Susanna GREGORY: The Killer of Pilgrims

‘My sister,’ gasped Bartholomew, thinking only of Welfry’s trick. ‘The wildfire…’

‘No one will leave,’ shouted Michael in despair. ‘And the place is too crowded for me to force them. There will be carnage, and there is nothing we can do but watch.’

Bartholomew saw the flame reach a bucket, which began to upend. It initiated a chain reaction, and the rafters started to vibrate as pulleys swung into action. The first pail tipped, emptying its contents on to the crowd below. It was followed by a second container, and a third, and then there were more than he could count. Howls followed.

He closed his eyes, not wanting to see. But then it occurred to him that he and his colleagues had not created that much of the deadly substance. He pulled away from Michael and sat up. The yells were not of agony, but of shocked indignation. And there was laughter, too.

‘Water!’ he breathed. ‘Welfry’s trick was water!’

Michael was inspecting a sheet that had been attached to one pulley. He grimaced. ‘Water that was set to culminate in a rather inflammatory banner being hoisted – one that claims this to be the victory of bold hostels over the stupid Colleges. It would have caused a fight for certain.’

But people were beginning to flee the room, unwilling to stand around and be drenched. Outside, Michael’s beadles were waiting, to ensure they dispersed.

‘Welfry miscalculated,’ said Michael, gazing at the spectacle with saucer-like eyes. ‘The water was meant to infuriate, and cause a great battle. But instead, it doused the skirmishes already in action, and drove the participants away.’

Bartholomew was too numb to feel elation. ‘He failed in a spectacular manner.’

‘And he wanted your substance not to spray over hapless victims, but to create a fuse,’ said Michael in relief. ‘It is over, Matt. My beadles will ensure there is no more fighting.’

‘He killed Thelnetham,’ said Bartholomew brokenly.

‘Thelnetham is not dead. He is not very happy about being knocked over the head, but he will survive. Gyseburne and Meryfeld are tending him.’

‘Welfry tried to make me go through that other door,’ said Bartholomew tiredly, waving a vague hand towards it. ‘He did not want to kill me, either.’

Michael snorted his incredulity. ‘The stairs have collapsed behind that. Had you stepped through it, you would have fallen to your death. You are a fool if you believe Welfry would have let you live after the kind of conversation I imagine you had.’

Bartholomew would not have been able to walk down the stairs had it not been for Michael’s helping hand, and when they finally reached the ground, he leaned against a wall and slid down it until he was sitting on the floor. There was a brazier on the wall above his head, and its illumination showed how unsteady his hands were. It had been a terrible experience, and he felt as though he had been to Hell and back.

The refectory had not cleared completely, because those very interested in drink had lingered, prepared to risk a soaking for free ale and wine. Bartholomew saw with relief that his sister was not among them, and nor were his Michaelhouse colleagues. Langelee was, though, his eyes fixed unwaveringly on Kendale and the students of Chestre. Cynric was with him, also glowering, and Bartholomew wondered whether they intended to pick a fight over the stolen gates.

‘I feel a little cheated,’ said Michael, looking around him uneasily. ‘I was expecting something truly diabolical, but…’

‘It would have been diabolical had it worked,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘A bloodbath as Colleges and hostels clashed in a fairly confined space, and townsmen joined in. Are you sure Welfry is dead? The reason I ask is because he did not use all the substance he stole from Meryfeld for his fuse – there is still a lot missing.’

‘Quite dead,’ replied Michael. His eyes narrowed. ‘Neyll and Ihon are coming towards us. Stand up. You do not want them to think you a weakling.’

‘I do not care what they think,’ muttered Bartholomew, declining to comply.

Ihon removed his cap as he approached. ‘We want to apologise for taking your gates,’ he said, loudly enough to attract the attention of a number of people, who came to see what was happening. ‘There, I have said it. Are you satisfied?’

‘It was only a joke,’ said Neyll. He held a camp-ball, and was rolling it from hand to hand. It looked heavy. ‘You should have been able to take a joke.’

Casually, he hefted the ball in his right hand and took aim, narrowing his eyes in concentration. Bartholomew twisted around to see what he was looking at. The brazier. He glanced back to Neyll, and noticed a black, sticky substance oozing through the ball’s seams.

But there was a sudden thump, and Neyll gripped his chest with a grimace of agony. A blade protruded from it, and Bartholomew recognised the letter-opener he had given Langelee. Neyll pitched forward, but not before the ball had flown from his hand. It landed on the edge of the brazier, and teetered there. Bartholomew surged to his feet, aiming to punch it away from the flame, but Ihon dived forward to stop him, knocking him off balance.

There was a muffled explosion. Bartholomew was already falling, so it was the hapless Ihon who took the brunt of the blast. The student crashed backwards in a billow of smoke. The wall behind him was splattered with gobbets of the substance that burned with a devilish glow, and one or two onlookers began to bat at smouldering clothes.

‘I thought the beadles had searched everyone for knives,’ said Cynric to Langelee. There was admiration in his voice.

‘That is not a knife,’ replied Langelee smoothly. ‘It is a letter-opener. And thank God they let me keep it. You were right to warn me there was something suspicious about that pair, Cynric. If their plan had succeeded, it would have deprived me of my two favourite Fellows.’

‘And many innocent bystanders,’ added Cynric, inspecting the sticky substance with a grimace of disapproval. ‘I love a weapon as much as the next man, but there is something unspeakable about this one.’

Michael shuddered when he saw what had happened to Ihon. He turned to Neyll, whose eyes were already turning glassy. ‘Why in God’s name did you do that?’

‘We had a letter from Emma de Colvyll,’ whispered Neyll. ‘She told us to do it, because it would score a great victory for the hostels. She wrote it this morning.’

‘Welfry,’ said Bartholomew heavily. ‘Emma could not have written anything today, because she was too ill. Will the man’s tricks never end?’

‘You will just have to wait and see,’ breathed Neyll with a ghastly grin. And then he died.

A week later

It was pleasant in Michaelhouse’s conclave. Rain pattered against the window shutters, and the night was bitter, but there was a fire in the hearth and wine mulling over it. Bartholomew sat at the table, reading a book on natural philosophy that Thelnetham had lent him, while his colleagues talked about the remarkable lecture Horneby had delivered that day. Bartholomew had not been there: he had been with Meryfeld and Gyseburne, discussing which of his poverty-stricken patients they were going to take off his hands.

He experienced a twinge of guilt when he thought about them. Both had been on his list of suspects for the killer-thief, but they had been entirely innocent. He was glad, and looked forward to resuming his experiments with them to develop a steadily burning lamp – assuming they only did so when they were sober, of course.

‘Our roofs have been restored to their original condition,’ reported Langelee, changing the subject to one he considered more interesting. ‘Unfortunately, the “original condition” means they still leak, but at least it is only drips, not deluges.’