Susanna GREGORY - The Mark of a Murderer

‘That is why I bought claret on Saturday,’ explained Wormynghalle. He glared at Eu, implying that the spicer’s failure to do likewise indicated he was cheap. ‘ I wanted to thank Duraunt for his hospitality. He declined to accept coins, no doubt hoping for a larger donation when we return, but he is fond of wine, and I felt I should do something pleasant for him while we are here.’

‘Never mind this,’ said Eu. Bartholomew saw the tanner’s barb had hit its mark. ‘Have you come to give us Gonerby’s killer, so we can go home?’

‘It is him!’ said Wormynghalle, pointing at Bartholomew. ‘He is our culprit.’

‘How in God’s name have you deduced that?’ asked Michael, startled.

‘It is obvious. He knows Oxford, because he was an Oxford scholar himself. Polmorva told me. He must have visited our city in February, perhaps to meet old acquaintances, killed Gonerby and fled home again.’

‘Why would I do that?’ asked Bartholomew, not bothering to hide his contempt for the man. ‘I have never met Gonerby.’

‘So you say,’ countered Wormynghalle. ‘But, for all we know, you may have been enemies for years. Polmorva said you were a Merton man two decades ago, and Gonerby was living in the city then. Perhaps you ordered some parchment from him, and were dissatisfied with the result. There could be all manner of reasons why you did not like each other.’

‘Did Gonerby supply parchment that was of inferior quality, then?’ asked Michael.

Abergavenny intervened, as usual. ‘Of course not. His parchment was excellent, and few scholars had cause for complaint. But I do not think this physician is our man, Wormynghalle.’

‘He is a suitable suspect, though,’ said Eu. He looked Bartholomew up and down appraisingly. ‘He looks poor, so no one will miss him. We will take him with us when we leave.’

‘You will not,’ said Michael, ‘because he is not your culprit. He gave the University Lecture on St Scholastica’s Day, and more than five hundred people – scholars and townsmen – will vouch he was here, in Cambridge, not off stabbing merchants in Oxford.’

‘Am I to understand from this discussion that you have learned nothing about Gonerby’s killer?’ asked Wormynghalle, sounding disgusted.

‘Give me time,’ said Michael coldly. ‘I have other matters to attend, besides looking into the murders of men I do not know in cities I have never visited. But I have spoken to a number of Cambridge students who were in Oxford during February, and some Oxford scholars who are here now. I have several promising lines of enquiry.’

Bartholomew knew for a fact he did not, but said nothing to contradict him. He did not like the merchants and their assumption that money made them important, and he resented Wormynghalle’s accusations. He did not know whether he would prefer Chesterfelde’s killer to be Polmorva or the tanner, and began to hope they were in cahoots, and had done it together. Then he realised he was allowing his dislike to interfere with his reason, and tried to control his growing antipathy.

Michael turned to Wormynghalle. ‘We met a relative of yours this morning.’

Wormynghalle was aghast. ‘It was not my wife, was it? She is heavy with child, so I hope you are mistaken. I would not like to think of her travelling so far when she is about to provide me with a son.’

‘A scholar named John Wormynghalle,’ said Michael. ‘Of King’s Hall.’

‘Oh, him,’ said Wormynghalle uninterestedly. He gave the astrolabe a vigorous shake. Something rattled, and Bartholomew saw that his fiddling had broken it. ‘He is no kin of mine. He came sniffing around as soon as I arrived, doubtless hoping we were related, so I would be obliged to donate money for his education. We talked for an hour, but could find no common kin, and he left disappointed. Did he tell you we were from the same stock? Cheeky beggar!’

‘I came to speak to Duraunt,’ said Michael, suddenly heading for the door that led to the solar. His abrupt departure had the effect he intended: the merchants were puzzled and uneasy, suspecting he knew more than he had told them about Gonerby’s murder and the repercussions it might have on the men who had decided to avenge it. ‘I will keep you informed of my progress.’

Bartholomew caught Michael’s arm before he reached the solar door and spoke in a low voice as the merchants began a carping argument among themselves, debating what the monk might have learned that he declined to share with them. ‘Why did you ask Wormynghalle the tanner about Wormynghalle the scholar? He told us this low fellow is not his kin, and we have no reason to disbelieve him. There was no reason to check his story.’

‘His, no,’ agreed Michael. ‘But I did not like the way the tanner accused you of murder, just because he has been listening to Polmorva. I wanted to see if I could catch him out in a lie – to see whether he would deny meeting young Wormynghalle on the grounds that he will not want to be associated with anyone at Cambridge. But he was more honest than I imagined he would be.’

Bartholomew considered. There was definitely something unsavoury about the tanner, and it went further than his coarse manners and penchant for wild accusations. ‘I told you the first time we spoke to him that I had a bad feeling about the fellow.’

‘ You have not met him before, have you?’ asked Michael, pausing to look hard at Bartholomew. ‘In Oxford, when you were a student?’

‘No. I would have told you.’

‘Would you? You keep a lot from me these days, and I do not know what to think.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You slip out every night to meet Matilde, but you refuse to tell me why your relationship has taken this sudden and unexpected step. You do not usually hide secrets from me.’

‘Just because I decline to share details about Matilde does not make me a liar,’ said Bartholomew, faintly irritated. ‘You should know me better than that.’

Michael did not reply. He knocked on the solar door, but did not wait for an answer before pushing inside. Duraunt sat near the hearth, a book on his knees, while Polmorva diced with a man who wore a distinctive grey-fringed cloak. The man’s jaw dropped in horror when he recognised the visitors, while Michael regarded him thoughtfully and Bartholomew’s mind whirled with questions.

‘So,’ said the monk amiably to the man who had been contemplating suicide on the Great Bridge the previous morning. ‘We meet again, sir.’

‘You know each other?’ asked Duraunt, surprised.

‘No,’ replied the man quickly. His eyes held a mute appeal for Michael’s silence. ‘Not really.’

Duraunt closed his book and indicated that the visitors were to sit with him on the stools that were clustered around the hearth. Bartholomew obliged, but Michael remained standing.

‘Who are you?’ the monk asked of the stranger.

‘Walter Spryngheuse.’ The man began to gabble, and Bartholomew sensed he would say anything to prevent Michael from telling Polmorva and Duraunt about the incident on the bridge. ‘And you are here to look into Chesterfelde’s murder. I cannot believe someone killed him. He was good company and everyone liked him.’

‘Someone did not,’ Michael pointed out.

Spryngheuse’s eyes became watery. ‘I miss him. He was a Balliol man and I am from Merton, but we were friends nonetheless. I wish he had not died.’

‘We all do,’ said Duraunt comfortingly. ‘But he has gone to better things.’

Spryngheuse pulled himself together. ‘Duraunt has been telling me about you, Bartholomew.’

‘Not very accurately,’ said Polmorva nastily. ‘He has been far too kind in his reminiscences.’