Susanna GREGORY - The Mark of a Murderer

When they eventually parted, Michael went to search the University’s records for any scholars who had been granted leave of absence to study in Oxford, and to peruse applications from Oxford students who wanted to visit Cambridge, while Bartholomew walked to the hamlet of Stourbridge, outside the town. He wanted to see Clippesby, and assess whether there was any improvement in his condition. As it was such a fine day, he strolled slowly, enjoying the sweet scent of ripening crops and the damp earthiness of fertile soil. The sun lay golden and warm across the fields, occasionally cooled when fluffy white clouds drifted across its bright face.

The hospital was a sprawling complex of buildings enclosed within a fence of woven hazel. It had originally been founded for lepers, so their disease would not contaminate others, but now it accepted patients with a variety of ailments. It comprised the Chapel of St Mary Magdalene, an ancient two-celled church with thick walls and tiny windows, and a number of huts with thatched roofs, where the inmates lived. The community had its own well, fish-ponds, fields, orchards and livestock, and its residents were seldom obliged to deal with the outside world.

The warden who cared for the eclectic collection of people who had been banished from ‘normal’ society was an amiable Austin Canon called Paul. He tended his thirty or so patients with the help of a small staff of lay-brothers, and Bartholomew considered the man little short of a saint. He was tall and sturdy, which was a useful attribute when dealing with the obstreperousness of madness and the heavy lifting required for the bedridden, and his brown hair lay thickly around his untidy tonsure. He was nearly always smiling, and it was not unusual for the compound to ring with his laughter.

There was no humour that day, however, because he was troubled. Michaelhouse’s Master of Music and Astronomy was afforded a fair degree of freedom in the hospital, and had been helping to care for some of the sicker inmates. But Clippesby had a habit of wandering away without telling anyone where he was going, and Bartholomew was disturbed to learn that he had vanished several times since he had been enrolled at Stourbridge. Most worrying was the fact that he had been gone for part of the previous night, when Chesterfelde had died.

‘I was with the ducks near the river, Matt,’ said Clippesby dreamily, when the physician asked him about it. He laughed merrily. ‘They will provide me with an alibi, should you require one.’

Bartholomew studied him intently, trying to ascertain whether the man was genuinely trying to be helpful, or was playing him for a fool. He rubbed his hand through his hair when several moments of staring into Clippesby’s clear grey eyes told him nothing at all.

‘You promised you would stay here,’ said Paul reproachfully. ‘Why did you break your word?’

‘I was needed elsewhere, Brother,’ said Clippesby with a serene smile. ‘You have duties towards your charges, so you will understand these obligations. Besides, I do not like being shut up all night. There are too many interesting things happening elsewhere.’

‘What sort of things?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily.

‘Things you would not understand. Why do you want to know?’

‘A man was killed in Merton Hall last night. You should not wander around the town, Clippesby. People know you are unwell, and we do not want them to accuse you of a crime because they cannot find the real culprit and need a scapegoat. I brought you here for your own safety.’

‘So you say,’ replied Clippesby acidly. He did not like Stourbridge. ‘But that is the second death at Merton Hall. A fellow called Okehamptone perished there a week or two ago. I was visiting some geese at the time, and they were very unhappy that he died so suddenly after arriving in their town.’

‘Were they,’ said Bartholomew. The Dominican’s nocturnal wanderings meant he was often a witness to criminal activities, and he had provided Michael with valuable clues in the past. The difficulty, however, lay in deciding what was true and what was fancy.

‘They were,’ asserted Clippesby. ‘Tell Michael not to forget Okehamptone. It will please the geese to know they have a Senior Proctor who takes all deaths seriously. Can you see that lark, Matt? High in the clouds? I have just heard her say she saw you leaving Matilde’s house at dawn again this morning. You must be more discreet when you visit her, my friend, or you will tarnish her good name.’

‘Matilde the courtesan?’ asked Paul, regarding Bartholomew askance. ‘You visit her during the night? This lark is right, man! You should show some discretion. Leave while it is still dark, not once the sun has started to rise.’

‘I will bear it in mind,’ said Bartholomew shortly. ‘Although the lark should mind her own damned business, and keep her gossip to herself.’

He spent the rest of the day with his ailing colleague, but even after several hours still had no idea whether the Dominican was improving. It was frustrating, and he walked home helpless and angry, wishing there were not so many ailments that his medical training could not cure. He was light-headed from tiredness, but when he flopped on to his bed at Michaelhouse, intending to doze until it was time to meet Matilde, sleep would not come. Images of Clippesby, Polmorva and Duraunt rattled around his mind, along with Chesterfelde and the knife embedded in his back. He sensed he was about to embark on an investigation where nothing would be what it seemed, and that would take all his wits to solve. The unsettling part was that he did not think his wits were up to the task.

The following morning heralded another glorious day, clear and blue. Michael told Bartholomew that he had been reviewing the evidence surrounding Chesterfelde’s death and had eliminated none of the suspects from his enquiries. He had visited the King’s Head tavern and ascertained that Eudo had indeed consumed copious quantities of ale on the night in question, but pointed out that being drunk did not preclude anyone from committing murder. He also distrusted Boltone, and thought Polmorva might well be right to accuse him of the crime on the basis of mistaken identity in the dark. But he distrusted Polmorva more, and considered him exactly the kind of man to kill and confuse the evidence by thrusting knives into dead men’s backs. The result was a wealth of suspects.

‘But not Duraunt,’ said Bartholomew as they walked up the High Street, Michael to ask yet more questions of his potential culprits, and Bartholomew to answer a summons from Sheriff Tulyet. Tulyet’s son had stabbed himself with one of his toy arrows, and his anxious parents wanted to ensure the injury was not serious. Bartholomew regarded the prospect of a session with Dickon without enthusiasm, sensing the nagging ache behind his eyes that had been plaguing him all night was likely to become worse once Dickon’s enraged screeches had soared around it.

‘Duraunt seems kindly,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘But do not forget that phial we found in his bag – and the fact that we suspect everyone was fed a soporific before Chesterfelde was killed.’

‘It probably belongs to Polmorva,’ insisted Bartholomew doggedly. ‘Besides, the merchants or the scholar we have not yet met – Spryngheuse – might have killed Chesterfelde.’

‘That is why I want to question Duraunt about the poppy juice and why I want to meet Spryngheuse – so I can at least try to eliminate some of them from my investigation. I will keep you company while you tend Dickon, and then you can help me. I would like you to watch Polmorva and assess his reaction when we produce that vial.’ He gave Bartholomew a sidelong glance. ‘And I assure you that you have the better half of the bargain: a few moments with Dickon is far more dangerous than an entire week with murderers from Oxford.’