Susanna GREGORY - The Mark of a Murderer

‘Spryngheuse’s soul will never let you rest,’ he shouted, resorting to desperate tactics. ‘He is there, in the trees, watching you sell your soul to the Devil.’

Joan’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, but Wormynghalle paled, and his bow wavered. Then there was a loud crack, and he toppled backwards. Without waiting to see how or why, Bartholomew launched himself at Joan, wrenching the weapon from her hands while she watched her brother stagger. She saw instantly that Bartholomew would overpower her with his superior strength, so she abandoned her attempts to retrieve the bow, and grabbed a knife from her belt. She stabbed wildly, and the physician leapt away. With a gasp of horror, he lost his balance and toppled into the cistern, bowling over Michael, who was halfway out.

For a moment, Bartholomew’s eyes and ears were full of water. Then he surfaced, gagging and choking. He looked around, anticipating that the lid would be slammed down and he and the others would drown. The level of water was now so high that the heads of anyone inside would be forced under as soon as it dropped, and he braced himself for a final ducking as Joan completed her work. But the hatch remained open, and he was aware of someone thrusting him roughly out of the way to reach the rectangle of light that represented air and life. It was Polmorva, kicking and punching others in his determination to escape.

As Polmorva hauled himself out, Bartholomew expected him to be shot, but nothing happened, so he grabbed Michael, who was floundering nearby, and shoved him to where he could reach the hatch. The monk was strong, despite his lard, and his powerful arms propelled him upward as though he were on fire. Bartholomew saw him glance around quickly before leaning into the cistern to help the others. Duraunt went first, followed by Abergavenny, and Bartholomew last.

Of Joan, there was no sign, and Polmorva had also gone. While Michael hunted for them among the trees, Bartholomew knelt next to Duraunt, who was shivering in a crumpled heap on the ground.

‘I recognised her,’ the old man said in a whisper. ‘As soon as she started talking about her crimes, I recognised her as my brilliant young student who disappeared after a term. She looked different here – her hair is longer and darker. But it was she who stole the teeth from me.’

‘Damn those things!’ said Bartholomew. ‘They have caused problems from the moment they were made.’

‘My predecessor had twenty years of pleasure from them,’ objected Duraunt. ‘Do not be so quick to condemn new ideas, Matthew. One day, many ancients may own devices like those, to make their final years more enjoyable.’

‘Never,’ vowed Bartholomew. ‘No one will want foreign objects in his mouth while he eats.’

‘It is a case of what you are used to,’ said Duraunt. ‘Your fat friend will not decline a set when he wears out his own and he wants to continue to devour good red meat.’

‘What happened to the tanner?’ asked Bartholomew, suspecting they could argue all day and not agree. He was angry with Duraunt for keeping something that should have been destroyed, and for lying to him about the poppy juice. He felt betrayed, but told himself that Duraunt was just a man, not a saint, and that men had human failings.

‘There,’ said Abergavenny, pointing.

Bartholomew scrambled towards him, but could see Wormynghalle was dead. There was a graze on the side of his head, where something had struck his temple. It was not a fatal wound, though: the tanner had died because the chain of his sheep’s-head pendant had caught on the cistern’s pulley and was tight around his neck. He had been stunned, then had hung unconscious while his jewellery deprived him of air. Bartholomew recalled the sharp crack before he had fallen, and glanced around uneasily, wondering whether his words about Spryngheuse’s soul had been prophetic. He was not normally given to superstition, but whatever had happened to Wormynghalle had been uncannily timed. He looked up as someone knelt next to him. It was Clippesby, with Michael looming behind him.

‘You threw me the teeth as I watched what was happening from the trees,’ Clippesby explained. ‘I knew exactly what you wanted me to do. Unfortunately, I missed Joan and hit her brother instead. You probably did not intend me to throw them quite so hard, and I am sorry I killed him.’

‘Well, I am not,’ said Michael fervently. He clapped Clippesby on the shoulder. ‘You and Matt saved us with your quick thinking.’

‘Not me,’ said Bartholomew, realising he should have guessed Clippesby was somewhere close by, doing what he did best as he listened to a conversation undetected.

‘Do not be modest,’ said Clippesby. ‘I would not have known what to do without your prompt. I was beginning to think I might have to watch you die, because I have no idea how to confront people with loaded weapons. Such folk are beyond my understanding.’

‘Well, they are not beyond mine,’ said Michael grimly. ‘And I have a feeling Joan is not finished with us yet. She will not be pleased that you killed her brother, and she knows her life as a scholar is over now. I think she will do something dreadful, to ensure she leaves academia with a flourish.’

‘What can she do?’ asked Abergavenny reasonably. ‘If she has any sense, she will jump on one of her brother’s horses and leave while she can.’

‘Polmorva took them all,’ said Clippesby. ‘I saw him tearing along Merton Lane as if the hounds of Hell were after him. He is not a brave man, and his only thoughts were for his own safety once he was free. But it means Joan cannot go anywhere, because she has no transport.’

‘Why did Polmorva run?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘He is not in league with Wormynghalle, is he?’

‘Probably because he saw at first hand the trouble murders can bring,’ replied Duraunt enigmatically.

Michael frowned. ‘What are you saying? That he has it in mind to commit one of his own?’

‘I suspect he has been put off by the chaos they cause,’ replied Duraunt, still annoyingly obtuse. He relented when he saw Michael’s stern expression, realising the time for prevarication was over. ‘You are not the only one with whom he has a feud, Matthew. I am fairly sure he had planned to put an end to the Master of Queen’s, so he could be elected in his place.’

‘Is that why you brought him here?’ asked Michael. ‘Not because you had developed a friendship with the man, but because you were hoping to prevent a crime?’

‘It worked,’ said Duraunt with a tired smile. ‘I think he will be so grateful to reach home unscathed after this escapade that he will count his blessings, and think of less permanent ways to rid himself of rivals.’

‘I do not think Joan will run away, though,’ said Bartholomew, more concerned with her than about a man he felt was beneath his contempt. ‘Scholarship was her life, and she will never be accepted into a College now. She has nothing left to live for.’

‘What do you think she will do?’ asked Michael anxiously.

‘She will want revenge, and she knows how to get it. She said she did not want the universities suppressed, because she wanted to enrol in them. But she probably thinks that if she cannot study, then others should not have that privilege, either.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Duraunt sadly. ‘That is exactly what my ambitious student would think. She will attack Cambridge – and she will succeed. Look what she did in Oxford.’

‘The Visitation!’ Michael cried in horror. ‘I was right all along. She plans to spoil the Visitation!’

‘She has the teeth, too,’ said Clippesby unhappily. ‘She grabbed them as she fled, and I was too far away to do anything about it.’

‘We must stop her,’ said Michael, seizing Bartholomew’s sleeve. The physician hesitated, worried about Duraunt’s pale face and sodden clothes.