Susanna GREGORY - The Mark of a Murderer

‘And Gonerby let him do it?’ asked Michael archly. ‘Polmorva did not try to intervene?’

Cynric shrugged. ‘I only repeat what Abergavenny said. I had to loosen his tongue with a fair amount of ale before he confided that much in me, but it was worth the expense. It will make an excellent tale for Christmas, when we sit by the fire and frighten each other with accounts of demons and their evil doings.’

‘It was a demon who inflicted this fatal wound, was it?’ asked Michael, rubbing his thin, brown hair with a piece of sacking to dry it. ‘Not a person?’

‘Of course,’ said Cynric, who was always matter-of-fact where diabolical powers were concerned. Bartholomew was sure he believed far more strongly in the wicked potency of Satan than he did in the good teachings of the Church. ‘No sane fellow eats the neck of another person, so it must have been a fiend – one who looks like a man. And he fled here, to Cambridge, to escape justice.’

‘Does Abergavenny know where to find this creature?’ asked Michael, more concerned that such a mission might result in civil disorder than by the prospect of confronting a supernatural foe. No townsman would stand idle on hearing the news that there was a demon at the University who liked to chew people’s throats, while masters and students would fight to prove their school’s innocence.

‘He knows he must look among the scholars,’ said Cynric. ‘He and his friends were in the King’s Head again today, asking after any students who have arrived here since February. They also enquired whether there have been any peculiar deaths or injuries recently.’

‘The man in the cistern,’ said Michael to Bartholomew. ‘You said he had a wound in his throat. Could that have been caused by a bite?’

‘I do not know,’ replied Bartholomew unhappily. ‘It might have been.’

‘We shall know soon enough,’ said Michael, donning clean clothes and stepping out from behind his screen a new man. ‘Dick promised to dredge the well, and we shall see what emerges. This case has suddenly turned nasty, but there is nothing more we can do tonight, and I am tired. We shall interview the merchants tomorrow and demand to know why they misled us about Gonerby’s death. And we shall have words with Polmorva, too. I detest a liar, and he has told more than his share.’

‘And Duraunt,’ suggested Langelee. ‘Do not omit him from your enquiries just because Matt says he was pleasant, kind and abstemious twenty years ago.’

That night, Bartholomew lay on his bed and watched the stars through the open window, thinking about Chesterfelde, Gonerby and the body in the cistern. Were the three deaths connected, or were they independent examples of human violence? He considered the various questions that had arisen since he had inspected Chesterfelde.

First, and most disturbing, was Duraunt and his relationship to Polmorva. When Bartholomew had been a student, Duraunt had defended him many times against his rival, but now Duraunt and Polmorva were friends – or, if not friends, then allies – and Duraunt was happy to allow him to stay in Merton property. Why? Was Polmorva blackmailing Duraunt, perhaps about his drinking or weakness for soporifics? Or was there genuine affection between the two that had flourished after Bartholomew had left? And what was Polmorva’s purpose in visiting Cambridge? To escape Oxford’s unrest, as he claimed, or because he was witness to the very murder the merchants had come to solve? If the latter was true, then did it mean Duraunt was also involved in Gonerby’s death, and his decision to confront Boltone about dishonest accounting was incidental?

Mention of the bailiff brought other questions surging into his mind. The fact that Boltone and Eudo had been working near a cistern that contained a corpse was an odd coincidence, and Bartholomew was fairly sure, from the amount of blood at the pit, that Chesterfelde had died there. The stains had not come from the unidentified body, because that had been dead for much longer, and recent rains would have washed away any remaining spillage. There was also the curious fact that Chesterfelde and Eudo both had wounds on their arms. Eudo attributed his to staggering home from a tavern, while Chesterfelde was alleged to have been drunk. Did that hold any significance, or did it just mean a lot of powerful drink had been imbibed that night?

Bartholomew considered Chesterfelde further. He and Spryngheuse were accredited with starting the St Scholastica’s Day riot, although Spryngheuse denied the charge. Was it possible the unrest had been deliberately engineered, to create an opportunity for Gonerby to be bitten? But then why had the affair come to Cambridge? Were the merchants right, and the killer was a Cambridge scholar? Or was he an Oxford man who had fled to Cambridge to escape the hue and cry after Gonerby’s murder? Or was he from neither university, and his intention was to strike at both institutions? Not everyone thought scholarship was a good thing, and some folk believed it had been academic probing of matters best left to God that had encouraged Him to send the plague.

Bites. Bartholomew closed his eyes and hoped with all his heart that what Abergavenny had told Cynric was wrong. He recalled the gaping wound in the throat of the corpse in the cistern and knew it could have been caused by something tearing at it – including teeth. He wished he could have confided in Michael, but he had sworn to keep his silence, and so was condemned to struggle with his fears alone; he dared not even discuss them with Matilde. He thought about her, and smiled despite his agitation, then eased quietly off the bed, hoping his colleagues were asleep so he could leave without awkward interrogations. Lights burned in the chamber where William lived, so he forced himself to wait until they were doused. Of all the Fellows, William would be the one to issue a direct challenge if he caught someone leaving in the middle of the night, and the physician was far too tired to prevaricate convincingly.

Eventually, all candles were extinguished, and he left with the liripipe wrapped inexpertly around his head in the hope that the ruse devised by his sister would work. It was drizzling and, since his own cloak was being laundered, he donned Spryngheuse’s instead, hoping the Merton man would not mind. He crept through the sleeping College and slipped out through the orchard door, careful to leave it unlocked, although he predicted he would find it barred from the inside by the time he returned.

He trotted along the empty streets to the Jewry, ducking into doorways in a feeble attempt at stealth. He saw no one watching him, but was painfully aware that his wits were dulled from exhaustion. His best hope was that the hated liripipe would do its work. It was scratchy, restrictive and uncomfortable, and he determined that if anyone recognised him that night he would never wear the thing again.

At last he reached Matilde’s house, where he knocked softly. The door opened almost immediately, indicating she had been waiting for him. He stepped inside, then saw who was sitting on the bench near the hearth.

‘Good evening, Matt,’ said Michael, sipping from a goblet of wine. His eyes were irresistibly drawn upwards. ‘Nice hat.’

‘You could have trusted me,’ said Michael reproachfully, as he sat with Bartholomew and Matilde in her tiny house later that night. They had spent at least three hours talking softly, ironing out all the misunderstandings that had accrued over the last fortnight. Bartholomew was indescribably relieved, and felt as if a great burden was lifted from his shoulders. Some of his tiredness began to dissipate, too, and he realised his nocturnal duties had placed him under more strain than he had appreciated.

‘It was not my decision to make,’ he replied, sipping the wine Matilde had poured him. It was sweet and pale, and he felt it warming him through to the stomach.