Free The Killer of Pilgrims by Susanna Gregory

outside, and the only sound was the coo of roosting pigeons. Bartholomew aimed for
     the little Stanton Chapel, named for the wealthy lawyer who had founded Michaelhouse and rebuilt the church more than thirty
     years before.
    When he arrived, he stared at Drax for a moment, then began to remove the taverner’s blood-soaked clothing. It did not take
     long to confirm his initial findings: that the wound in Drax’s stomach would have been almost instantly fatal, while the stiff
     jaws indicated it had happened hours before. The location and angle of the injury made suicide unlikely.
    As he replaced the clothes, he thought about Drax. He had not known him well, although he had met him when Drax had made much-needed
     donations to the College. The taverner had not been particularly generous, but every little helped, and Michaelhouse was grateful
     for his kindness. In return, the College’s priests had said masses for his soul. Langelee was scrupulous about ensuring this
     was done, which was why people like Drax and Emma were willing to do business with him.
    Bartholomew recalled seeing Drax earlier that day, quarrelling with Kendale. It had been just after dawn, and although estimating
     time of death was an imprecise business, he suspected the taverner had died not long afterwards. Had the argument escalated
     once Kendale had pulled Drax down the alley? But if so, why would Kendale dump his victim’s corpse in Michaelhouse? Why not
     just tip it in the river, or stow it in a cart, to take to some remote spot in the Fens?
    Feeling he had learned all he could, Bartholomew lifted Drax into the parish coffin – it did not seem decent toleave his tile-crushed face on display – and he was just fastening the lid when he heard footsteps. It was Celia. Odelina
     was with her, still crammed into her unflatteringly tight dress. She was breathless – she was not as fit as the older woman
     – and Celia had clearly set a rapid pace from her Bridge Street home. Behind them, struggling to keep up, was Michael.
    ‘Where is my husband?’ demanded Celia. Her imperious gaze settled on the coffin. ‘You have not shoved him in there, have you?’
    ‘Well, yes,’ said Bartholomew uncomfortably. ‘I am sorry. It did not—’
    ‘No matter,’ Celia interrupted briskly. ‘But show me his face. It may not be John, and I do not want to invest in mourning
     apparel if you have the wrong man.’
    ‘Perhaps you might inspect his hand instead,’ Bartholomew suggested tactfully.
    ‘Why?’ asked Celia coldly. ‘Have you performed some dark magic that has changed his appearance? Your fondness for witchery
     is why I am no longer your patient, if you recall.’
    ‘Your husband’s fingers,’ whispered Odelina, before Bartholomew could reply. ‘Robin the surgeon chopped them off after that
     accident with Yffi, and Doctor Bartholomew obviously thinks that identifying them will be less distressing than looking on
     his poor dead face.’ She looked away quickly. ‘This is all very horrible!’
    ‘Oh, yes,’ said Celia, relenting. ‘I had forgotten his missing digits. Yffi’s blood money allowed us to buy the Griffin tavern.
     Then we used its profits to buy more inns, so we now have seven.
And
three lovely houses, including the big one we lease to Kendale – he calls it Chestre Hostel.’
    ‘The Griffin,’ mused Bartholomew, recalling it was wherethe yellow-headed man had fled after stealing Emma’s box. It seemed a strange coincidence.
    But Celia was becoming impatient, so he reached under the lid and extracted the pertinent limb, thinking she seemed more annoyed
     than distressed by her spouse’s demise. Odelina was pale and shaking, but her grandmother and father were protective of her,
     and he doubted she had encountered many corpses. He saw her look studiously the other way as Celia bent to examine Drax’s
     hand.
    ‘I always thought it odd that these two women should be such great friends,’ whispered Michael, as the