Susanna GREGORY - The Killer of Pilgrims

‘So he needled Kendale with tricks, challenging him to reply in kind,’ continued Thelnetham. ‘He thought this alone would see Chestre suppressed, but it did not. So he elected to see them accused of more serious offences instead, and ordered Heslarton to plant “evidence” as proof.’

‘He was an odd man,’ mused Michael. ‘He tried hard to calm the rivalry Kendale was inciting, by inventing clever but gentle tricks and encouraging the hostels to respond with their wits, not their fists. And he certainly saved King’s Hall with his timely riddle. Yet he would have seen members of Chestre punished for crimes of which they were innocent.’

‘ I cannot find it in my heart to blame him for taking against Chestre,’ said William. ‘They are an obstacle to peace and a burden to our University.’

‘Not any more,’ said Michael smugly. ‘The fact that Neyll and Ihon almost succeeded in killing people with their camp-ball “bomb” was enough for me to close the place – along with the fact that they and Gib pushed young Jolye in the river and refused to let him out again. Kendale probably was ignorant of both incidents, as he claims, but I told him that was no excuse.’

‘Where is he now?’ asked Bartholomew, not liking the notion of such vitriol at large.

‘Oxford,’ said Michael with immense satisfaction. ‘And his surviving students with him. He claims he will be more appreciated in our sister University, but he will soon learn otherwise.’

‘But he will make trouble there,’ said Bartholomew, appalled.

‘Almost certainly,’ agreed Michael smugly. ‘And benefactors will disapprove, and look elsewhere for recipients for their largess. Perhaps we shall not be doomed to poor food for long after all.’

‘Never mind Kendale,’ said William, cutting across Bartholomew’s shocked objections. ‘I am more interested in Welfry. Did he have leprosy, Matthew? You examined his body, I understand.’

Bartholomew dragged his thoughts away from the hapless scholars of Oxford. ‘No – and it is the worst part of this entire business. All his terrors about a lonely death were unfounded. He had a skin condition that I have recently learned how to remedy. Had he let me examine him–’

‘You mean a smear of balm might have prevented all this?’ asked William.

‘I am not so sure,’ said Michael, before Bartholomew could reply. ‘Odelina still would have dispatched two people so her friend could marry her father.’

‘Would she?’ asked Clippesby. ‘She confesses to killing Alice, but not Drax.’

‘She is lying,’ said William contemptuously. ‘She cannot open her mouth without poison issuing forth, and we should not believe a word she says.’

‘Isnard has a lot to answer for, though,’ said Michael. ‘It transpires that he is a smuggler, although Dick Tulyet and I cannot prove it. However, I am dismissing him from my choir.’

‘Do not do that, Brother,’ begged Bartholomew, recalling the anguish the bargeman had suffered the last time Michael had expelled him. ‘It would break his heart. And he is generous to the Blaston family, which is a point in his favour. They would starve without him.’

‘Well, in that case, perhaps I shall overlook his crimes,’ said Michael. ‘Blaston is a good man, and I should never have included him on my lists of suspects for Drax’s murder.’

The following afternoon, Bartholomew went to watch Blaston putting the finishing touches to the roof. Langelee had been overly optimistic when he said it had been restored to its original state, because tiles had cracked when they had been removed, and the guttering was now damaged. The roof was likely to be a lot more leaky than it had been, but at least it was not open to the skies.

‘Have you heard the news?’ asked Blaston. ‘The barge carrying Odelina and Heslarton to exile sank in the Fens, and there are no survivors. Word is that Isnard arranged for it to go down, to make amends for dabbling in the smuggling business.’

‘It was not Isnard,’ said Bartholomew, recalling a remark Welfry had made. ‘Welfry said that particular barge was unseaworthy. Obviously, he tampered with it before he died.’

Blaston stared at him. ‘You may be right. He had a funny sense of justice, and probably would not have liked the notion of Odelina and Heslarton escaping to France after all they had done.’

Bartholomew was sure of it. ‘I had a bad feeling that we had not heard the last of him.’

‘Celia has confessed all, too,’ added Blaston. ‘She admitted that she lied when she claimed she was with Heslarton the night Gib was murdered, reading a psalter. And that she claimed to be illiterate, when she can read very well. It was Drax who had no letters.’

‘A lot of people lied. It was why the case was so difficult to solve.’

Blaston was silent for a moment, then changed the subject to one that was more cheerful. ‘I heard it was you who recommended me for the task of repairing the Gilbertines’ refectory. It is good work – well paid – and will keep me indoors for the rest of the winter. And Prior Leccheworth says I can have kitchen scraps for the children. My financial problems are over for a while.’

‘It is a pity for Drax that they were not over sooner,’ said Bartholomew softly.

Blaston gazed at him, alarm in his eyes. ‘What are you saying? Brother Michael told me I am completely exonerated. Odelina and Heslarton are responsible for Drax’s death.’

‘But you and I both know that it would have been impossible for them to bring Drax’s corpse in here without being seen by you – and Heslarton has an alibi for the killing, anyway. You did not speak out about what you saw for a reason: that reason is that you killed him.’

‘No!’ cried Blaston. ‘I would have told you if I had spotted Heslarton and his daughter–’

‘You were afraid that if you admitted to seeing them tote a corpse into our yard, awkward questions would have been asked. Such as how did you know Drax was already dead? You were terrified that a clever man like Michael would catch you out.’

Blaston put his hands over his face, and seemed to shrivel before Bartholomew’s eyes. ‘It was an accident, I swear ! I confronted Drax about his outrageous prices in Physwick’s dairy, and he laughed at me. I had a sick baby, and he laughed! Then he drew his dagger, and told me to get out of his way.’

‘What happened then?’

‘I was too angry to slink away like a beaten cur, so I tackled him, and we both fell. We landed hard, and I got up, but he did not. Odelina must have stumbled across him later.’ When Blaston looked at Bartholomew again, his face was whiter than the physician had ever seen it. ‘What will you do? Tell Brother Michael?’

Bartholomew sighed. ‘What good would that do? And you say it was an accident.’

‘It was,’ said Blaston fervently. ‘And I know God does not hold it against me.’

‘You do? How?’

Blaston pulled at something he was wearing around his neck. It was the pilgrim badge Bartholomew had brought Michael from Santiago de Compostela.

‘Because I found this in the High Street. God would not have led me to such a beautiful thing if He thought me wicked. I shall wear it for the rest of my life – or until we have another hard winter and I need to feed my family.’

Bartholomew stared at it for a moment, then smiled reluctantly. ‘In that case, you had better keep it safe. And never show it to Michael.’

On 28 December 1349, the Archbishop of Canterbury wrote a letter to the Bishop of London ordering him to ensure that God was suitably thanked for rescuing the country from the ‘amazing pestilence which lately attacked these parts and which took from us the best and worthiest men’. The people were urged to ‘break forth in praises and devout expressions of gratitude’. It is almost impossible to imagine the impact of the plague on those who survived it, but some would certainly have thought that mere prayers were inadequate to express their relief, and would have undertaken pilgrimages.