The Killer of Pilgrims by Susanna Gregory

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. Hejumped. 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.’
    ‘Celia!’ exclaimed Langelee in dismay. ‘God’s blood! One of us will have to go and tell her.’
    ‘Tell her what?’ asked Michael. ‘What was he doing behind Yffi’s tiles in the first place?’
    ‘He has never visited us before,’ said Thelnetham. ‘In the past, when he wanted to make donations, he always summoned one
     of us to his mansion on Bridge Street.’
    ‘I did not see him come