Susanna GREGORY: The Killer of Pilgrims

‘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.