tendency to glitter, and she had been known to reduce grown men to tears with a single word.

  ‘You took your time,’ she snapped, when Bartholomew and Michael were shown in. She thrust out a hand, all wrinkled skin and curved nails. ‘Give me the box.’

  ‘What box?’ asked Bartholomew, bemused.

  Emma glowered. ‘The box that yellow-haired villain stole – the one I sent you to retrieve.’

  ‘He did not have it,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It would have slowed him down, so he must have—’

  ‘It was a small one,’ Emma interrupted harshly. ‘I imagine he tucked it inside his tunic, so it would not have slowed him down at all.’

  Bartholomew raised his hands in a shrug. ‘I did not see a box. Are you sure he took it?’

  ‘Of course I am sure,’ hissed Emma. She eyed him coldly. ‘I assume from your replies that not only did you fail to recover my property, but you failed to lay hold of the scoundrel, too. How did that happen? You were only moments behind him.’

  ‘He could run faster than me.’ The reply was curt, but Bartholomew disliked being spoken to like an errant schoolboy. ‘And he had a horse saddled ready in the Griffin.’

  ‘It was unfair to send a scholar after a felon,’ added Michael, also resenting her tone. ‘We are forbidden to carry weapons, and Matt might have been injured had he—’

  Emma sneered. ‘Everyone knows he fought at Poitiers, where he was rewarded for his valour by the Prince of Wales. A mere felon could not best him, armed or otherwise.’

  Bartholomew stifled a sigh. He had spent eighteen months overseas, when bad timing had put him in Poitiers when the English army had done battle with the French. He had taken up arms, but it had been his skill in treating the wounded afterwards that had merited the Prince’s approbation. Unfortunately, his book-bearer Cynric, who had been with him, loved telling war stories, and the physician’s modest role in the clash had been exaggerated beyond all truth.