Susanna GREGORY - The Mark of a Murderer

Bartholomew was thorough. He did not like the idea of a man being murdered in the same room as six other people, and no one noticing. He also felt there was more to the case than either Duraunt or Polmorva had led them to believe. Seeing Polmorva again reminded him of how much he had detested the man, and he admitted to himself that at least some of his attention to detail was in the hope that he would discover something that would incriminate him.

‘Whoever stabbed Chesterfelde did so after he was dead,’ he said eventually, sitting back on his heels and looking up at Michael. ‘No dagger killed this man.’

Astonishment flashed in Michael’s eyes, but was quickly suppressed; he did not want to appear at a loss in front of men from Oxford. ‘Matt is good at this kind of thing,’ he said, rather boastfully. ‘It is why we always – always – solve any crimes that are committed here. If a man has been killed in Cambridge, then you can trust us to bring his murderer to justice.’

‘I am glad he is useful,’ said Duraunt, although distaste was clear in his voice. ‘But what do you mean, Matthew? Of course he died from being stabbed. Look at the knife buried in his back!’

‘But there is very little blood. His clothes would have been drenched in it had the dagger killed him, and you can see they are not. This wound was inflicted after he died.’

‘Someone stabbed a corpse?’ asked Polmorva in a tone that suggested he thought the physician was wrong. ‘Why would anyone do that?’

‘I have no idea,’ said Bartholomew. He pointed to a ragged gash in Chesterfelde’s wrist. ‘But this is the injury that caused him to bleed to death.’

When Bartholomew had finished his examination of the dead scholar, he and Michael left Merton Hall. Duraunt was troubled, and urged Michael to solve the murder as quickly as possible. Polmorva informed the monk that there was nothing to solve, and that Chesterfelde had been killed by Bailiff Boltone or the tenant Eudo, claiming they must have mistaken him for Duraunt in the dark – Duraunt had come to expose their dishonesty, and it was obvious they had reacted to the threat he posed. Unfortunately for Chesterfelde, in the unlit room and with so many men sleeping, an error was made.

‘Duraunt seems decent, but Polmorva is an ass,’ declared Michael, as he and Bartholomew walked down Bridge Street. The monk was alarmed by the notion that three merchants planned to conduct their own murder enquiry in his town, and hoped to interrupt their meeting with the Chancellor before he granted them the requisite permission. The last thing he needed with the Archbishop’s Visitation looming was burgesses asking scholars if they had committed a savage crime. It would bring about a fight between town and University for certain.

‘Duraunt is a good man,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘However, Boltone and Eudo have little to fear from an investigation into these alleged accounting irregularities: if Boltone says they made an honest mistake, Duraunt will believe him. Boltone no doubt knows this, which is why he seems unconcerned. However, if Duraunt recruits Polmorva, then Boltone will be in trouble: Polmorva will see him dismissed – or worse – on the most tenuous of evidence. Duraunt may be keen to see the good in people, but Polmorva always looks for the worst.’

‘I do not understand why Duraunt should invite Polmorva to travel with him in the first place. Gentle men do not choose that sort of company without a compelling reason.’

Bartholomew shrugged. ‘I imagine Polmorva heard that Duraunt planned to leave Oxford, and seized an opportunity to escape the turmoil for a few weeks.’

‘I would love to discover that Polmorva killed Chesterfelde. I do not like his sneering smile or his condescending manners. But tell me about this feud of yours. You clearly detest each other, and since it is unlike you to harbour such feelings over two decades, it must have been a serious quarrel you had.’

‘It was a long time ago,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘It hardly matters now.’

Michael gave a derisive snort. ‘That was not how it appeared to me! If Duraunt had not been there, you would have been at each other like fighting cocks.’

‘It sounds ridiculous now,’ said Bartholomew, smiling ruefully. ‘But it started with those teeth Duraunt mentioned. Polmorva designed them, and hired them out to edentulous monks so they could eat the same amount of meat as their fully fanged colleagues. Obviously, metal teeth are not as good as real ones, and several monks became ill – partly because they were swallowing food that was not properly chewed, and partly because the wretched things were used communally.’

Michael started to laugh. ‘They shared them – passed them around like a jug of wine?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘And they did not clean them, so contagions passed from one to another. I was young and insensitive, and informed the monks that they owed their resulting sicknesses to greed, because they ate fine foods after God and Nature had decided it was time for them to stop.’

Michael regarded him with round eyes. ‘You said that? Do you not think it was a little sanctimonious? It is not for some student to tell an old man what he can or cannot eat.’

Bartholomew winced. ‘As I said, I was young.’

‘And this is why you and Polmorva are at loggerheads?’ asked Michael, thinking it ludicrously petty. ‘He invented some teeth and you denounced them?’

‘Eventually, a monk died. I accused Polmorva of bringing about the fatality and he objected. Once the gauntlet was down all manner of quarrels and fights followed. But then I left Oxford and that was the end of it.’

‘Until now,’ mused Michael. ‘Is that why you went to Paris, instead of continuing your studies at Oxford? You wanted to escape from Polmorva?’

‘He was one factor,’ admitted Bartholomew. ‘But the chief reason was that I wanted to study with an Arab physician – their medicine is so much more advanced than our own. Paris had such a master, Oxford did not.’

Michael thought about what he had been told. ‘You are right; your feud is ridiculous – although, having met the man I can see why you fell out. But he will be gone soon, and you can forget about him again.’

‘Not if we find him guilty of Chesterfelde’s murder.’

‘There are other suspects – Boltone and Eudo for a start, although it would be galling to admit that Polmorva is right. So, what can you tell me about Chesterfelde? Are you sure that small wound on his wrist was the fatal one, and not the huge hole in his back? I did not want to question you in front of Polmorva, but I confess I am unconvinced.’

‘Chesterfelde’s sleeve was bloodstained, and the fact that the injury bled so profusely means he was alive when it was inflicted. However, the comparative lack of blood seeping from his back indicates he was dead when that happened. There is only one conclusion: his wrist was slashed, bringing about death by exsanguination, and the wound in his back was added later – to his corpse.’

‘You also said there were no other marks on his body – no bruises and no indication that he struggled. Why would he allow his wrist to be sliced, and then do nothing while he bled to death?’

‘Perhaps he was drunk. I doubt it was something that happened in his sleep, because it would have hurt enough to wake him up – unless he was fed some sort of soporific, I suppose.’

‘A soporific would explain why Duraunt slept through the incident, too,’ mused Michael. ‘He said he is usually a light sleeper.’

‘That means the entire party from Oxford – all four scholars and the three merchants – was dosed. They all claim to have slept through whatever happened last night.’