Susanna GREGORY - The Mark of a Murderer

The warmth of the day, combined with the relaxed atmosphere of a Sunday and several nights of interrupted sleep, made Bartholomew drowsy. He knew he would be unable to concentrate on reading that afternoon, so did not mind when Michael suggested they return to Merton Hall to search for stained clothing and the place where Chesterfelde had died. Tulyet walked with them, heading for his house on Bridge Street, where he lived with his wife and their hellion son, Dickon.

‘I am not sure it was a good idea to volunteer to find their killer,’ said Bartholomew, watching a group of children play with a discarded cartwheel. Their shrill, excited voices drew disapproving glances from a group of Carmelite friars, who were chanting a psalm as they walked to their friary.

‘I had no choice,’ said Michael, turning a flabby white face to the sky, relishing the sun’s caressing rays. ‘What a trio! They would have Cambridge in flames within a day.’

‘I agree,’ said Tulyet. ‘They care nothing for our town, and want only to give this vengeful widow someone to hang. Eu, who is the most dangerous of the three, is not a reasonable man.’

‘You think Eu was the worst?’ asked Michael in surprise. ‘I had the Welshman marked as the villain. He pretends to be amiable, but he manipulates the others like puppets.’

‘The tanner was the one I did not like,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He is desperate to be accepted by ancient and respected families, and I think he will do anything to prove himself worthy. He is also determined to have himself elected Mayor. It would not surprise me to learn that he had engineered this whole business of avenging Gonerby, just to show voters his mettle.’

‘He is not clever enough,’ argued Tulyet. ‘But Eu is cunning. I am from an old Norman family myself, and I recognise his kind. You mark my words: if Michael does not hand him a culprit in a week, it will be Eu who selects a victim.’

‘We shall have to agree to differ,’ said Michael, ‘because you are both wrong. But it is a strange business that brings them here. Hundreds of folk died in the St Scholastica’s Day riots, and I find it difficult to believe that these men travelled all this way to investigate one death. Perhaps they instigated the disorder themselves, for reasons we have yet to fathom.’

‘Actually, scholars were responsible for that,’ said Tulyet. ‘I had a letter from the Mayor, and he said it was all the fault of the students – a fight started over wine in a tavern.’

‘A Mayor would say that,’ declared Michael disparagingly. ‘I heard the whole thing began with a quarrel over claret, too, but it was townsmen who took it to its bloody conclusion.’

‘There was a sinister set of coincidences in the chain of events that led to the trouble,’ mused Bartholomew, thinking about what Michael had told him. ‘First, weapons were readily available – for scholars and townsfolk alike. And second, alarm bells sounded very quickly after the initial squabble in the Swindlestock Tavern. It was almost as if someone was fanning the spark of an insignificant incident, to ensure it caught and ignited the rest of the city.’

‘Do you think it had something to do with the death of Gonerby?’ asked Tulyet. ‘It would explain why these merchants are so determined to have his killer. The fellow also left their town in ashes.’

‘If that is true, then you are putting yourself in considerable danger,’ said Bartholomew to Michael. ‘Eu capitulated very quickly when you refused him permission to investigate: he was glad to see someone else take the risks.’

Michael waved a dismissive hand. ‘I am more than a match for anyone from Oxford. However, the real reason Eu gave way so readily was that he and his cronies have no intention of obeying my orders. They plan to make their enquiries, regardless. I read it in the Welshman’s eyes.’

Tulyet agreed. ‘I will set a sergeant to follow them, and ensure they do not cause trouble. I would just as soon lock them up until the Archbishop has gone, but I do not think we can get away with it – not with prosperous merchants. Our own burgesses would claim I had overstepped my authority, and they would be right. But we may be worrying over nothing: there are hundreds of scholars in Cambridge, and any one of them could be this killer. Our merchants will never identify their man.’

‘Not so,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘Most of our students were here on the tenth day of February, keeping University term. There will not be many who were away.’

‘That is easy to find out,’ said Michael. ‘Any scholar wanting to leave during term must apply in writing for permission, so his request will be documented. Of course, the murderer may be an Oxford man who is visiting us for a few weeks – but we have lists of those, too. So if Gonerby’s killer really is an academic who was in Oxford in February, and who then came here, he will not be difficult to identify.’

Tulyet began to tell Michael about the arrangements the town was making to entertain the Archbishop, and Bartholomew listened with half his attention; the rest was engaged in a sluggish contemplation of the lurid pink wash that adorned the home of the town’s surgeon. The guilds had united to organise a splendid feast, Tulyet was saying, while public buildings and the Market Square were being cleaned. The Sheriff pointed out the parallel drains that ran along the High Street, and declared proudly that they had never been so empty. Bartholomew knew this perfectly well: he had been summoned to tend several people who had been taken unawares by the sudden appearance of deep trenches in Cambridge’s main thoroughfares, and had fallen down them. Tulyet had also raised funds to pay for additional dung collections, and the High Street was oddly bereft of the odorous piles that usually graced it. People with horses had been ordered to remove what their animals left behind, and the public latrine pits had been emptied. Bartholomew thought it a pity the improvements would last only as long as the Visitation was under way. As soon as Islip departed, business would be back to normal, and Cambridge would revert to its usual vile, stinking state.

‘And I do not want any lepers hanging around,’ Tulyet said sternly to Bartholomew, as if the physician was in a position to oblige. ‘They are invited to a special service in St Clement’s Church, where they will receive Islip’s blessing, but then they will make themselves scarce.’

‘Right,’ said Bartholomew, tiredness making him uncharacteristically caustic. ‘We do not want sloughed fingers and noses littering our clean streets, do we?’

‘No, we do not,’ agreed Tulyet, equally tart. He turned to Michael. ‘And you can make sure he has a good night’s sleep. I do not want him snapping at Islip, because he is overly weary.’

‘He will not listen to me,’ said Michael. ‘Nor am I bold enough to prise my way between a man and his paramour.’

‘Now, just a moment,’ began Bartholomew indignantly. ‘I do not–’

Tulyet cut across him. ‘Rougham is away in Norfolk, so you must be ready should the Archbishop require a physician. I know you are busy, with Clippesby indisposed, but it cannot be helped. You are better than Lynton of Peterhouse and Paxtone of King’s Hall, and I want you to tend Islip, should the occasion arise. It is our duty to ensure he has the absolute best we can offer – of everything.’

‘I am surprised Rougham has chosen now to leave for a family reunion,’ said Michael conversationally. ‘He is an ambitious man, and I would have thought he would be here, showing off to important people. Still, he has a nasty habit of polishing his teeth on his sleeve after formal dinners – presumably to improve the quality of his smile – so perhaps it is just as well he is gone.’