Susanna GREGORY - The Mark of a Murderer

‘Teeth polishing will not bother Islip,’ said Tulyet disapprovingly. ‘He does it himself. How is Clippesby, by the way? Still ailing?’

‘I plan to visit him today,’ replied Bartholomew, ‘and hope to find him a little recovered.’

‘You had better find him more than “a little recovered”,’ said Michael testily. ‘I cannot imagine why you have so suddenly decided he is unfit to teach. He has always been insane, and it has never bothered you before. I do not know how much longer I can teach his classes – I know nothing of musical theory and I am not interested in learning. So, either declare him well and reinstate him, or declare him irrecoverably mad, so we can hire someone in his place.’

‘Soon,’ promised Bartholomew. ‘Give him time. He has been gone only a few days.’

‘Since Ascension Day,’ said Michael, aggrieved. ‘ Ten days. I know, because that was when Langelee so blithely ordered me to teach a subject I have never studied. Does he think we are King’s Hall, with no standards?’

‘King’s Hall?’ asked Tulyet. ‘You criticise their teaching practices? I thought most of its scholars were men destined for high ranks within the Church or the King’s Court.’

‘Quite,’ muttered Michael venomously. ‘I met one Fellow last week who knew no Latin. None at all! I was obliged to speak to him in French, for God’s sake! And there are others who do not know the most rudimentary aspects of the Trivium. It must be like teaching children!’

Tulyet bade them farewell when he reached his house. Even from the street, Bartholomew could hear the excited screeches of his son Dickon as he played some boisterous – and probably violent – game with the Sheriff’s long-suffering servants, and did not miss Tulyet’s grimace of anticipation as he knocked on the door to be allowed in. It could not be left open for people to come and go as they pleased, because Dickon would be out in a trice, and his parents were afraid he would come to harm. From what Bartholomew had seen of Dickon’s developing personality over the past few months, he was not entirely sure it would be a tragedy. Michael grinned as they walked on alone.

‘Poor Dick! That is the only child he will ever sire – within his marriage, at least – and the boy is a monster. How did it happen, do you think? William believes the Devil slipped into his bedchamber and fathered the brat. Dickon is so unlike his parents that I cannot help but think he may be right.’

An ear-shattering scream of delight followed them as Dickon greeted his father. Several people jumped in alarm, while those who knew Dickon shook their heads in mute disgust. Bartholomew walked a little more quickly, in case the boy spotted him through a window and demanded a visit, setting a pace that had Michael gasping for breath. They crossed the Great Bridge, where there was no sign of anyone thinking of self-murder, and turned along Merton Lane. For the second time that day, Michael hammered on the door. As before, it was answered by the pale-headed bailiff.

‘Now what? The body has been taken to the church, and everyone else is out.’

‘Good,’ said Michael, pushing his way inside. ‘That will make our task here all the easier. And I want a word with you anyway. Where were you when Chesterfelde died?’

‘Why?’ asked Boltone, looking shifty. ‘What does that have to do with you?’

‘Just answer the question,’ snapped Michael.

‘I was asleep,’ replied Boltone. ‘It is common knowledge that Chesterfelde died between after the curfew bell at eight and before dawn. I was asleep all that time, and so was Eudo.’

‘Eudo?’ asked Bartholomew. He sensed he should know the name, but his tired mind refused to yield the information.

‘Eudo of Helpryngham,’ said Boltone impatiently. ‘He rents the manor from Merton College – I told you about him earlier. He and I sleep in the solar, while the scholars have the hall.’

‘Were the scholars alone last night?’ asked Michael. ‘Or did they entertain guests?’

‘They might have done,’ replied Boltone unhelpfully. ‘I went to bed immediately after the curfew, so I have no idea what they did. I am a heavy sleeper. I snore, too, and Eudo always wraps a cloth around his ears to block my noise, so neither of us heard what that miserable rabble were doing.’

‘What happened after you retired at eight?’

‘I heard nothing until the cockerel crowed before dawn. When I went to wake the Oxford men for their breakfast, there was Chesterfelde with a knife in his back. It was my yell of horror that roused the others from their slumbers.’

‘They were all there?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Three surviving scholars and three merchants?’

‘Yes,’ replied Boltone. ‘But I cannot say whether they were all there the whole night. Sometimes they debate and argue, and keep me awake, but I was exhausted yesterday, and I heard nothing.’

‘Argue?’ pounced Michael. ‘You mean they antagonise each other?’

Boltone shrugged. ‘Sometimes. Polmorva called Spryngheuse a sludge-brained pedant last week, and Chesterfelde responded by referring to him as a slippery-tongued viper. But I am busy today: Duraunt accused me of being dishonest in my accounting, so I have to prove him wrong. Do you want anything else, or can I go?’

‘Go,’ said Michael. ‘We only want to inspect the hall again.’

‘All right,’ said Boltone. ‘But do not touch any of the scholars’ belongings, or they will accuse me of doing it.’

Michael and Bartholomew climbed the stairs to the hall. The room was much as it had been the last time they were there. Straw mattresses were stored on one side, ready to be used again that night, and blankets were rolled on top of them. The trestle tables employed for meals had been stacked away, and only the benches left out, so there would be somewhere to sit when the visitors returned. The window shutters had been thrown open to allow the hall to air, and the fire Duraunt had enjoyed earlier had burned out – the day was warm and heating unnecessary, even for chilly old men.

‘Right,’ said Michael, rubbing his hands. ‘Do you want to go through these saddlebags for stained clothes, or keep watch to make sure no one catches us?’

‘You just told Boltone you would not touch anything.’

‘I lied,’ said Michael carelessly. ‘It comes from dealing with the likes of Abergavenny and Polmorva. Well? Hurry up and decide, or they will be back before we have started.’

‘You do it,’ said Bartholomew distastefully. ‘I will make sure no one comes.’

While Michael rummaged through the visitors’ bags, Bartholomew sat on a windowsill and struggled to stay alert. The sun was warm on his face, and he felt pleasantly relaxed. When Michael spoke, he started awake. For a moment, he did not know where he was, and gazed around him, blinking stupidly.

‘I see my integrity is safe under your vigilant care,’ remarked Michael caustically. ‘You really do need a good night’s sleep, Matt. Now I cannot even trust you to keep watch while I ransack people’s belongings. What would we have said if they had caught us?’

‘That they are all suspects until you have Chesterfelde’s killer under lock and key,’ replied Bartholomew, rubbing his eyes as he stood. ‘Duraunt will not object, but Polmorva will, which would be satisfying. Well? Did you find his clothes drenched in gore?’

‘No,’ said Michael in disgust. ‘Not so much as a spot. There are a few drips on the floor where we found the body, but that is not surprising. I found this in Duraunt’s bag, but it cannot have any relevance, given that no one has been poisoned.’ He handed Bartholomew a tiny phial.

The physician took it carefully, knowing that small pots often contained fairly powerful substances. This one was no exception, and it released the pungent odour of concentrated poppy juice when he lifted it to his nose. He recoiled. ‘There is enough soporific here to put half the University to sleep!’