Susanna GREGORY - The Mark of a Murderer

‘I did not imagine anything,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘Someone tried to hit me, then locked me in that cupboard, so he could escape.’

‘The bar had been placed across the cupboard door,’ said Michael thoughtfully. ‘I assumed you had rigged it somehow, so it would drop down on its own, to make me wonder how you had done it. But this attack on you makes no sense. From what you say, the fellow had you at his mercy but gave up at the last moment.’

‘Probably because you were coming to my aid.’

‘Look,’ said Michael, crossing the grass to point at something. It was a sturdy spade of the kind owned by every man with a patch of ground to cultivate for vegetables. ‘This was not here when we arrived, so I suppose it is the weapon your would-be murderer intended to use.’

Bartholomew nodded, feeling weak-kneed now the excitement was over. ‘I saw nothing, other than the fact that he wore a hood to conceal his face. It could have been anyone: the Oxford merchants, Eudo or Boltone, Polmorva. Or someone from King’s Hall – Wolf, Norton or Hamecotes.’ He hesitated. ‘Or Clippesby.’

‘Damn!’ muttered Michael. He scratched his chin, fingernails rasping on his bristles. ‘Did he say anything to you? Did you recognise his voice?’

‘He said nothing. I asked whether he was Clippesby.’

Michael was thoughtful. ‘I wonder if that is what saved you.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Your question may have told him you were not who he wanted. Think, man! Look at what you are wearing: a distinctive grey-hemmed cloak lent to you by Spryngheuse. And Spryngheuse’s friend Chesterfelde has been murdered.’

Bartholomew considered. ‘We have just walked from Castle Hill, which is the direction we would have taken had we been coming from Merton Hall. I suppose it is possible that someone mistook me for him in the dark.’

‘So, he followed you, grabbing a spade in anticipation. His first blow missed, you began to yell and he realised he had the wrong man.’

‘What does this tell us – other than that the attacker is not Spryngheuse?’

‘It suggests it is not Clippesby, either.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew sadly. ‘It does not. If Clippesby really is losing what little reason he has left, then it may just mean that my calling his name brought him to his senses. And it complicates matters. We have at least two deaths caused by bites, but this man did not use his teeth.’

‘That does not imply we have more than one killer. It might just mean that our man is flexing his wings, learning to experiment and use whatever comes to hand.’

Bartholomew rubbed his eyes. ‘Lord, Brother! The sooner we resolve this, the happier I will be. I do not feel safe, and I sense that other people will die if we do not have some answers soon.’

‘I agree. My students will have to do without me for a while, because I should devote myself to this problem until it is solved. Only then can I be certain that the Archbishop’s Visitation will take place without some madman racing around wielding spades and flexing his jaws. Will you help me?’

When Bartholomew returned to Michaelhouse, a messenger was waiting with notification that his postgraduates’ disputations had been scheduled a week earlier than anticipated, and abandoning them to help Michael was out of the question. The monk went alone to his office at St Mary the Great, to look at the records that would tell him exactly when Clippesby had applied for leave of absence over the past year – and when he had been fined for going without permission. He had not been working long when he saw a familiar figure pass his window. He set off in pursuit, catching up with the fellow as he was lighting candles in the Lady Chapel.

‘Warden Duraunt,’ he said pleasantly. ‘All alone this morning?’

The elderly master smiled. ‘Polmorva is attending a lecture at the Dominican Friary. He is a dedicated scholar, and always seizes any opportunity to hear other academics speak.’

‘He will not find much to stimulate his intellect among the Dominicans,’ said Michael, voicing what every Cambridge man knew for a fact. ‘What about the merchants?’

‘Eu is in Grantchester, to see whether the lord of the manor might buy his spices; Wormynghalle went with him, because Eu is a good businessman and our tanner is hoping to learn the secret of his success; and Abergavenny followed them, to make sure they do not argue and kill each other along the way. I find their constant squabbles a sore trial, Brother.’

‘You do seem tired,’ said Michael.

‘Did you sleep poorly?’

‘I always sleep poorly – it is one of the burdens of old age. When it becomes too bad, I leave my bed and visit a church, just to sit in a quiet, peaceful place. Last night, for example, I went to St Giles’s at two o’clock. Polmorva escorted me, then returned to collect me just after dawn. Spryngheuse usually obliges but he has grown jittery since Chesterfelde died, and is reluctant to go out. He says he sees his Black Monk everywhere, but of course no such person exists. He invented the fellow, to take the blame for the riots, and has become so unstable that he now believes the lie.’

While he spoke, Michael watched him lighting candles, trying to assess whether he was strong enough to brandish a spade. He did not think Duraunt would harm Bartholomew, but he might have wanted Spryngheuse out of the way for reasons the monk had yet to fathom. But his examination was inconclusive, and in the end he had no idea whether Duraunt’s weariness came from attempting to kill someone with a hefty tool or from a genuinely restless night.

‘We saw Spryngheuse on the Great Bridge on Sunday,’ he said. ‘I am sure he intended to throw himself over the edge.’

Duraunt did not seem surprised. ‘I thought he would feel better, once away from the city where he is accused of bringing about a massacre, but first Okehamptone died, then Chesterfelde, and he is becoming increasingly distraught.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘I sent him to the stationer’s shop, just to get him into the fresh air. Now Boltone has absconded, I am obliged to make sense of the accounts he left behind, and I need more ink.’

‘Tell me about Polmorva. Why did he really agree to accompany you to Cambridge?’

‘Because he dislikes being in a city under interdict, like any Christian soul. It is a pity Matthew will not accept his offer of a truce. I had hoped they would have forgotten their differences after all these years, but Polmorva tells me Matthew rejects all his friendly advances.’

‘Polmorva is a liar,’ said Michael bluntly. ‘I am reliably informed that he witnessed the murder of Gonerby, and that is the real reason why he is here.’

‘No!’ exclaimed Duraunt. ‘I do not believe you!’

‘I am also told that he only pretended to be drunk the night Chesterfelde died,’ Michael went on. ‘ He might be the one who cut the man’s wrist and allowed him to bleed to death.’

Duraunt considered, then shook his head. ‘He would have been covered in blood, and he was not. Perhaps he did deceive us about the amount he drank, but I am sure there is an innocent explanation for that.’

‘And you?’ asked Michael. ‘What is your explanation for the amount you drank? No, do not look indignant. You may be able to divert Matt with your reproach, but not me. You were seen at the Cardinal’s Cap the night after Chesterfelde died. You were also intoxicated on the night of his murder. And then there is the poppy juice.’

‘My habits are none of your affair,’ said Duraunt sharply. ‘I admit I like a cup of wine, and we all enjoyed several the night Chesterfelde was killed. Perhaps I did imbibe too much, but who does not, on occasion? And the night after, I needed wine to restore my spirits – I was distressed about Chesterfelde, and about the fact that Matthew insists on quarrelling with Polmorva. Polmorva is destined for great things, and Matthew should acknowledge his talents.’