Susanna GREGORY - The Mark of a Murderer

‘And you have been too harsh,’ said Spryngheuse immediately.

‘Your tongue is overly sharp, Polmorva,’ agreed Duraunt, leading Bartholomew to wonder what the man had been saying.

‘Meanwhile, I have learned that you like to drink and argue,’ said Michael to Duraunt, preventing the physician from responding with some reminiscences of his own. ‘You were making so much noise on the night Chesterfelde died, that you disturbed your neighbours.’

Duraunt was astounded. ‘Really? It was quite unintentional, I assure you, and I shall apologise to them at once. We were discussing Bradwardine’s mean speed theorem, and it was so exciting that we may have been a tad raucous.’

‘Chesterfelde had interesting opinions,’ explained Spryngheuse shyly. ‘He was an amusing debater, so we laughed a lot. We did not mean to annoy anyone, though.’

‘It was the merchants’ fault,’ said Polmorva testily. ‘They were the ones guffawing at Chesterfelde’s inanities. Debates are not meant to be funny – they are serious expressions of philosophical ideals, and I disapproved very strongly when you all made that one into a joke.’

‘Do not be so ready to frown,’ admonished Duraunt mildly. ‘There is nothing wrong with laughter. Indeed, I am glad we were merry that night, since it was Chesterfelde’s last. At least he died after a lovely evening in pleasant company.’

‘Mostly pleasant,’ said Bartholomew, suspecting Polmorva had been a terrible misery.

‘You drank plenty of wine,’ fished Michael. ‘It made you sleep more deeply than usual.’

‘We did not imbibe that much,’ objected Duraunt. ‘And I seldom sleep well these days. It is one of the curses of old age.’

‘Is that why you take poppy juice?’ asked Bartholomew.

Duraunt stared at him. ‘I do not dose myself with poppy juice or any other kind of soporific. When I am restless, I pray, and eventually sleep overtakes me.’

‘Then what about the tincture you bought from the apothecary?’ asked Michael. ‘You claimed Matt had recommended that you swallow a strong dosage, but he has done no such thing.’

‘He did,’ said Duraunt firmly. ‘Twenty years ago, when I had stomach pains, he recommended poppy juice at a specific strength that cured them instantly. I have used his remedy ever since on rare occasions, particularly when I undertake long journeys. My digestion is adequate at home, where I am used to the food, but it occasionally misfires when I travel and am obliged to eat unfamiliar fare.’

‘You have been taking concentrated poppy juice for two decades?’ asked Bartholomew in horror.

A note of genuine irritation crept into Duraunt’s voice when he replied. ‘You are not listening, Matthew. I said I take it on rare occasions when I travel . But Okehamptone’s death upset me, and I felt the need for a dose. I thought I had brought some with me, but I could not find it, so I purchased more from the apothecary. And now you know everything about my stomach and its sporadic irregularities. Does that satisfy your morbid and unwarranted curiosity?’

‘I am sorry,’ said Bartholomew, startled and hurt by the reprimand. He was aware of Polmorva’s smirk. ‘But it is odd that you all slept through Chesterfelde’s murder, and that a dose of strong medicine was added to your wine is not an unreasonable conclusion to draw.’

‘Especially since we found some in your bag,’ added Michael.

But it was Bartholomew who bore the brunt of Duraunt’s outrage. ‘You searched my possessions? Without my permission?’ He shook his head and there was a hard, unforgiving look in his eye that cut the physician to the quick. ‘I expected better of you, Matthew. I do not know what you have become here in Cambridge, but I do not like it.’

‘I did not like what he was before,’ said Polmorva. ‘I am not surprised to learn he is the kind of man to go through our belongings. It would also not surprise me to learn that he killed Chesterfelde, since he seems to have developed a talent for skulking and prying.’

‘I would not go that far,’ said Duraunt, his faded blue eyes still fixed unblinkingly on the physician. ‘But the next time you want to know something, Matthew, you can ask. You will not rifle through my bags. Is that clear?’

Bartholomew nodded, feeling like an errant schoolboy, and fumed at the gloating expression on Polmorva’s face.

‘Good,’ said Duraunt, leaning back in his chair. ‘Then we shall say no more about the matter. Why are you here? Was it just to ask about the poppy juice, or do you have another purpose?’

‘We came to inform you that we have been busy with Chesterfelde’s case,’ said Michael. ‘And that progress has been made. We would also like to ask Spryngheuse some questions, since he is the only one we have not yet interviewed.’ He turned to the man. ‘Why did you come to Cambridge?’

‘I told you that yesterday,’ said Polmorva. ‘Did you not listen?’

Michael rounded on him. ‘I am not talking to you, so keep your answers to yourself until you are asked for them. Spryngheuse?’

‘I fled because I was afraid for my life,’ replied Spryngheuse. He hung his head. ‘It is disconcerting to arrive at another university, only to have your closest friend murdered within days.’

Michael included Duraunt and Polmorva in his next question. ‘You did not come because you know the Archbishop is due to visit, and you hope to ensure he founds his new College in Oxford?’

Duraunt was appalled by the accusation. ‘Of course not! What a terrible thing to say! No wonder Matthew has turned bad, if he listens to men like you.’

‘Now, just a moment,’ said Michael indignantly. ‘Oxford is in a state of turmoil – and under an interdict. It is not so far-fetched to imagine someone might take steps to make Cambridge appear similarly uneasy, to ensure we do not gain Islip’s patronage at your expense.’

‘It is far-fetched,’ insisted Duraunt angrily. ‘None of us are so low-minded.’

‘Really,’ said Michael, giving Polmorva a stare to indicate he thought otherwise. ‘But let us return to Chesterfelde, and who might have wanted him dead. Spryngheuse, do you have any ideas?’

Spryngheuse was thoughtful. ‘Chesterfelde visited Cambridge several times, but he was not here long enough to make enemies. He only had friends – not like in Oxford, where he and I are shunned and hated.’

‘That is the price of instigating a riot that left hundreds dead,’ said Polmorva unpleasantly.

Bartholomew stared at Spryngheuse. ‘ Chesterfelde was one of the scholars who began the argument in the Swindlestock Tavern?’

‘He was,’ said Polmorva, before Spryngheuse could speak. ‘And Spryngheuse was another.’

‘Let me explain,’ said Spryngheuse tiredly. ‘We were in the alehouse, happy and good humoured, when this Benedictine attached himself to our party. We had never seen him before, but were too polite to send him away. I wish to God we had. He seemed to know Chesterfelde had a quick temper, and needled him with inflammatory statements until he reacted with violence – against Croidon the landlord. It was the monk who started the fight, not me and not Chesterfelde, although we are the ones being blamed.’

‘But it was Chesterfelde who smashed the pot over Croidon’s head,’ said Polmorva. ‘And it was you who shot the mason. No one – except you – recalls this elusive Benedictine.’

‘Our friends did,’ objected Spryngheuse. ‘The two others who were with us.’

‘But they were killed,’ said Polmorva. ‘Of the original party, only you and Chesterfelde survived – other than this monk, of course.’ He turned to Michael. ‘I am sure many Benedictines enjoy a good riot, but they are innocent of inciting this one. I made enquiries among the Oxford brethren myself, and this mysterious monastic does not exist.’