Susanna GREGORY - The Killer of Pilgrims

It was not long before Bartholomew appreciated what they meant. The masons were enjoying a lewd discussion about the famously creative talents of Blaston’s wife. Yolande worked as a prostitute to supplement the family income, and when Yffi began to describe some of her more innovative techniques, Bartholomew saw he was losing his class’s attention – they were all staring in open-mouthed fascination towards the roof on which the builders were working.

‘What does Galen say about blood that is excessively salty?’ he asked loudly, indicating that Valence should answer the question.

But Valence was transfixed by Yffi’s description of what Yolande could do with a handful of chestnuts and a warm cloth, and it was Rob Deynman, the dim-witted librarian, who answered. Deynman had been a medical student himself, until he had been ‘promoted’ in an effort to keep him from practising on an unwary public, and prided himself on what he could remember from the many years of lessons he had attended. Unfortunately, his memory was rarely equal to his enthusiasm.

‘He said salty blood is white,’ he replied, with one of his bright and rather vacant grins. ‘Because salt is white. And if blood is white, then it means it has turned into phlegm.’

‘Lord!’ muttered Bartholomew, wondering whether anything he had taught the lad had been retained in anything like its original context. ‘Can anyone else tell me what–’

But he was interrupted by a furious screech from outside, which had students and masters alike rushing to the window to see what was going on. It was Agatha the laundress, the formidable matron who had inveigled herself into a position of some power among the servants. It was an unorthodox arrangement – women were not permitted inside Colleges – but neither the Master nor his Fellows were bold enough to tell her so. She was chasing a dog, which had a ham in its jaws. Cheers from the roof indicated the builders had also abandoned their work to enjoy the spectacle.

Determined to retrieve the meat, Agatha gradually corralled the animal into a corner, where it took refuge behind a large pile of tiles, all covered with an oiled sheet. Then she lunged. The dog yowled its outrage as she laid hold of its tail, although its jaws remained firmly fastened around its booty. It became entangled in the sheet in its efforts to escape. Workmen and students alike howled their laughter, although the Fellows were more restrained, knowing from personal experience what could happen if Agatha took umbrage.

‘Go and help her, Bartholomew,’ instructed Langelee, fighting to keep a straight face. ‘Or we shall be here all day, and lessons will suffer.’

Bartholomew went to oblige, hurrying down the spiral staircase before Agatha or the dog could harm each other. When he emerged in the yard, she was hauling furiously on the sheet in an effort to locate her quarry, roughly enough that some of the tiles were falling off their stacks. Yffi was scrambling down the scaffolding, yelling angrily about the damage. Blaston and the watching apprentices were helpless with laughter.

‘Stop, Agatha,’ urged Bartholomew, running towards her. ‘Let me help you.’

‘I do not need help,’ snarled Agatha, jerking the sheet so violently that several more tiles crashed to the ground. The dog’s agitated yips added to the general cacophony. ‘I just want to–’

With a tearing sound, the sheet came away, sending Agatha lurching backwards. The dog was catapulted free and made the most of the opportunity by racing towards the gate. But neither she nor Bartholomew noticed it. Their attention was taken by what her tugging had exposed – a man lying half buried by the tiles she had dislodged.

‘Is he dead?’ demanded Langelee, hovering over Bartholomew as the physician struggled to haul the fallen tiles from the prostrate figure beneath. ‘Who is it? Which of the builders?’

‘It is none of us,’ replied Yffi shakily. The mason was a crop-haired man with the kind of belly that indicated he was fond of ale; he was fond of camp-ball, too, which said a good deal about his belligerent character. He and his apprentices stood to one side of the pile, while Blaston was on the other. ‘We are all present and correct.’

‘Will someone help me?’ asked Bartholomew, glancing first at the labourers, then his colleagues. The students and Agatha had been sent back inside, but the Master and his Fellows had remained.

‘I am not going anywhere near a corpse,’ declared Yffi vehemently. ‘The miasma of death will hang about me afterwards and bring me bad luck.’

His apprentices crossed themselves, and so did Blaston. Rolling his eyes, Langelee stepped up, and began flinging away stones with a reckless abandon that made it dangerous for bystanders.

‘Then who is under here?’ he demanded, as he worked. ‘It is no one from Michaelhouse, because students, Fellows and staff are all accounted for.’

‘We shall be needing a bier, regardless,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Where is Cynric?’

‘I am here,’ came a quiet voice at his shoulder. He jumped. His Welsh book-bearer was as soft-footed as a cat, and he had not heard him approach.

‘This is your fault,’ said Blaston, pointing an unsteady finger at Yffi. ‘You heaped these slabs badly, and now a man lies dead.’

‘There was nothing wrong with my stacking!’ cried Yffi, alarmed. ‘The tiles were perfectly safe until that woman got among them like a rampaging bull.’

‘We should discuss this later, when we have the poor fellow out,’ said Langelee, helping Bartholomew haul away the last of the heavy stones. ‘Oh, Lord! That one landed square on his face. How will we identify him now?’

‘I know him.’

Everyone turned to see Thelnetham standing there, freshly returned from the meeting in his priory. He was by far the best-dressed of the Fellows, even surpassing Michael, who was vain about his appearance. He was known in the University for enlivening his Gilbertine habit with a variety of costly accessories, and was flagrantly effeminate.

‘Well?’ demanded Langelee. ‘Tell us his name.’

‘It is John Drax,’ replied Thelnetham quietly.

‘Drax the taverner?’ asked Langelee. ‘How can you tell?’

All the Fellows – except Langelee, whose previous work for the Archbishop of York had inured him to grisly sights – looked away as Bartholomew began to examine the body. None were approving of or comfortable with his ability to determine causes of death, while Father William, the College’s bigoted Franciscan – recently returned from exile in the Fens – had declared to the world at large the previous year that it was what made him a warlock.

‘I recognise his clothes,’ replied Thelnetham, pointedly turning his back on the physician. ‘I have an interest in finery, as you know. Plus there is the fact that he is missing several fingers.’

‘So he is!’ exclaimed Blaston, risking a peep at the mangled remains. He looked white and sick, and Bartholomew hoped he would not faint. ‘I heard he lost those working for Yffi.’

‘That was not my fault, either,’ declared Yffi, more alarmed than ever. ‘But I compensated him handsomely even so, and he used the money to buy himself an inn that was so successful that he bought another. And then another. So, I actually did him a favour with the incident that…’

‘He was rich,’ agreed Langelee. ‘He often gave our College benefactions. In fact, it was he who bought the beeswax candles we shall use in the Purification ceremonies tomorrow.’

‘I recognise the medallion he is wearing, too,’ added Thelnetham. ‘He told me his wife had encouraged him to buy it. I asked, because I liked the look of it and was considering purchasing one for myself.’