The Killer Of Pilgrims

Book 16: Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew

by Susanna Gregory

Genres: Mystery; Historical Mysteries

Synopsis

When a wealthy benefactor is found dead in Michaelhouse, Brother Michael and Matthew Bartholomew must find the culprit before the College is accused of foul play. At the same time, Cambridge is plagued by a mystery thief, who is targeting rich pilgrims. Moreover, pranksters are at large in the University, staging a series of practical jokes that are growing increasingly dangerous, and that are dividing scholars into bitterly opposed factions.

Bartholomew and Michael soon learn that their various mysteries are connected, and it becomes a race against time to catch the killer-thief before the University explodes into a violent conflict that could destroy it forever.

Release date: November 4, 2010

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 432

Sample

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, sensing 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.


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 unorthodox 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.


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.’


Bartholo