Susanna GREGORY - The Mark of a Murderer

‘Yes,’ said Michael wholeheartedly. ‘So am I.’

It was noon by the time Bartholomew and Michael reached Merton Hall. Michael rapped sharply on the door and it was answered, as previously, by Boltone. There was ink on the bailiff’s fingers, and his eyes were red and raw, as if he had been straining them. Bartholomew supposed he had been working on his accounts so that Duraunt could assess whether he had been cheating.

‘Tell me, Master Bailiff,’ said Michael, smiling in a friendly fashion, ‘when did you last visit Oxford?’

‘I am obliged to present yearly accounts,’ said Boltone, looking furtive, ‘but I go there as rarely as possible. It smells, and all the streets look the same. Why?’

‘Were you there in February?’ asked Bartholomew. He could think of no reason why a Cambridge steward should kill an Oxford merchant, but that did not mean it had not happened.

‘No,’ said Boltone, a little too quickly. ‘I have not been since last October, and February was too cold for long journeys. The roads were closed by snow then, anyway.’

‘They were,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘But not for the whole month.’

Boltone stood aside to allow them to enter. ‘Have you decided which of these Oxford men killed Chesterfelde? Was it a scholar or a merchant? I do not know who I would prefer you to hang: I dislike that condescending Eu, but I hate the sly Polmorva.’

‘What makes you think it was one of those two?’ asked Michael.

‘Who else could it be?’ asked Boltone, his eyes wide with surprise that there should be other culprits. ‘Chesterfelde was murdered in their room while they were present – sleeping or otherwise. You do not need one of your University degrees to assess that sort of evidence. And Polmorva and Eu are the nastiest of the group, so they are the best suspects for this vile murder. It is obvious.’

Michael regarded him thoughtfully. ‘You think Abergavenny, Wormynghalle, Spryngheuse and Duraunt are innocent, do you?’

Boltone returned the appraising stare, then seemed to reconsider, apparently afraid the monk might be laying some sort of trap that would see him in trouble. ‘Well, I suppose the killer could be one of them,’ he said after a long pause. ‘Except Duraunt, of course. He would never harm anyone.’

‘Is that so?’ asked Michael flatly. ‘Of course, Polmorva has you marked down as the assassin. He thinks you killed Chesterfelde by mistake, because you are desperate to do away with Duraunt and prevent him from exposing your dishonesty.’

‘Polmorva is a fool,’ snapped Boltone. ‘If I did kill Duraunt, then what do you think would happen? That Merton will forget these accusations and leave me alone? Of course not! They will send another man to look at my records, and then what would I do? Kill him, too? And another, and another? Polmorva is deranged if he believes I would see murder as a way to clear my name. Besides, I have nothing to hide – no reason to stab anyone.’

‘I see,’ said Michael. ‘Well, I would like to speak to Duraunt myself today. Do not bother to escort me; I can find my own way. Go back to your accounting.’

Bartholomew followed Michael up the stairs into the hall. The three merchants sat there, talking in low voices that still contrived to sound hostile. Wormynghalle presented a grotesque sight that day, in a fashionably close-fitting gipon made from gold cloth that gave him the appearance of a shiny grub. His sheep’s head pendant and the rings on his fingers glinted in the sunlight, and he looked exactly what he was: a man of humble origins who found himself rich, and who did not have the taste to accommodate it decently. He played restlessly with a silver disc, and when Bartholomew looked more closely he saw it was an astrolabe, although he could tell from the way the tanner handled the instrument that he did not know how to use it. To him it was just a pretty object made of precious metal.

Eu, meanwhile, wore a gipon of dark green, with a discreet clasp on his cloak that carried his nutmeg motif. He carried himself with a natural dignity, and Bartholomew wondered how the two merchants, diametrically opposed in all respects, managed to stomach each other’s company. He supposed it was because Abergavenny was there, to keep the peace and remind them that they had a common purpose. The Welshman seemed relieved to have company, and Bartholomew suspected he was finding his role as arbitrator hard work.

‘Where are the scholars?’ asked Michael.

‘In the solar,’ replied Wormynghalle with an unpleasant sneer. ‘They claim they are afraid of boring us with their debates, but the truth is that they prefer their own company.’

‘What they prefer is conversation that does not revolve around tanning,’ said Eu acidly. ‘And who can blame them? I do not want to be regaled with the difference between dog and horse urine while I am at table, either.’

‘Better than one bristling with cleverly disguised aspersions,’ retorted Wormynghalle. ‘ You were the one who offended them on Saturday with your sly tongue and ambiguous “compliments”.’

‘We should all moderate our conversation, and–’ began Abergavenny.

‘I am surprised you remember,’ snarled Eu to the tanner. ‘You drank so much wine that you were asleep most of the evening.’

‘You were drunk when Chesterfelde died?’ pounced Michael. ‘And the night ended in insults?’

‘No,’ said Abergavenny hastily. ‘Wormynghalle provided a casket of claret for us all to share, but no one was insensible and no discourtesies were exchanged – just one or two harmless jests…’

‘Then why do you occupy separate rooms now?’ asked Bartholomew, knowing what happened when wine and poppy juice were combined, and thinking that he and Michael now had the answer to at least one part of the mystery. If the men at Merton Hall had swallowed such a mixture, they would probably not have stirred from their slumbers if the King of France had mounted an armed invasion; a body placed carefully among them would almost certainly have passed unnoticed.

‘Because we are trying to be good guests,’ said Abergavenny with a strained smile. ‘The scholars enjoy long, pedantic debates and I do not see why these should be curtailed by our presence. It was my suggestion that they adjourn to the solar during the day for their erudite discussions. Duraunt was kind enough to allow us to stay here, so the least we can do is stay out of his way.’

‘Why did he invite you?’ asked Michael. ‘You seem odd bedfellows.’

‘Because we are rich,’ replied Wormynghalle smugly. ‘We are all in a position to make handsome benefactions to his College when we return to Oxford, and wealthy merchants are always being courted by scholars – like whores after men with full purses.’

Abergavenny winced at Wormynghalle’s coarse analogy, while Eu shook his head. Bartholomew watched them closely, and thought about what Michael and Tulyet had said. The Sheriff distrusted the laconic, noble-born Eu, because he had met his kind before, while alarm bells had jangled in Bartholomew’s own mind over Wormynghalle, because he was aggressive, overconfident and brutal. But it had been the diplomatic, reasonable Abergavenny that Michael had elected as the villain, on the grounds that the Welshman’s congeniality was good cover for evil intent.

‘It suits us to stay at Merton Hall,’ said Abergavenny, again calming troubled waters. ‘The best taverns are inside your town gates – where we have no desire to be.’

‘Why not?’ asked Michael.

Eu sighed impatiently. ‘Why do you think? We have just left a city ravaged by scholars, and we do not want to be trapped inside another. We are safer here on the outskirts.’