Susanna GREGORY: The Mark of a Murderer

‘Lord!’ muttered Michael. ‘That thing certainly travels! It is almost as though it is cursed, and can only stay with one owner for a few days. I wonder where it is now.’

‘Nowhere,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘It no longer exists, because Langelee had it melted down to pay for our new gutters.’

‘Eudo was innocent of the thefts, just as he claimed,’ said Clippesby. ‘He did not steal the astrolabe. He did not take the silver dog, either – Edwardus saw Wolf do that, when he visited Matilde to beg a remedy for his lover’s female pains.’

‘Why did Eudo try to kill us at the cistern, then?’ demanded Michael. ‘It was nothing to do with the fact that Hamecotes was there, either, because he knew nothing about that.’

‘Because Matt found Chesterfelde’s blood. It was wretched bad luck for Eudo and Boltone that Wolf used the well for his hoard, and that the Wormynghalles used it for Hamecotes.’

‘And that is an odd coincidence, too,’ remarked Michael.

‘Not really,’ replied Clippesby. ‘The Merton Hall hens told me that Wolf gave Joan the idea: she saw him use the pit for his treasure when she was visiting her brother, so she did likewise with an inconvenient corpse. Wolf had fled Cambridge because of Dodenho’s accusations, and it was doubtful whether he would return. Eudo just chose a remarkably bad week to mend the pulley – the pulley that was broken by Wolf’s excessive use of it.’

‘I still do not understand why Eudo tried to kill me with a spade, though,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Was it because I was the one who found Chesterfelde’s blood?’

‘The answer is there,’ said Clippesby. ‘You just need to review the evidence. First, as I have told you, Polmorva gave Eudo the astrolabe in return for a favour . Second, Eudo mentioned that Polmorva witnessed him dumping Chesterfelde’s body in the hall, but agreed to remain quiet in return for a favour . And third, Polmorva ran away very quickly when we all escaped from Joan and her brother.’

‘He did not even stop to see if anyone needed his help,’ said Michael.

‘He had good reason. Duraunt thwarted him over the murder he wanted to commit in Oxford, so he intended to try his hand at another instead. I heard the entire transaction, as I told you. Polmorva hired Eudo to murder you, Matt – for old times’ sake.’

‘Lord!’ breathed Michael, appalled. ‘He may come back and try again.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Clippesby soberly. ‘He might.’

The following morning, when dawn heralded the start of another glorious sun-filled day, a small cart clattered along the tangled lanes of the Jewry and headed for the High Street. It was still early, and the wispy clouds were not yet tinged with the sun’s golden touch, although the birds were awake and sang loud and shrill along the empty streets. Folk were beginning to stir, and the air was full of smoke as people lit fires to heat ale and breakfast pottage. Bells announced the office of prime, and here and there neat lines of scholars and friars made their way to the churches for their devotions.

Matilde urged her horse to trot a little faster, not wanting to meet the men of Michaelhouse, but the cart was heavy – it was loaded with all her possessions and the beast was not able to move as briskly as she would have liked. She passed King’s Hall with its magnificent gatehouse, and ducked inside her hood when she saw Paxtone, Norton and Dodenho emerge, and walk to St Mary the Great together. They did not so much as glance at the cart and its single occupant, but she kept her face averted anyway. Then she passed sturdy St Michael’s, and her eyes misted with tears. She glanced down St Michael’s Lane and saw Langelee striding along it, his scholars streaming at his heels as he led his daily procession. Matilde could not see whether Bartholomew was among them because her tears were blinding her.

She reached the Trumpington Gate and passed a coin to the man on duty, knowing he would barely acknowledge her. Guards were trained to watch who came into the town, but they did not care who left it. He waved his hand to indicate she could go, and she flicked the reins to urge her horse into a trot, wanting to put as much distance between her and Cambridge as she could before any of her friends realised she had gone.

Matilde was going to Norwich, where she had a distant cousin. The Guild of Frail Sisters would survive without her, and she longed for the respectability that she knew she would never have in Cambridge. Folk had too readily believed she was the kind of woman to entertain men in her house all night, and she wanted something better. In Norwich she could begin another existence, where she would be staid and decent, and honoured by all. She would be courted by upright men, one of whom she would eventually choose as a husband. After all, she could not wait for ever for the man she really loved, and it was clear he was never going to ask her to be his wife.

She did not look back as her cart rattled along the road that led to the future. She would not have seen anything if she had, with hot tears scalding her eyes. She did not hear the birdsong of an early summer morning, and she did not notice the clusters of white and pink blossom that adorned the green hedgerows. She wondered whether she would ever take pleasure in such things again.

When the service at St Michael’s had finished, Clippesby nodded encouragingly to Bartholomew, who grinned back and slipped out of the procession to head for the Jewry. He heard the birds singing, and saw the delicate clouds in the sky, and his heart felt ready to burst with happiness. He was going to see Matilde, and it was the first day of his new life.