Susanna GREGORY - The Mark of a Murderer

‘What is your real name?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘It is not John Wormynghalle.’

‘I chose “Wormynghalle” because they are a clan of Oxford upstarts that I imagined would never come here. You can imagine my shock when that tanner appeared! I was obliged to visit him, and pretend to see whether we might be kin, all the while making myself unattractive, so he would not assume a connection we do not have. I did not want him thinking a scholar-relative might give him more credit with his mercantile rivals. It was all very awkward.’

‘It was lucky you chose Wormynghalle – Eu would have been far more thorough in exploring your origins.’

‘I knew that when I took the name – I deliberately avoided prominent, established families. But Wormynghalle’s relatives never leave Oxford. It was terrible bad luck that he did – and that he happened to come here, of all places.’ She smiled suddenly, so her face became softer and less intense. ‘My name is Joan.’

Bartholomew raised his goblet in a salute. ‘Well, Joan. I wish you the best of luck with what I anticipate will be a celebrated career.’

She grinned, and Bartholomew noticed she had artificially darkened her teeth in an attempt to make herself rougher. She had obviously worked hard on her disguise, concentrating on the smallest of details. He thought about the way she walked, and realised she had even perfected a boyish swagger.

‘Thank you,’ she replied. ‘Although your knowing my secret puts me at risk, it is actually a relief to confide in someone. A shared burden is easier to carry.’

‘I know,’ said Bartholomew sincerely.

‘What burden?’ asked Paxtone, bustling into the room with an amiable smile. ‘Can I help? After all, a burden shared by three will be lighter still than one carried by two.’

‘You can,’ replied Joan without a flicker of hesitation, moving quickly to stand on the stained rug. ‘We are talking about the burden of metaphysics to define the mode of existence and the essence of the separable. It would be very good to hear your thoughts.’

Paxtone was pleased to be asked to expound on such an erudite matter. ‘Where shall we begin?’ he asked. ‘With Aristotle or Grosseteste?’

For the first time in more than two weeks, Bartholomew enjoyed a full night of uninterrupted sleep. He had visited Matilde on his way home from King’s Hall, and had found Rougham sitting up in bed demanding chicken broth. His fever had gone completely, and Bartholomew knew he could not keep him there for more than a day or two. He was already planning how to reach Gonville Hall without being seen by the gossiping Weasenham, whose house he would have to pass, and then it would not be long before he heard rumours about other men with damaged throats – especially the one in the cistern. The dredging was likely to be a public affair, as it involved soldiers from the Castle, and the news would spread quickly. Okehamptone would not feature in the talk, of course, because only Bartholomew and Michael – and the killer – knew what had happened to him.

The following day, Michael took Bartholomew with him when he went to talk to the Sheriff about the search for Eudo and Boltone. Tulyet was frantically busy, organising bands of itinerant labourers to continue scraping the streets clean of ordure, renovate the Great Bridge so it at least did not look dangerous, and paint the livestock pens in the Market Square. It was not only scholars who wanted the Archbishop to be impressed: the townsfolk were determined that he should think well of them, too. As a result, Tulyet had scant resources to search for criminals in the vast wilderness of the Fens, nor had he found time to drain the well. He promised to do both as soon as he could, and Bartholomew and Michael escaped from his house when they heard Dickon making his way towards them, the army of servants who had been detailed to entertain him powerless to prevent the invasion.

Since a heavy spring shower was in full flood, they ducked into St Clement’s Church. They were not the only ones who had been obliged to take shelter, and Michael’s eyes gleamed with predatory anticipation when he saw that the entire party from Oxford, on their way to terce at St Mary the Great, had been caught in the deluge, too. On spotting Michael and Bartholomew, Polmorva promptly aimed for the door, claiming he was going to the Dominican Friary for a theology lecture.

‘I hope you find it as stimulating as the one you attended yesterday,’ said Michael casually.

Polmorva shrugged, knowing he had been caught in a lie, but not really caring. ‘It will be more rewarding than talking to you, Brother. But then, so is wallowing in pig dung.’

‘That is an example of Oxford subtlety, I suppose,’ said Michael, regarding him with disdain. ‘Do not leave, Polmorva. I want to talk to you.’

‘You have no right to order him around,’ objected Wormynghalle indignantly. ‘What do you want, anyway? More excuses for not finding Gonerby’s killer?’

‘You have not been successful with that, either,’ snapped Michael in return. ‘And do not pretend you do not know what I am talking about, Abergavenny. You have been in the King’s Head, asking questions of the locals, when I explicitly told you not to.’

‘What of it?’ demanded Eu. ‘We have businesses waiting at home, and we need to secure our culprit as soon as possible. Besides, you cannot stop free merchants from holding innocent conversations in taverns.’

‘I can prevent you from causing trouble,’ said Michael. ‘Because that is what you do when you ask townsfolk to list those scholars they think are murderers. And how can I hope to find your culprit when you are not honest about his crime? I was obliged to learn for myself that Gonerby was bitten to death. Why did you not tell me the truth?’

‘It was not necessary,’ replied Eu, unrepentant. ‘All you needed to know was that Gonerby was killed by a man who fled to Cambridge.’

‘Then what about Polmorva’s role? Why did you keep that from me, when speaking to an eyewitness might have increased my chances of success?’

‘He saw nothing useful,’ answered Eu. ‘And he asked us not to involve him.’

‘Is that true?’ asked Bartholomew of Spryngheuse, who was peering into the shadows of the aisle with a haunted expression stamped on his sallow features. No one took any notice of the question: the merchants were defending their actions to Michael, while Polmorva listened disdainfully and Duraunt closed his eyes in despair as another argument unfolded.

Spryngheuse spoke in a low voice, so only Bartholomew could hear. ‘Polmorva said Gonerby’s killer might hunt him if he learns there is a living witness to the crime, and he only agreed to come here if the merchants promised to tell no one what he saw. I understand his fear; I am terrified myself.’

‘Here is your cloak,’ said Bartholomew, tugging it from his bag and hoping it was not too badly crumpled. ‘Do you really think someone might harm you? You have been uneasy ever since you arrived.’

‘You would be uneasy if you were accused of starting a riot that left hundreds dead. Some of the victims have powerful friends, and they want revenge. And there is that damned Benedictine! He will not leave me alone – he seems to be everywhere I look. He may even be here, in this church, stalking me.’

Bartholomew strode into the shady aisle and looked around him carefully. ‘There is no one here.’

Tears shone in Spryngheuse’s eyes. ‘I cannot tell you what it is like to be terrified every living moment of the day. I do not sleep; I cannot eat. My only solace is poppy juice, but Duraunt will not give me any more.’

‘So that is why he had it,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But he is right: soporifics will not solve your problems. Do you think this Benedictine killed Gonerby? Or is he one of these avenging angels who lost influential friends in the fighting?’