Susanna GREGORY - The Mark of a Murderer

‘So is your wife,’ said Michael baldly. Alyce swallowed uneasily, but Weasenham did not seem to grasp the monk’s meaning. He glanced at her, then back at Michael, and a frown of puzzlement creased his face.

‘Master Langelee does a good deal of business with us,’ blurted Alyce.

‘He is always in our shop,’ agreed Weasenham. He smiled, dismissing his confusion as he considered the prospect of lucrative future contracts. ‘He says Michaelhouse is planning to expand its membership, which means that a lot more writing supplies and exemplar texts will be required.’

‘Is that so?’ asked Michael, while Bartholomew recalled Wynewyk’s bleak analysis of the College’s finances with its current quota of scholars, and marvelled at the baldness of the lie.

‘He says Michaelhouse will soon be the largest College in the University,’ Weasenham went on, oblivious to his wife’s squirming mortification. ‘He is always in our solar, confiding his grand plans to my Alyce. That man has vision.’

‘I planned to visit you later,’ said Michael, bringing the discussion to a merciful end. Bartholomew was relieved; Alyce’s discomfort was too close to his own circumstances to be even remotely amusing. ‘The Chancellor is running short of vellum again.’

‘I always have vellum for Chancellor Tynkell. He is a good, decent man who sleeps in his own bed at night.’ Weasenham smirked at Bartholomew in a way that made the physician want to punch him.

‘But perhaps I will send to Ely Abbey for it instead,’ said Michael, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. ‘My Benedictine brethren produce remarkably fine vellum.’

The smug grin faded. ‘Yes, they do. I buy mine from them – to sell in my shop.’

‘I could save the University a good deal of money,’ said Michael, appearing to think aloud. ‘The monks know me and are sure to give me a good price. Better than anything you can offer.’

‘But you would have to pay to have it transported here,’ argued Weasenham uneasily. ‘And that road is very dangerous – plagued by robbers.’

‘It would not be worth the inconvenience to you,’ added Alyce, also alarmed. Her voice dropped to an appalled whisper as she glanced at her husband. ‘We cannot survive without the patronage of the Chancellor’s Office.’

‘Is that so?’ asked Michael softly. ‘Well, I suppose I could persuade Tynkell to continue to buy from you. Of course, it would very much depend.’

‘Oh?’ asked Weasenham nervously. ‘On what, exactly?’

Michael’s voice was low and menacing. ‘The Chancellor’s Office will purchase nothing from a man who damages my colleagues’ reputations. Furthermore, I shall urge the Colleges and hostels to follow my example. Do I make myself clear?’

‘Perfectly,’ replied Weasenham. He swallowed hard. ‘If I mention what I just overheard between you and Bartholomew, you will drive me out of business.’

‘Then can I assume we have reached an understanding?’ asked Michael, not bothering to deny the charge of blackmail, or even attempting to couch what he was doing in more pleasant terms.

‘Yes,’ said Weasenham shortly. His face was dark with resentment as he stalked back to his house, and Bartholomew saw the monk had just made himself a new enemy. Alyce lingered, however.

‘If our business fails because Tynkell takes his custom elsewhere, we will have nothing to lose,’ she said coldly. ‘Extortion works both ways, you know.’

‘You are right,’ said Michael softly. ‘Your husband will have no reason to keep quiet about Matt if he loses all his customers. But you will. You do not want me to inform Weasenham that you and Langelee discuss far more intimate matters than Michaelhouse’s fictitious expansion, do you?’

She glowered at him. ‘But that would damage your College, too. Michaelhouse will not want its Master exposed as a man who possesses a lover.’

‘True,’ agreed Michael amicably. ‘So I suggest we both keep still tongues in our heads. Then no one will be harmed and we will all be happy.’

She thought for a moment, then gave Michael a curt nod before following her husband. Bartholomew watched her open the door and bustle inside the shop, where scholars were waiting to be served with orders of pens, parchment, ink and the cheap copies of selected texts known as exemplar pecia . She did not look back, but Bartholomew could tell she was livid. He wondered whether she would inform Langelee about Michael’s threats, and plunge the College into a bitter dispute between its Master and its most influential member.

‘Thank you,’ he said sincerely. ‘But you should not have intervened, Brother. I do not want you involved in this mess.’

‘In what mess?’ The physician’s odd choice of words to describe his romance did not escape the astute Michael. He looked searchingly at his friend’s face, and spoke kindly. ‘What are you not telling me, Matt?’

‘Nothing,’ mumbled Bartholomew, acutely uncomfortable. ‘But thank you for taking care of Weasenham. I will tell Matilde what you did, and will ask her about whatever it is that Eudo and Boltone are supposed to have stolen when I visit this evening.’

‘There is something amiss,’ said Michael, catching his arm and preventing him from walking on. ‘You never normally pass up an opportunity to see Matilde.’

Bartholomew searched desperately for a way to change the subject, knowing it would not be long before the monk smoked out his most intimate secrets if the discussion were to run its course. He was simply too tired for convincing prevarication, and Michael was too skilled an interrogator. He was transparently relieved to see John Wormynghalle and Dodenho coming towards them, deep in the throes of a debate. He did not know them well, but they served his purpose.

‘Good afternoon!’ he called, hailing them with considerable enthusiasm. ‘How are you?’

Wormynghalle was startled to be so buoyantly addressed, but Dodenho considered it only natural that someone should be interested in the state of his health.

‘I am in need of a physic,’ he announced. ‘Paxtone says I should take a purge but I detest those. I am sure there is a less dramatic way to remedy this burning in my innards.’

‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew, feeling on safer ground now he was talking about medicine. ‘A chalk solution might help, or perhaps some charcoal mixed with poppy juice and wine.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Dodenho, nodding keenly. ‘The latter remedy sounds acceptable. But omit the charcoal, if you please. Come to King’s Hall and write the recipe for this concoction now, so I can send it to the apothecary.’

It was difficult to refuse, having initiated the conversation in the first place, but Michael did not object as Dodenho led them into his College. The chance encounter presented a good opportunity for the monk to ask Dodenho whether Eudo and Boltone had stolen something from him, not to mention probing further into his relationship with the dead Chesterfelde. However, the boastful scholar was not Michael’s main concern at that moment: he was more troubled by what he now thought of as Bartholomew’s ‘predicament’ with Matilde, and resolved to add it to his list of problems to solve.

Dodenho led Bartholomew to his chamber, Michael and Wormynghalle trailing behind them, but then realised he had run out of ink. He claimed it was because he used so much for scribing his erudite masterpieces, but Bartholomew looked around the room and knew he was lying. It was arranged in such a way that writing would be difficult: its two desks were shoved in a corner where the light was poor, and the area near the window – where the tables should have been – held a pair of comfortable chairs that were obviously used for dozing in the sun.