Susanna GREGORY - The Mark of a Murderer

‘Is this true?’ asked Michael of Duraunt, his voice cold and angry. ‘Why did you not mention it before? If Chesterfelde was responsible for bringing about these riots, then there is probably an entire city full of people who would like to see him dead.’

‘I did not tell you for two reasons,’ said Duraunt calmly. ‘First, because Spryngheuse and Chesterfelde have always maintained their innocence.’ Here Spryngheuse nodded and Polmorva made a sceptical moue. ‘And second, if they do have enemies, then they are in Oxford, not here.’

‘Not necessarily,’ said Michael. ‘How do you know one of your three merchant friends did not exact revenge? After all, it was the riot Chesterfelde started that saw their friend Gonerby murdered.’

Duraunt shook his head. ‘If that were true, then the killer would have struck during the journey to Cambridge, when there were better opportunities.’

Michael was unconvinced. ‘Perhaps that is what we are supposed to think. Personally, I shall reserve judgement until I have more evidence.’

‘So, what have you learned so far?’ asked Polmorva, in the kind of voice that indicated it would be nothing of significance.

‘I never compromise my investigations by indulging in idle chatter with suspects,’ said Michael haughtily. ‘But I have finished with you for now. Tomorrow I shall have another word with Boltone and Eudo, and see what they can tell me about rowdy debates that kept half the town awake.’

‘My bailiff,’ said Duraunt, closing his eyes. ‘A landlord cannot be held responsible for the character of his tenant, so I disclaim anything Eudo might have done. But I confess to appointing Boltone. He and Eudo have been stealing from us regularly, as became obvious when I examined their records this morning. I have known for some time that our Cambridge estate was not yielding the income it should, but I was ready to trust Boltone’s explanation that times were hard. After all, there was the plague to consider: many properties became unprofitable after the Death, and I saw no reason to suppose this manor was not one of them.’

‘So what made you suspicious of him all of a sudden?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘The losses have grown steadily larger, and a few months ago, Okehamptone – the clerk who died of fever here recently, and who had friends in Cambridge – suggested I should review Bolton’s sums. When I followed his advice, I discovered inconsistencies that required clarification.’

‘What did Boltone say when you confronted him?’ asked Michael. ‘When we first met, he did not seem overly concerned by the fact that he was under investigation by the Warden of Merton.’

Duraunt shrugged. ‘I think he believed he had covered his tracks well enough to deceive me, and that he had nothing to worry about. But I pointed out one or two problems today, and I think it has finally dawned on him that he may be in trouble.’

‘He is now extremely concerned,’ agreed Polmorva with satisfaction. ‘Had he been my bailiff, I would have dismissed him at once, but Duraunt has given him an opportunity to acquit himself.’

‘He says there has been a mistake,’ said Duraunt tiredly. ‘It is difficult to find reliable men these days, and I have known him for years. I have decided to give him the benefit of the doubt, and allow him to prepare a considered defence.’

‘Was he – or Eudo – sufficiently angry about the accusations to kill?’ asked Bartholomew. While Boltone claimed that killing Duraunt would not solve his problems, Bartholomew was not sure that Eudo was equally rational, especially after numerous jugs of ale. He thought it entirely possible that Chesterfelde might have been the victim of mistaken identity, as Polmorva claimed, and the real target was the man who was in the process of exposing a collaborative dishonesty.

‘No,’ said Duraunt immediately. ‘That was the first thing that crossed my mind when we found Chesterfelde. But Eudo or Boltone are not the kind of men to kill.’

‘Any man can kill,’ said Polmorva, looking at Bartholomew in a way the physician found disturbing. ‘All he needs is enough incentive.’

Bartholomew was angry with Michael for putting him in an awkward position with his former teacher and earning him a reprimand that stung. It was, after all, not he who had rifled through Duraunt’s belongings. Michael pointed out that by keeping watch Bartholomew had made himself an accessory to the crime, and was just as much to blame. Since they could not agree and Bartholomew was too tired to argue, they returned to Michaelhouse in silence.

The physician turned the facts about Chesterfelde over in his mind. Was the death a case of mistaken identity – something hard to believe, given the strange mode of execution – and Eudo or Boltone responsible? Or had he been murdered as retribution for starting a riot that had left hundreds dead and Oxford ablaze? Answers were not forthcoming, even when he lay on his bed in the comparative peace of his room and gave the matter all his attention.

Later that evening, Michael was summoned by his beadles to quell trouble brewing at the King’s Head. The monk was unsettled by the notion that what had happened in Oxford might be repeated in Cambridge, and was inclined to regard any symptom of unrest with more than his customary concern. The fact that the St Scholastica’s Day trouble had exploded from a relatively minor incident made him feel as though he should be on his guard at all times. Meanwhile, Bartholomew dozed in his room until every light had been extinguished in the College, then set out to see Matilde.

As he made his way through the dark streets, he tried to keep to the shadows, lingering in some to assess whether he was being followed or watched. He was too weary to be properly vigilant, and although he saw the occasional movement out of the corner of his eye, he could not determine whether it was just a leaf blowing in the soft breeze, a cat hunting rodents, someone who would gossip about him the next day, or the product of an overwrought imagination.

When he arrived, he told Matilde that their ‘secret’ was now common knowledge, and that even his sister knew about their assignations. Matilde’s expression was wry when she mentioned that Edith had quizzed her ruthlessly until she had extracted a confession, but together the two women had devised a plan that they hoped might ease the situation. Bartholomew flopped on to one of Matilde’s comfortable benches and rested his head in his hands, feeling exhaustion wash over him in a great unstoppable tide. Matilde looked fatigued, too; there were dark rings under her eyes and she was less immaculately groomed than usual.

‘Well?’ he asked, his voice muffled. ‘What have you and my sister decided will protect us from wagging tongues?’

‘This,’ Matilde replied, presenting him with a lurid, gold-coloured liripipe – a fashionable hood-come-scarf that could be donned in a variety of styles.

He regarded it without enthusiasm. ‘What am I supposed to do with that?’

Matilde sighed, her own lassitude making her unusually irritable with him. ‘You wear it, Matthew.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew, pushing it back at her and thinking how bizarre it would look with his sober academic attire. ‘This is not the kind of thing I favour. It is yellow, for God’s sake.’

She shoved it firmly into his unwilling hands. ‘You must try to get some sleep tonight, because you are uncommonly slow witted. The fact that this is not something you would normally wear means that people will not associate you with it and it will hide your face if you wrap it properly. Folk will see only an amber-hatted man.’ She saw his blank expression and sighed again. ‘It is what is generally known as a “disguise”.’