Susanna GREGORY - The Mark of a Murderer

‘You mean Matt should grovel to him? You do not know him very well if you think he would demean himself to such a man.’

‘I do not know him at all,’ countered Duraunt. ‘He has changed – and not for the better.’

Sensing they would not agree, and not wanting an argument that would serve no purpose, Michael took his leave of Duraunt. He strode out of the University Church and headed for the Dominican Friary, where he was not surprised to learn that Polmorva was not there or that no lecture was scheduled for that morning. He was retracing his steps to the High Street, when he saw the object of his enquiries trying to slip past on the other side of the road, Spryngheuse in tow. Smiling grimly, he waddled towards them and managed to snag a corner of Polmorva’s sleeve before he could escape. He was not so lucky with Spryngheuse, who declared he was terrified of all Benedictines, and fled without another word.

‘Brother Michael,’ said Polmorva, not pleased to be waylaid by physical force. ‘Have you identified Chesterfelde’s killer yet?’

‘Where were you last night? You took Duraunt to St Giles’s Church, and collected him before dawn. Where were you the rest of the time?’

‘Asleep, of course. I am no ancient, who needs prayers to make me drowse, and I went to bed after escorting him to the chapel. Everyone else was already dozing, so I doubt they will remember me coming in. You will have to take my word for it.’

Michael changed the subject. ‘The day after Okehamptone died, you told me that you were the sole beneficiary of his will, but only if he died of natural causes. If his life ended by violent means, his property would revert to the Church, to fund masses for his soul.’

‘He did not own much,’ said Polmorva. ‘And I am already wealthy, so I shall probably donate his paltry leavings to my College – some impoverished student might cherish his cloak, two battered saddlebags and a handful of exemplar pecia . Now, if he had owned land, I might have been interested, but he did not.’

‘What about Gonerby?’ asked Michael, unsure whether to believe him. He was finding Polmorva almost impossible to read. ‘I have it on good authority that you saw what happened to him.’

‘Is that so?’ said Polmorva coldly. He tried to walk away, but Michael grabbed his arm.

‘Tell me the truth, because if you lie to me I will send word to Oxford’s Mayor that you watched a townsman murdered, and declined to step forward and do your civic duty.’

Polmorva sighed, to indicate he was bored with the discussion and that Michael’s threats were more tiresome than worrying. ‘I took refuge in a chapel when the riots began, and I happened to look out of a window to see Gonerby walking along. He was strutting confidently, arrogantly, as if he imagined no one would dare lay a finger on him. Someone did, and he died for his lack of humility.’

‘How was he killed?’

‘It was difficult to tell – I was some distance away and the killer had his back to me – but the merchants say there were teeth marks in his throat.’

‘Did you recognise the murderer?’ asked Michael.

‘Of course not. All I can tell you is that he was a scholar, and he wore a hooded cloak that hid his face. There was nothing distinctive about him. However, I can tell you that he moved towards Gonerby with a definite sense of purpose.’

‘Really?’ mused Michael. ‘Then he knew his victim. This was not a random stalking during civil unrest, when everyone was free to do as he pleased, but a deliberate assassination.’

‘I do not speculate on such matters, Brother. That sort of thing is for proctors.’

Despite his determination to remain calm, Michael found the man’s manner intensely aggravating. ‘I shall be watching you very carefully, Polmorva, and if I find you played even the smallest role in bringing about these deaths – Gonerby’s, Okehamptone’s or Chesterfelde’s – I will see you hang.’

Polmorva laughed derisively. ‘Do not threaten me, monk. I am no undergraduate to be cowed by hollow words. If you want to charge me with a crime, then you had better ensure you have a very strong case, because if you do not I shall bring my own against you for defaming my good name. And, by the time I have finished, you and your pathetic little College will be ruined.’

When teaching was over for the day, Bartholomew went to visit a patient on the High Street. He was on his way home again when he met Paxtone and John Wormynghalle, walking back to King’s Hall together after attending an afternoon of lectures on logic at Peterhouse. Paxtone, always hospitable, invited Bartholomew to his chambers, and Bartholomew accepted, thinking it would be a pleasant way to pass the time before a statutory Fellows’ meeting at Michaelhouse that evening. As they crossed the yard, they saw Dodenho, rubbing his chin as if deep in thought.

‘Look at him!’ said Norton, who was watching. ‘He is waiting for Warden Powys to come home, and has been strutting around in that affected manner for the best part of an hour. He is not thinking up new theories; he just wants to impress Powys, in the hope that he will be one chosen to sit next to the Archbishop of Canterbury next Monday night.’

‘Powys will not select him,’ said Paxtone with considerable finality. ‘He will spout some of his ideas on theology, and Islip might recognise them as his own. Dodenho will steal from anyone.’

‘I need an astrolabe,’ declared Dodenho, as he approached the gathering. ‘I have several complex equations in my mind, but I cannot calculate them without an astrolabe. The world is suffering as long as I am deprived.’

‘You claimed your own was stolen – and then it was not stolen,’ said Norton. ‘I heard it was last seen in the hands of one of those Oxford merchants. You should beware, Dodenho – you do not want people associating you with their crimes.’

‘What crimes?’ asked Dodenho in alarm.

‘Murder,’ replied Norton. ‘They have been asking in the taverns about scholars who kill, and I understand you were in Oxford when the St Scholastica’s Day riots took place.’

‘Were you?’ asked Bartholomew, startled.

Dodenho waved a dismissive hand, but his eyes could not conceal his unease. ‘Only briefly, and I saw nothing of the fighting. Now, if you will excuse me.’

He scurried away, and he did not resume his scholastic pose, despite the fact that Warden Powys entered the College at that point. He merely shot across the yard like a child caught misbehaving and entered his room, where he slammed the door behind him.

‘Well,’ said Norton, amused. ‘There is an odd thing! But I cannot stand here all day. I must see a man about a dog in the King’s Head – a hunting dog.’

Bartholomew and Wormynghalle followed Paxtone to his chamber, but they had done no more than pour wine when a servant arrived with a summons for Paxtone; there had been an accident with an oven at the Mortimer bakery, he said, making graphic gestures with his hands to indicate that flames were involved. Bartholomew offered to go with him, but Paxtone assured him no help was needed and that it would not be long before he had discharged his duties. A less charitable mind might have thought Paxtone did not want another physician to watch how he treated burns, but Bartholomew was tired and had no desire to assist with someone else’s patients anyway. Wormynghalle was more than happy to keep him company, and was hauling a copy of Grosseteste’s De veritate from the shelf almost before Paxtone was out of the door.

‘Now,’ said the young scholar, plunging without preamble into the debate he had proposed the day before. ‘Grosseteste maintains that certain aspects of geometry are useful in representing “cause and effect whether in matter or the senses”. Without representation by geometric angles, lines and figures, it would be impossible to know why natural effects are as they are.’