Susanna GREGORY - The Mark of a Murderer

Michael regarded it thoughtfully. ‘And it is partly empty, which means some of it has been used. Is there enough missing to make half a dozen merchants and scholars doze through a murder?’

Bartholomew inspected the vial. ‘Yes, but Duraunt is not your culprit. He was appalled by the murder, and he is a kind, gentle man.’

‘So you said earlier,’ said Michael. ‘But people change, and you have not seen him for years. Who knows what he might have become in the interim?’

Bartholomew had a better explanation. ‘Polmorva is not beyond hiding something incriminating among another man’s possessions. He did it to me once, and almost had me convicted of theft. I only just managed to hurl them out of the window, before my chest was searched.’

‘Them?’

‘Those teeth – the ones he made for the Benedictines. He claimed they had been stolen and accused me of taking them. When I went to my room, there they were, hidden under a book.’

‘How do you know it was he who put them there?’

‘The servants saw him. But this is getting us nowhere. Put the phial back where you found it, Brother. We can ask Polmorva and Duraunt about it later.’

‘No,’ said Michael, slipping the bottle into his scrip. ‘I do not want a potentially toxic substance in the hands of my suspects. I shall keep it, and we will know to whom it belongs when its disappearance is reported.’

‘That is dangerous,’ warned Bartholomew uncomfortably. ‘Boltone knows you have been here. It will not look good for the Senior Proctor to be on the wrong end of a charge of theft.’

‘I shall deny it,’ said Michael. He walked towards the solar. ‘Since we are here, we may as well be thorough. We should see whether Boltone and Eudo own stained clothes, too.’

The solar was far less tidy than the hall, and was strewn with bedding and discarded clothes. Filthy shirts sat in a pile in one corner, where they were evidently picked through to be worn again on subsequent occasions, while boots and shoes lay where they had been cast off. Two smelly dogs lounged in a shaft of sunlight from the open window, and watched with uninterest as Michael began to sift through the mess. Bartholomew remained by the door, standing so he would not fall asleep again.

‘There is nothing here, either,’ said Michael. He wiped his hands on his habit in distaste. ‘Eudo and Boltone live like pigs! I am not surprised Duraunt declined to wrest the solar away from them.’

‘Someone is coming!’ said Bartholomew urgently, hearing footsteps on the stairs. ‘Come into the hall and pretend to inspect the blood where the body was found.’

Michael had only just reached the place and leaned down to look where Bartholomew was pointing before the door was flung open. The man who stood there was tall, and Bartholomew supposed he was handsome, although there was something in his arrogant demeanour that was highly unattractive. His dark brown hair was long and wavy, and his blue eyes were surrounded by dark lashes, giving him the appearance of a foreigner, although his clothes were solidly English, with none of the cosmopolitan fripperies flaunted by many men of substance.

‘Who are you?’ he demanded, hands on hips as he regarded the scholars imperiously. ‘And what are you doing here?’

Michael straightened, irked by the man’s manner. ‘Senior Proctor, investigating the murder of Roger de Chesterfelde.’

‘He smiled a lot,’ said the man, making it sound sinister. ‘And he cited a good deal of Latin – not that those stupid merchants could understand him. Unlike me. I attended the King’s School when I was a boy, and I can read.’ He drew himself up to his full height and looked as if he expected them to be impressed.

‘I imagine reading will be helpful to the man who rents this manor,’ said Michael evenly. He had surmised that the man was Merton’s tenant, Eudo of Helpryngham.

‘Actually, no,’ replied Eudo. ‘If there is any reading to be done, Boltone does it. I prefer to be outside, with the sun on my face and fresh air in my lungs.’

‘I am not surprised,’ said Michael, casting a significant glance at the squalor of the solar. ‘What do you know about Chesterfelde’s death?’

‘Nothing,’ replied Eudo. ‘I was at the King’s Head last night, and then I came here. I was drunk and heard nothing at all – not even Boltone’s infernal snoring. I probably downed seven or eight jugs of ale.’ He looked as if he was fishing for compliments, in the same way that Bartholomew’s younger undergraduates bragged about the amounts of wine they could consume without being sick. But Eudo was in his thirties, and should have grown out of such foolishness.

‘You have hurt yourself,’ said Bartholomew, pointing to a crude bandage that adorned Eudo’s left arm. ‘What happened?’

‘I probably fell over when I was staggering home last night. You are a physician, are you not? Tend it for me. It is very sore.’

Without waiting for Bartholomew’s consent, Eudo unravelled the dressing to reveal an injury on the inside of his forearm that was no more than a scratch. It was slight enough to have been caused by brambles or even a cat, and the reams of material enveloping it were far in excess of what was needed. Despite its superficial nature, Eudo grimaced and sucked in his breath when Bartholomew examined it.

‘You do not need to keep it wrapped,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I will smear it with salve, but the best thing would be to leave it open to the air. It will heal more quickly.’

‘It is a serious injury,’ declared Eudo, watching Bartholomew apply a balm of woundwort and hog’s grease. ‘Besides, I told Boltone I was too sick to work, and he will think I am malingering if he sees me without a bandage. Put it on again.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew, replacing the salve in his bag. ‘It will not heal if you keep it covered. Besides, you are malingering if you claim it is stopping you from working.’

Eudo’s handsome face creased into a scowl as he bound the afflicted limb himself. ‘You are no good. Doctor Rougham would have ordered me to spend a week in bed and buy half an apothecary’s shop in poultices and purges, but he is away at the moment, more is the pity. Still, it has saved me money, because I am not paying you for bad advice and a smear of pig oil.’

‘So, you can tell us nothing about Chesterfelde’s murder?’ asked Michael, seeing Bartholomew about to take issue. ‘You saw and heard nothing?’

‘No,’ said Eudo proudly. ‘Not with nine jugs of ale inside me.’

‘You said seven or eight.’ Bartholomew pounced.

‘Did I?’ asked Eudo carelessly. ‘It was a lot. Probably nearer ten.’

‘I wish it had been twenty,’ muttered Bartholomew in an undertone. ‘That would have wiped the smile off your face this morning.’

Bartholomew and Michael left Merton Hall and began to walk towards their College. On the way they met Duraunt and Polmorva, who said they had been visiting Duraunt’s fellow Austin Canons at nearby Barnwell Priory. Polmorva’s expression hardened when Michael told him that he and his Corpse Examiner had re-inspected the place where Chesterfelde had died, and Bartholomew thought he detected an uneasy flicker in his eye; he wondered whether he guessed they had searched his possessions and was afraid of what might have been found. Duraunt contented himself with reciting a short prayer for Chesterfelde, then started to discuss the next University Debate. Michael fretted impatiently as the old man gabbled on about his favourite topics for such occasions, while Bartholomew listened with interest, recalling disputes on similar issues they had attended together in Oxford – an erudite, careful teacher and his eager but inexpert student.