Susanna GREGORY - The Mark of a Murderer

Tulyet then invited Bartholomew and Michael to his office and, wanting to hear more about the town’s preparations for the Visitation, Michael accepted. The Sheriff led the scholars into the ground-floor chamber he used for working, and barred the door so Dickon could not follow. He was amused when a tousled head appeared at the window a few moments later: Dickon had discovered an alternative entrance. While Tulyet crowed his delight at the child’s resourcefulness, Bartholomew and Michael braced themselves for an invasion. They were not to be disappointed.

‘Bang!’ yelled Dickon, leaning through the window with a small bow in his chubby hands. There was an arrow nocked into it, and the missile was pointed at Michael.

Although Dickon hated Bartholomew tending the results of his various mishaps – and anything went when treatment was in progress – he did not mind the physician at other times, and was perfectly happy to sit on his knee and insert grubby fingers into his medical bag in search of something dangerous. But Michael was a different matter. Dickon did not like Michael, and the feeling was wholly reciprocated. Michael was not averse to doling out the occasional slap while Dickon’s doting parents were not looking, and was unmoved by the boy’s shrieks of outrage when he did not get his own way. In essence, Dickon knew that in Michael he had met his match, although that did not prevent him from trying to score points over the monk whenever he could. That morning it looked as if he might do it with a potentially lethal weapon.

‘God’s blood, Dick!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, leaping up to interpose himself between boy and target. ‘I thought you said you would not let him have that again after he shot himself in the foot.’

‘That was a freak accident,’ objected Tulyet. ‘The drawstring was too tight, and made the arrows fly with too much power. But we have loosened it again, and now it is quite safe.’

‘I do not feel safe,’ snapped Michael, cowering behind Bartholomew. ‘Tell him to put it down.’

‘Dickon!’ said Tulyet sharply. ‘Do you remember what I said? You can only have the bow if you do not point it at anyone. If you aim it at Brother Michael, I will take it away and burn it.’

Dickon’s small face lost its expression of savage delight and became sombre as he considered his options. He studied his father hard, as if assessing how seriously to take the threat, then moved to one side so he could see the tempting target that quailed behind the physician. Then he looked back at Tulyet. His fingers tightened on the weapon and Bartholomew saw that the little arrow had a nasty point on it, and while Dickon was probably too small to shoot it with sufficient power to kill, he could certainly cause some painful damage. He moved again to block Dickon’s line of vision, and wondered what the Sheriff was thinking of, to give the lad such a dangerous plaything.

‘Come and watch me,’ ordered Dickon imperiously, lowering the bow when he saw he would not have a clear shot at Michael anyway. ‘By the river.’

‘We are busy,’ replied Michael shortly. ‘Go away.’

‘Come!’ insisted Dickon firmly. ‘Now.’

‘Go and see your mother, Dickon,’ suggested Tulyet, wheedling. ‘She may have a cake.’

‘Now,’ repeated Dickon, and the bow came up again. ‘I shoot.’

‘We shall have no peace unless we oblige,’ said Tulyet resignedly. ‘He only wants us to watch him in the butts at the bottom of the garden for a moment.’

‘You should not give in to him, Dick,’ grumbled Michael heaving himself out of his seat and preparing to hike to the end of the Tulyets’ long toft. ‘It will make him worse than he already is.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Tulyet indignantly. ‘He is a little more boisterous than some lads his age, but only because he is unusually intelligent. Besides, what do you know about being a parent? You are a monk.’

‘I know more than you can possibly imagine,’ replied Michael, aloofly enigmatic and leaving Bartholomew and Tulyet wondering exactly what he meant.

‘But a bow, Dick,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is not wise. He may harm himself again or, worse, decide to shoot a person or an animal. He could do real harm.’

‘He must to learn how to handle weapons,’ insisted Tulyet. ‘It will be part of his knightly training, and the younger he is, the faster he will become accomplished in their use. He will be Sheriff one day, and I want him properly prepared, or the first armed outlaw he meets will make an end of him.’

‘I must have myself promoted to Chancellor before you relinquish your post,’ muttered Michael, as they followed the boy to the end of the vegetable plots, where a sturdy wall had been erected to keep the child away from the river. ‘Dickon will not work as smoothly with me as you do.’

Tulyet draped an arm around his shoulders. ‘Give the lad a chance, Brother. He will be a splendid man in time – taller than his father and with the sweet temperament of his mother.’

‘He will be tall,’ agreed Michael.

‘Watch,’ commanded Dickon, aiming his arrow at a circular target made of straw. Bartholomew was perturbed when the boy sent the missile thudding neatly into its centre, and even more so when he saw how hard Dickon had to pull to extricate it. His father may have loosened the bowstring, but it was still taut enough to drive the arrow home with considerable force. Tulyet grinned in proud delight.

‘You can see Merton Hall from here,’ said Michael, peering over the top of the wall and refusing to admire anything Dickon did.

‘Our properties are divided only by the Bin Brook,’ said Tulyet, applauding as Dickon repeated the exercise, which indicated that the first shot had been skill, not chance. ‘We are neighbours, although my house fronts on to Bridge Street and Merton Hall is accessed from Merton Lane.’

‘I do not suppose you saw anything odd the night Chesterfelde was murdered, did you?’ asked Michael hopefully.

Tulyet shook his head. ‘Eudo is a noisy fellow, and his loud voice occasionally disturbs us while we sit in our orchard of an evening, but we usually hear nothing from the others who are currently staying there – those scholars and the merchants.’

Bartholomew and Michael exchanged a bemused glance that Tulyet should dare to complain about Eudo when he had sired such a raucous brat. ‘Usually?’ asked Michael. ‘There are exceptions?’

Tulyet nodded. ‘They were quite noisy on Saturday night, as a matter of fact. They were not arguing or fighting, just speaking loudly and laughing a lot.’

‘Laughing?’ asked Michael. ‘Laughing about what?’

‘Chesterfelde was guffawing, and encouraging the others to enjoy themselves,’ elaborated Tulyet. ‘I met him once or twice on his previous visits to our town, and he was always smiling.’

‘Bailiff Boltone said the same,’ said Bartholomew. ‘So did Norton. He seems to have been a cheerful sort of man.’

Michael rubbed his chin. ‘I wonder whether Dodenho’s initial denial that he knew Chesterfelde is significant. His excuse for the lie may be valid – that he does not want a passing friendship to implicate him in a murder enquiry – but now I find myself wary of what he told us. Still, Chesterfelde sounds as though he was a likeable sort of fellow.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Tulyet. ‘Generally speaking.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Michael.

Tulyet folded his arms, watching his son shoot off the head of a flower. ‘He had a hot temper, and I recall Dodenho telling me that it took very little to set it off. But, like many quick-to-anger men, his fury faded fast, and I do not think it was a serious flaw in his character. I am glad this is not my investigation, Brother. It takes a particular kind of skill to explore scholars and their cunning ways, and it is not one I shall ever possess. I am just grateful that my boy will never attend a University.’