Susanna GREGORY - The Mark of a Murderer

Michael’s expression was wry. ‘I suspect it is not as simple as that – not when men like Polmorva and Duraunt are involved.’ He overrode Bartholomew’s objection that his teacher would have nothing to do with such a plot. ‘I do not like the fact that as soon as Islip announces his intention to come here we have an invasion of Oxford men. Eight of them is a significant number.’

‘But two are dead,’ Bartholomew pointed out.

‘And the survivors include three merchants intending to solve a murder; Polmorva and Spryngheuse claiming they came for their safety; and Duraunt investigating his bailiff, despite the fact that you tell me he is the kind of man to believe good of Satan himself.’

‘Duraunt did not come for sinister purposes,’ reiterated Bartholomew firmly.

Michael shrugged. ‘Perhaps, but he is the Warden of a powerful Oxford College, and he is here. That is all I need to know at the moment. But leave him for now, and consider the others. Polmorva is the kind of fellow who enjoys feuds, while Chesterfelde made himself an enemy so bitter that he ended up dead. These Oxford men are clearly not peace-loving citizens.’

‘And the merchants?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Oxford’s burgesses hate scholars just as much as do the ones in Cambridge. Surely it would be in the interests of these three merchants to see Islip found a new College here , rather than in their own city?’

Michael’s green eyes gleamed, pleased by the prospect of a challenge that would require his wits. ‘I have been restless lately. Tynkell does everything I say, and the University is operating exactly as I want it. Michaelhouse thrives under Langelee’s surprisingly enlightened rule, and there is little for me to do there. We solved that crime involving the Mortimers and Gonville Hall recently, and since then I have been bored. Now things are looking up.’

‘Looking up?’ echoed Bartholomew, startled by his choice of words. ‘A man has been murdered.’

‘Quite,’ agreed Michael gleefully. ‘And we have clever scholars from Oxford and three cunning merchants involved. This promises to be interesting, Matt. And it will need a man like me to solve it!’

‘Then you had better do it quickly, Brother. Before Islip arrives.’

‘I shall!’ vowed Michael confidently. ‘Believe me, Matt, I shall.’

St Mary the Great was the University Church. Since it was the largest building under the academics’ control, and could accommodate huge numbers of scholars, it was used for public disputations, for when the Fellows were required to vote on issues pertaining to the running of their University, and for when they needed to resolve some of the frequent and bitter disputes that raged between its Colleges, hostels, friaries and convents. The church boasted a stalwart tower that housed their various deeds, documents and stockpiles of coins, and the Chancellor and his clerks had offices located off its aisles.

‘This really is a beautiful place,’ said Bartholomew, pausing to admire the way the sunlight poured through the windows to form delicate patterns on the newly laid chancel floor. ‘The coloured light virtually dances across the flagstones.’

Michael regarded him stonily. ‘You need a night away from your exertions with Matilde. It is not normal, talking about buildings as though they were women.’

He moved away, leaving Bartholomew too bemused to point out that the association between the church and a lady was entirely one of the monk’s own devising. He opened the door to the Chancellor’s office, and Bartholomew could not help but notice that he did not bother to knock. Tynkell was so much under Michael’s spell after his third year in office that when the monk marched into the room as if he owned it, Bartholomew half expected him to leap from his seat and offer it up.

Tynkell had not been lawfully elected to his exalted office, although few people other than Michael knew it. There had been violent objections when Tynkell had first been declared the victor, but these had gradually died away, and now people were reasonably satisfied with the way Michael ran matters. Indeed, Michael’s power was so absolute that Bartholomew had once asked why the monk did not simply declare an election and have himself voted in properly. He replied that he did not have the patience to endure the many dull civic functions that chancellors were obliged to attend – and there was the fact that while he could take the credit when things were going well, he could always stand back when they were not, and let Tynkell weather the consequences.

Tynkell was a thin man with an aversion to water that led to a problem with his personal hygiene. He doused himself liberally with scents in an attempt to disguise the fact that not so much as a drop of water ever touched his skin, with the result that his office reminded Bartholomew of a rank public latrine sited near a lavender field. Tynkell suffered from digestive ailments, which the physician insisted would ease if the man were to rinse his hands before eating. Tynkell declined to follow the advice, and that morning sat clutching his stomach with one hand while the other played nervously with a pen. He was visibly relieved when Michael entered his domain, and Bartholomew supposed the three men who were with him had been pressing him for the unthinkable: a decision.

‘This is my Senior Proctor,’ said Tynkell, ushering Michael inside. ‘And my Corpse Examiner.’

‘Corpse Examiner?’ asked one of the men. ‘What sort of post is that?’

‘One that is useful,’ replied Michael enigmatically. ‘He has examined a corpse of your own, as a matter of fact.’

‘Chesterfelde’s,’ said the man. ‘His death was a pity. He was a cheerful fellow, although he did have a habit of quoting the Bible at you in Latin. At least, that is what he said he was doing. He could have been damning us all to Hell for all I know.’

‘Why would he do that?’ asked Michael. ‘Did you harm him in some way?’

‘Of course not,’ replied the man impatiently. ‘I am trying to illustrate my point. I am a spicer, and have no time for foolery like Latin. French and English were good enough for my father, God rest his soul, and they are good enough for me.’

‘We can hardly read the Bible in French!’ exclaimed Tynkell, shocked. ‘We are at war with France, and it would be an odd thing to do, anyway. Latin is the only tongue for sacred texts – and for proper academic discourse.’

‘Allow us to introduce ourselves again, Brother,’ said another of the trio, interrupting the spicer’s tirade. He spoke with the soft lilt of a man from Wales. ‘I am William of Abergavenny, burgess of Oxford and Master of the Guild of Saints.’ He indicated the spicer, who sat on his left. ‘This is Philip Eu, also a burgess and a past Mayor. And finally, this is Thomas Wormynghalle.’

The absence of any reference to title or claim to fame did not escape Wormynghalle’s notice, just as it did not the scholars’, and Bartholomew immediately sensed there was tension between the three merchants.

‘I will be Mayor next year,’ snapped Wormynghalle, shooting Abergavenny an unpleasant glance, ‘and I was elected a burgess in January. It is about time Oxford had a tanner as Mayor. It is just as respectable a trade as spicery or wine-selling.’

As he gazed challengingly at his companions, Bartholomew took the opportunity to study them. Abergavenny was black-haired and fair-faced, like many Celts, and his eyes held a humorous glint, as if he found much of what he saw amusing. His cloak was embroidered with a tiny vine motif, and Bartholomew surmised that he was a vintner. Eu was tall and thin, and spoke English with a thick French accent. The inflexion was inconsistent, and Bartholomew suspected English was his mother tongue, but that he liked to emphasise the fact that he hailed from old Norman stock. There was a carving of a nutmeg on his ring, which was exquisitely made and a symbol of tastefully understated wealth.