Susanna GREGORY - The Killer of Pilgrims

‘Arrest all our suspects,’ urged Bartholomew, feeling desperate situations called for desperate measures. ‘If they are innocent, they will forgive you when you explain yourself. And if they are guilty, you will prevent them from–’

‘Brother Michael! Brother Michael!’ They turned to see Meryfeld racing towards them. For the first time since Bartholomew had met him, he was not rubbing his hands together. ‘Thank God I have found you! Horneby the Carmelite has just attacked me.’

‘Attacked you?’ echoed Michael in astonishment. ‘Why would he do that?’

‘He burst into my house and locked me in my cellar without so much as a word of explanation,’ shouted Meryfeld, furious and indignant. ‘How dare he! I order you to apprehend him.’

‘Horneby,’ said Bartholomew, the last pieces of the puzzle falling into place at last. ‘ He is Odelina’s accomplice.’

‘ Horneby is Odelina’s accomplice?’ echoed Michael, gaping at Bartholomew in astonishment. ‘Impossible! He is a theologian.’

‘And theologians are incapable of murder?’ demanded Bartholomew. ‘It is a pity, because I admire him. However, he is certainly clever enough to have masterminded all this mayhem – he has one of the best minds in the University.’

‘I barely recognised him when he attacked me,’ said Meryfeld, looking from one to the other as he tried to understand what they were talking about. ‘His face was twisted, and I am surprised he did not kill me. In fact, I think he might have done, had he not been in such a hurry.’

Michael’s expression hardened, and he quickly organised his beadles into two groups: those who would march Heslarton and his henchmen to the gaol, and those who would police the camp-ball. Bartholomew used the brief respite to rest. He closed his eyes, trying to quell the agitated churning in his stomach.

The day was bitterly cold, with grey clouds scudding overhead and a brisk northerly breeze that cut straight through his clothes. Would it cut through the spectators’ clothes, too, he wondered, and encourage them to leave the game and head for the warmth of home? He jumped when he became aware that someone was behind him. It was Gyseburne, and Thelnetham was with him.

‘You look terrible,’ said Gyseburne, peering into his face. Bartholomew sincerely hoped he was not going to demand a urine sample. ‘What ails you?’

‘Yet another sleepless night, I expect,’ said Thelnetham, before Bartholomew could reply. ‘They seem to be an occupational hazard at Michaelhouse – none of us have had proper rest in days.’

‘There is no reason for you to have been disturbed,’ said Bartholomew, thinking Thelnetham was not a physician or a senior proctor, so should have been sleeping like a baby.

Thelnetham regarded him oddly. ‘It is hard to relax when half the College has no roof and our protective gates have been missing. And I am–’

He broke off when Welfry approached at a run. The Dominican’s face was pale.

‘Have you seen Horneby?’ he asked urgently. ‘He raced out of his friary as though the Devil was on his tail earlier. Moreover, he has burned his notes for the Stock Extraordinary Lecture. It is inexplicable behaviour, and I fear he may not be completely recovered from his recent illness.’

Meryfeld explained briefly what had been done to him, but before Welfry could respond, Michael shouted that he was ready and that he needed volunteers to help him at the camp-ball game. Welfry, Thelnetham and Gyseburne were among those who rallied to his call, but Meryfeld muttered something about visiting a patient and slunk off in the opposite direction.

‘What are we hoping to prevent, exactly?’ asked Thelnetham, after Michael had given a short account of all that had happened, and they were marching along the High Street towards the Gilbertine Priory.

‘Trouble,’ replied Michael shortly. ‘We do not know what form it might take, so you must all be vigilant for the unusual. All I know is that it must be stopped.’

‘Had I known Cambridge was going to be this turbulent, I would never have left York,’ muttered Gyseburne to himself.

‘I do not believe any of this,’ whispered Welfry, his amiable face grey with shock and grief. ‘You are mistaken. Horneby would never do anything so terrible.’

‘Yet he has,’ said Michael roughly. ‘The evidence is overwhelming.’

‘It is circumstantial,’ argued Welfry loyally. ‘And he would never…’ He trailed off uneasily.

‘What?’ demanded Michael.

For a moment, Bartholomew thought the Dominican would refuse to answer, but then Welfry began to speak.

‘Odelina,’ he said in a choked whisper. He would not look at Michael. ‘He told me he thought her a fine woman. She harboured a fancy for me, you see, and I asked his advice on how best to repel her. I thought he was in jest when he said he admired her, to make me feel better…’

‘But he was in earnest,’ finished Michael. ‘What else can you tell me, Welfry? And please do not hold back. I know you and Horneby are friends, but lives are at stake here. Do you have any notion of what he might be planning?’

Welfry’s face was an agony of conflict. ‘He has been reading a lot of books on alchemy of late, and I think his throat trouble began after an experiment with powerful substances…’

‘We must hurry, said Michael grimly. ‘Whatever he is plotting, we cannot let him succeed.’

Welfry was stunned, shaking his head as he walked. ‘There will be an explanation for all this, and Horneby will be exonerated. Then we will feel terrible for thinking such dreadful things about a man whose decency and goodness are beyond question.’

While he continued in this vein to anyone who would listen, Thelnetham fell into step beside Bartholomew, and offered a hand when the physician stumbled over an uneven cobble. He removed a phial from his pouch.

‘Drink this. You will need your strength if we are to avert a catastrophe.’

‘What is it?’

‘A tonic for vitality that Gyseburne gave me. Go on. It will do you good.’

It was a measure of Bartholomew’s debility that he took the concoction without thinking twice about it. It tasted foul, and for a moment he thought he was going to be sick. But the sensation passed, and he was left feeling no worse than he had been before.

‘I was summoned to tend Dickon this morning, because you were unavailable,’ said Gyseburne, striding on his other side. ‘He tried to burgle Celia Drax’s house, and cut his knee on the window.’

‘Dickon!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, as a sudden, awful thought began to take shape in his head. ‘And Horneby has been reading books on alchemy! Oh, no! Surely…’

‘What?’ asked Thelnetham uneasily. ‘What have you reasoned?’

‘Dickon must have talked about the compound we created,’ said Bartholomew, as his stomach began to churn in horror. ‘The one that burns, but that cannot be extinguished.’

‘Yes, he has,’ agreed Gyseburne disapprovingly. ‘I have heard him myself. What of it?’

‘Did Meryfeld mention anything missing after Horneby had burst into his home?’ demanded Bartholomew urgently.

‘He said the cauldron we used to make our lamp-fuel was gone, along with some pitch, quicklime and brimstone.’ Gyseburne paled when he understood what Bartholomew was thinking. ‘You believe Horneby intends to use that vile abomination at the camp-ball? No! It is too terrible, and he is a friar! He would never…’

‘I think he might,’ said Bartholomew soberly. Was it his imagination, or had Thelnetham’s tonic given him a sudden burst of energy? Or was it simply the challenge of preventing such a terrible atrocity that filled him with strength and determination?