Susanna GREGORY - The Mark of a Murderer

‘Okehamptone died of natural causes,’ said Michael, surprised by the comment. ‘Paxtone confirmed it – said there was no doubt at all. He even signed a document to that effect, at Polmorva’s request, because Polmorva was Okehamptone’s designated heir.’

Bartholomew stared at him. ‘But Paxtone did not examine the body: he accepted the explanations of the dead man’s companions, and he said a few prayers, but that is all. And now you say Polmorva had a strong motive for murdering him? He will inherit all Okehamptone owned?’

Michael’s eyes were huge in the gloom. ‘Are you saying Okehamptone’s death might be suspicious, too?’

‘I have no idea, but I doubt you will ever get permission to find out. People do not like disturbing the dead once they have been buried. Damn Weasenham’s toothache! If he had not summoned me, I would have been able to examine Okehamptone in the first place.’

Michael scratched his chin. ‘Damn indeed. I should have known to look more carefully at a death in which a man like Polmorva was involved. Let us not forget that business about how much wine was swallowed on the night of Chesterfelde’s death, either. Spryngheuse said Polmorva drank very little. Perhaps he waited until the others were suitably insensible, and then used the opportunity to rid himself of Chesterfelde, buoyed up by his success with Okehamptone.’

‘But why?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Even Polmorva would not kill without a motive.’

‘Who knows what disagreements they might have had in the past? He has not seen you for twenty years, but his enmity towards you has grown no less intense. For all we know, Okehamptone and Chesterfelde were his rivals, too. We do not know his motive, but that does not mean he does not have one.’

Bartholomew was disgusted. ‘So, if Polmorva did kill Okehamptone, then he has got away with it. We will never know whether he killed Chesterfelde, either, because no one will tell us the truth.’

‘Not so. There are questions I have yet to ask about Chesterfelde – particularly of Eudo and Boltone. I have sent the reliable and determined Beadle Meadowman to hunt for them, so it is only a matter of time before they are caught. I have not given up on Chesterfelde, believe me. And if Polmorva killed Okehamptone, then he is out of luck, too.’

‘What do you mean?’

Michael’s eyes gleamed in the darkness. ‘Okehamptone is not buried. I told you earlier that there is a theological query about whether men from a city under interdict can be buried in hallowed ground – that is why Chesterfelde lies here in the chancel. The same is true for Okehamptone. His body is temporarily consigned to the vault, right under our feet. All you have to do is open a coffin.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘There is a big difference between looking at Chesterfelde here, and burrowing in crypts after corpses that have been interred for two weeks. I will not do it.’

‘You must,’ said Michael. ‘You are my Corpse Examiner and that is what you are paid to do. I cannot do it myself – I would not know what to look for. Besides, do you want Polmorva to evade a charge of murder in your own town? Here is your chance to strike back at the man, and show him he cannot go a-killing wherever he pleases.’

He had a point: Bartholomew was reluctant to see Polmorva commit murder and enjoy what he inherited. There had been times in the past when he had suspected his sly adversary of ridding himself of men he considered a nuisance, although he had never managed to obtain proof. Okehamptone offered a chance to investigate one death properly, and Michael was right to urge him to seize it. He followed the monk to where a stout door marked the entrance to the undercroft, and watched him struggle with the bars and bolts that were designed to keep dogs and wild animals at bay.

When the monk eventually prised it open, Bartholomew saw it led to a flight of damp, slime-covered steps that descended into a sinister blackness. Taking the lamp, he climbed down them, bracing one hand on the wall when his feet skidded on the uneven surfaces. As he went deeper, an unpleasant smell assailed him. It was a combination of the recently dead, the mould that pervaded every stone and scrap of wood in the abandoned building, and the rankness of a place that had been derelict for too many years.

When he reached the last step, he raised the lamp and looked around. The vault was a simple affair: a single chamber that was about the length of the chancel. Its ceiling was low, and thickly ribbed to shore up the weight of the building above. A number of stone tombs were placed at intervals along the walls, some adorned with metal crosses that were green and crusted with age. Several had collapsed, leaving hefty slabs lying at odd angles and rubble littering the beaten earth floor. Niches cut into the wall held coffins, all crumbling and fragile, indicating that they had lain undisturbed for years. One was not, however, and was fashioned from bright new wood.

‘I assume that is him,’ he said, turning to look at Michael only to find he was alone. He sighed impatiently. ‘I need you to hold the lamp,’ he shouted up the steps.

‘Set it on a shelf,’ Michael called back. ‘I shall stay here, and say prayers for Okehamptone’s soul. But hurry. It will be light soon, and I do not want anyone to catch us here. It will look macabre, to say the least.’

Muttering resentfully under his breath that Michael should order him to do something so deeply unpleasant and then decline to help, Bartholomew grabbed the coffin lid and tugged, anticipating that he would need to find something to use as a lever, but it yielded easily. The wood was cheap and the barest minimum of nails had been used. He leapt in alarm when a rat shot out and ran across his hand, and he became aware that more of them were moving in the darkness to one side, rustling and scratching. Hurrying to be away before they decided that fresh meat might make an interesting change from old, he turned his attention to the contents of the coffin.

Okehamptone was not a pleasant sight, and Bartholomew was grateful the lamp was dim and masked some of the more grisly details. He had seen corpses aplenty, but not many after they had been buried or interred, and although there was little difference in the appearance of one that had been left above ground for two weeks and one that had been in a crypt, there was a subtle distinction between the two in his mind. He regarded one as part of the duty demanded by his office; the other made him uncomfortable.

Breathing as shallowly as he could, he began his examination. Okehamptone was swathed in a blanket, and the liripipe Paxtone had mentioned was still around his head and neck. Bartholomew observed that no one had done anything to the body except move it into its coffin – no one had washed it, brushed its hair or performed any of the usual acts of respect accorded to the dead.

Wanting to be thorough, Bartholomew ran his hands over the man’s head to assess for bludgeoning, then pulled back some of his clothes to look for other injuries. If Polmorva had poisoned Okehamptone, then there was nothing Bartholomew could do now, but he could ascertain whether the cause of death was due to a wound. He completed his examination, careful not to rush and miss something vital, then shoved the lid back on the box with considerable relief. He used a lump of stone to hammer the nails home again and left, slipping and stumbling up the slick steps in his eagerness to be away.

When he reached the chancel, he did not wait for Michael to secure the door after him, but darted straight into the graveyard, where he stood taking deep breaths of cool, fresh air, savouring the clean, fragrant scent of wet earth and living vegetation. His legs were unsteady and he was aware that the miasma of old death clung to his clothes. He walked to a nearby ditch, and crouched down to rinse his hands, using fistfuls of grass to scrub them clean.