Susanna GREGORY - The Mark of a Murderer

‘Well?’ asked Michael, coming to stand next to him. ‘Did he die from a fever?’

‘He may have had one,’ replied Bartholomew, still breathing deeply. ‘But it is not what killed him.’

‘What then?’ asked Michael, although Bartholomew could tell from the expression on his face that he already knew the answer.

‘A wound to his throat,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It was completely concealed by the liripipe. Paxtone heard he had a fever, and thought nothing odd about the victim being wrapped up for warmth. However, Okehamptone bled to death, which explains why Paxtone said his face – what he could see of it without moving the hood – was pale and waxy.’

‘But even I know a good deal of blood escapes from a throat wound. Surely Paxtone would have noticed that?’

‘I imagine that is why the body was wrapped in the blanket – to hide the blood.’

‘Damn Paxtone! I thought I could trust him. No wonder he refused to accept payment. I thought he was being noble, but it was because his conscience would not let him take money for something he did not do. So, Okehamptone was murdered after all?’

‘I have seldom seen a more savage injury, and there is no earthly possibility that he could have inflicted it himself.’

Michael sighed. ‘Then there is one more thing I need to know.’

‘You want to know what caused it. It looks like a bite, Brother. Okehamptone died from a wound that shows clearly etched teeth marks.’

Neither Bartholomew nor Michael wanted to linger near All-Saints-next-the-Castle, so they left the churchyard and walked briskly down Castle Hill towards the town. Dawn was close, and here and there were signs that folk were stirring. Smoke wafted through the air as fires were kindled, and lights could be seen through the cracks of the window shutters of those wealthy enough to afford lamps. A cockerel crowed and a dog barked at the sound of Tulyet’s soldiers marching back to their quarters after a night on duty.

It was Michael’s turn to conduct the daily mass – although he was a monk, he had been granted dispensation by his bishop to perform priestly duties during the plague, and he had continued the practice since – and Bartholomew was scheduled to assist him, so they made their way directly to St Michael’s. While Michael laid out the sacred vessels, Bartholomew busied himself by checking the level of holy water in the stoup, sweeping the porch and lighting the wax candles that stood on the altar. Neither spoke, and Bartholomew found himself unsettled by what he had discovered – not to mention the uncomfortable sensation that Okehamptone had not approved of his meddling. He felt as though something was watching him, and edged closer to the monk.

‘The wick on this candle is defective,’ announced Michael, breaking into his uneasy musings. His voice was loud in the silence, and Bartholomew jumped. ‘I do not want it to extinguish itself just as the miracle of the sacraments is about to take place. There are those who would consider it a sign of divine disapproval.’

‘Do you want me to trim it?’

‘No, I want a new one. This is almost finished, and it looks miserly when Michaelhouse always burns its candles down to the very last scrap of wax.’

Bartholomew left the chancel and went to the large cupboard at the back of the nave where candles and incense were stored. He thought he saw a flicker of movement behind one of the pillars and his stomach clenched in alarm, but when he went to investigate, there was nothing to see. He chided himself for his overactive imagination, and supposed it had been a bat, flitting about in search of insects. He groped for the key that was ‘hidden’ on the windowsill, then removed the bar that kept the cupboard door from swinging open when it was not locked. He knelt on the floor and began to rummage for the candle, straining to see in the darkness.

When he felt a breath of movement on the back of his neck, he assumed it was Michael, treading softly on the stone floor. He was about to tell the monk that there were no candles left, but that he would remind Langelee to order more, when he became aware that the presence at his shoulder was closer than Michael would have stood. His mind full of Okehamptone’s indignant spirit, Bartholomew leapt to his feet and backed away, heart thudding in panic. It was his rapid response that saved his life, for the heavy spade that had been aimed at his head missed, and smashed against the wall with a clang that echoed all around the building. He jerked away a second time as the implement swung again, and yelled for Michael. Even his tired mind had registered the fact that spirits did not wield agricultural tools and he knew it was no ghost that was trying to kill him.

The spade descended again, and Bartholomew found himself backed against the cupboard with nowhere to go. He tried to make out the features of the shadowy figure that lurched and ducked in front of him, and which seemed so determined to dash out his brains. Was it a thief, who had seen him enter the church, and thought he would be easy prey before the other scholars arrived? Was it someone connected to the peculiar case that involved Okehamptone and others being bitten? Foremost in his mind was Polmorva, who would not want the news spread that Okehamptone’s death was suspicious – even if he had not killed the man himself, he would lose what he had inherited. Or was Polmorva innocent, and it was someone else who wanted Okehamptone consigned to the ground with no questions asked?

‘Clippesby?’ he whispered, voicing a terrible fear that his colleague might have escaped from the hospital again. ‘Is that you?’

‘Matt?’ called Michael, much further away. ‘What are you doing?’

The silhouette faltered, then the spade came at Bartholomew in a jabbing motion. The physician twisted out of the way, lost his balance and toppled into the cupboard. Sprawled among the incense, he was an easy target, so he was bemused when there was a loud crash and he was plunged into total darkness. For several moments he did not understand what had happened, then he heard footsteps and Michael’s querulous voice. The cupboard door had been slammed closed and barred. He kicked and hammered furiously, but it was still some time before it was opened. He scrambled out and looked around him wildly. There was only Michael, standing with a pewter chalice clutched in one meaty hand, held like a weapon.

‘What?’ the monk demanded. ‘I thought there was something wrong when you started yelling, and now I find you playing a practical joke. I was praying, man! Have you no respect?’

‘Someone was here,’ Bartholomew shouted, pushing past him and aiming for the porch. ‘The door is open. You let him escape!’

‘Let who escape?’ asked Michael irritably. ‘There is no one here.’

‘Someone attacked me with a spade,’ yelled Bartholomew in agitation. He wrenched open the porch door and darted into the graveyard, looking around to see if he could spot someone running away or hiding. But the only movement was a cat tiptoeing through the dew-laden grass, trying to keep its feet dry.

‘A spade?’ echoed Michael, following him. ‘Who?’

‘I could not see his face,’ said Bartholomew, exasperated.

‘He was not a very efficient assassin, or you would not be here now, screeching like a demon and waking our neighbours. Keep your voice down, Matt, or we will be accused of conducting satanic rites that entail hurtling through dark graveyards and shrieking with gay abandon.’

‘Someone was here,’ Bartholomew insisted, although he spoke more softly. Michael was right: window shutters were beginning to ease ajar in the houses nearby. ‘Surely you saw him?’

‘I heard a good deal of yelling and crashing – all of it coming from you. And, as for the porch door being left open, it could have been the wind. You know what that latch is like. You are overwrought after examining Okehamptone, and–’