Susanna GREGORY - The Mark of a Murderer

Michael nodded slowly. ‘We shall have to ask Boltone or Eudo whether they provided their guests with something more than wine.’

Bartholomew was silent for a moment, while he organised his thoughts. ‘I do not think Chesterfelde died in the hall. There would have been a lot of blood, and Duraunt and the others would definitely have woken up had someone started to scrub the floor in the middle of the night – sedated or otherwise. I think he must have been killed elsewhere.’

‘We shall have a good look around Merton Hall and its grounds later,’ promised Michael. ‘If as much blood was spilled as you say, then it will not be hard to find out where this foul deed took place. We can also search for stained clothing – his killer should be drenched in the stuff.’

‘Not necessarily. He may have slashed Chesterfelde’s wrist, then stood back. But it is worth looking, I suppose.’ Bartholomew gave a sudden, uncharacteristically malicious grin. ‘It will definitely be worthwhile if we discover something incriminating among Polmorva’s belongings.’

The town was busy by the time Bartholomew and Michael reached the High Street and started to walk to St Mary the Great, where Chancellor Tynkell had his office. People were out, enjoying the Feast of Pentecost before work began again the following morning. Merchants rode in carts drawn by sleek ponies or strutted in their Sunday finery, displaying to their colleagues that they were men of influence, who could afford the finest boots, the best cloth for their cloaks, and the richest jewellery for their wives and daughters. Apprentices gathered in gangs, yelling insults to passing students in the hope of goading them into a fight, while Michael’s beadles patrolled the streets, alert for any scholar who might be tempted to respond.

Even the poor were out in force, spending carefully hoarded pennies on jugs of strong church ale or the aromatic pies sold illegally – Sunday trading was an offence punishable with a heavy fine – by Constantine Mortimer the baker. Entertainers had flooded into the town, too, ready to take advantage of the holiday spirit among the townsfolk. Troops of jugglers vied for attention with singers and fire-eaters in the Market Square, although only the very best could compete with the threadbare bear that danced an ungainly jig in the graveyard of St Mary the Great. It revealed broken yellow fangs as it scanned the fascinated spectators with its tiny, malevolent eyes, and gave the impression that it would dearly love to maul someone.

The atmosphere was generally amiable, although Bartholomew did not like the way the townsmen congregated in sizeable gaggles to savour their ale, or the fact that students from various Colleges and hostels tended to form distinct bands. He knew from experience that it took very little to spark off a riot – as Oxford had learned that February – and large gatherings of men with access to strong drink was often more than enough.

He considered the pending Visitation, and hoped the town would be peaceful when the Archbishop arrived. Simon Islip was deeply concerned about the number of clerics who had died during the plague, and had made it known that he intended to establish a new College for the training of replacements. He had studied in Oxford himself, and most people thought he would build it there, but every Cambridge scholar was united in the hope that he might be persuaded to change his mind. It was therefore imperative that he should find a town that was strife-free, clean and peaceful, filled with industrious, law-abiding scholars – and with townsmen who would welcome another academic foundation. Bartholomew thought uneasily of Chesterfelde’s death, and three merchants intent on investigating a murder, and prayed they would not spoil Cambridge’s chances of winning Islip’s patronage.

Then his mind drifted to the St Scholastica’s Day riot in Oxford, and he wondered whether the wanton destruction and indiscriminate killing would encourage Islip to look more favourably on Cambridge. Both towns and their universities were notoriously unstable, and fights were commonplace, despite Cambridge’s current attempts to pretend they were not. It occurred to him that Oxford’s disturbances must have been particularly serious, if they had encouraged ambitious and scheming men like Polmorva to abandon their homes. He said as much to Michael.

‘It was the most devastating incident Oxford has ever known,’ replied Michael gravely. ‘Did you not pay attention when I told you about it? We had the news four months ago, and I remember very clearly regaling you with details. I thought you seemed distant at the time, and now I see why: you were not listening.’

‘I am sure I was,’ said Bartholomew. He vaguely recalled the conversation, but it had been about the time when Clippesby had taken a turn for the worse and, as his physician, Bartholomew had been more concerned with him than with Michael’s gossip about a fracas in a distant city.

‘Well, I am sure you were not,’ retorted Michael. ‘Or we would not be having this discussion now. The riot started when scholars began an argument over wine in a tavern called Swindlestock.’

‘I know it,’ said Bartholomew with a smile. ‘I have done battle in it myself – against Polmorva, in fact, when he referred to Merton as a “house of fools”. The landlord threw us into the street, and told us to take our quarrels to University property, and leave his alone.’

‘Well, he was not so fortunate this time. He was hit over the head with a jug. His patrons came to his defence, and the scholars were obliged to take up arms to protect themselves. And then everything flew out of control. The townsfolk also grabbed weapons, and the Mayor urged them to slaughter every student they could find, so Oxford would be rid of the curse of academia once and for all.’

‘I doubt he did any such thing! There are thousands of clerks in Oxford and he could not possibly hope to dispatch them all. Your version of events came from a scholar with a grudge against the town, Brother.’

‘My “version of events” came from Chancellor Brouweon himself, in his official report to Tynkell,’ argued Michael. ‘The fighting continued into the next day, and only stopped when every scholar had been killed, wounded or driven from the city. Eventually, the Sheriff managed to impose calm and the King was informed. Four days later, all privileges and charters were suspended and the whole city was placed under interdict.’

‘The whole city?’ Bartholomew was astounded: these were Draconian measures. ‘When was this interdict revoked?’

Michael nodded in satisfaction. ‘You see? You did not listen back in February, or you would not be asking me this. You would have remembered that the University was pardoned and encouraged to resume its studies almost immediately, but that the town remains under interdict to this day.’

‘Still?’ asked Bartholomew in horror. ‘But that means the functions of the Church are suspended: no masses can be said, no townsman can have a Christian burial, his children cannot be baptised–’

‘I know what an interdict is. And Oxford’s looks set to remain in force for some time yet.’

‘I suppose this is good for us, though,’ said Bartholomew thoughtfully. ‘I cannot see Islip founding a College in a city under interdict.’

‘No,’ agreed Michael. ‘However, he will not build one in a town rife with unsolved murders, either – which is possibly what someone is hoping. So, I intend to have Chesterfelde’s killer in my prison before Islip arrives.’

‘You think Chesterfelde was killed to harm Cambridge’s chances with the Archbishop?’ Bartholomew was unconvinced. ‘It seems a drastic step, and not one that will necessarily work – especially if you discover that Polmorva is the culprit. Exposing an Oxford scholar as a murderer will only serve to make our case stronger, and theirs weaker.’