Susanna GREGORY - The Mark of a Murderer

‘I do not know. But my days are numbered, just like poor Chesterfelde’s, although he would never believe it. The Black Monk is playing with me, prolonging my agony. I wish he would just get it over with.’ He stiffened suddenly, and his voice became full of panic. ‘Is that him? Behind the altar?’

‘No, those are John Wormynghalle and Thomas Paxtone, sheltering from the rain because they are carrying library books,’ replied Bartholomew patiently, wondering whether Spryngheuse was becoming deranged; he looked unbalanced, with his frightened eyes and unkempt appearance. ‘They will be fined if one is stained with even the smallest drop of water. You know this: it is the same at Merton.’

‘True. But why are they skulking over there, rather than standing in the nave with the rest of us?’

‘They are not skulking. I imagine they are keeping their distance because Wormynghalle does not want another awkward encounter with his unmannerly namesake.’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Spryngheuse, relieved. He rubbed his mouth with shaking fingers, while Bartholomew raised his hand in greeting and the King’s Hall men returned his salute with friendly smiles. ‘But what shall I do? How can I be rid of this spectre that is so determined to drive me from my wits?’

‘Stay with Duraunt,’ suggested Bartholomew, wondering whether Spryngheuse might benefit from a sojourn with Brother Paul and Clippesby at Stourbridge. ‘He will not–’

‘Why would Duraunt protect me? He lost loved friends in the riot, too. But you are a physician. Will you calculate my horoscope and tell me when the Black Monk plans to strike? I have my dates written out, and you can borrow the tanner’s astrolabe… no, you cannot. It is missing.’

‘Someone has stolen it?’

‘For its metal, presumably. But it is no great loss, scientifically speaking. Astrolabes are better made of brass than silver, and this one is hopelessly inaccurate – made for display, rather than use.’

‘Did Dodenho reclaim it?’ wondered Bartholomew. ‘It was his to start with.’

Spryngheuse did not understand the question, but nor did he care. ‘Will you help me?’ he asked desperately. ‘I do not think I can stand the anticipation much longer.’

‘I cannot predict when you will die,’ said Bartholomew gently. ‘No one can, not even with the best astrolabe in the world.’

‘I visited a wise woman yesterday, and she said it would be soon, but refused to tell me the exact day. She said there is a black shadow following me – Death in the guise of a Benedictine.’

‘She was guessing. You look like a man at the end of his tether, and she used it to make her so-called prediction. Fight this, Spryngheuse. Or leave Cambridge and go to some remote village where you can use a different name and no one will know who you are.’

‘Yes,’ said Spryngheuse wearily. ‘That is what I should do. The only problem is finding the courage to ride off alone, to somewhere the monk will never find me.’

‘Enough!’ roared Michael suddenly. The merchants’ quarrel had reached screeching proportions. ‘You have lied to me and misled me, and nothing can change that. But I do not want to talk about Gonerby today. I want to talk about Okehamptone, who was also foully murdered.’

There was a tense silence, as the party from Oxford digested this information. Bartholomew watched them carefully, but their faces told him nothing he could not have predicted: Spryngheuse, Duraunt and Abergavenny were shocked, Polmorva and Eu were unreadable, and Wormynghalle was incensed, seeing the statement as an accusation that somehow besmirched his personal integrity.

‘Okehamptone died of a fever, Brother,’ said Duraunt eventually. ‘You said so yourself.’

‘I have reconsidered in the light of new evidence,’ replied Michael. ‘So, what have you to say?’

‘There is nothing to say,’ said Polmorva. ‘Okehamptone was hired as the merchants’ scribe, and he died when we arrived in Cambridge. Fever deaths are not uncommon after long journeys.’

‘England’s roads are dangerous, Brother,’ Abergavenny pointed out. ‘It is not just outlaws who present a risk, but sicknesses caused by rotten food, cloudy ale, dangerous animals, filthy beds…’

‘Strange whores,’ added Eu. ‘My father always taught me never to romp with harlots I do not know personally. Of course, getting acquainted with them first is not always–’

‘Bad water killed Okehamptone,’ declared Wormynghalle. ‘He drank from streams and wells, when the rest of us took ale. I warned him it was foolish, but he would not listen.’

‘Where did he drink this tainted water?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘How long before he died?’

‘He was always doing it,’ replied Wormynghalle. ‘He disliked the flavour of ale, although he adored wine. He gulped a vast quantity of well-water in a village called Girton, and was feverish that same night. It is obvious what killed him.’

‘Not Girton’s well,’ said Bartholomew immediately. ‘It is good–’

‘Did Okehamptone have enemies?’ asked Michael, before his friend could hold forth on the topic of water.

‘No,’ said Eu, surprised by the question. ‘We have already told you: we hired him because he was likeable. He had a habit of gabbling Latin with Chesterfelde, which was annoying…’

‘And he sang,’ added Polmorva. ‘All the time. Now that was really irritating. He was always a tone below where he should have been, and it was hard on the ear.’

‘Anything else? Was he quarrelsome? Aggressive?’ Michael fixed Eu with a stare. ‘Pompous?’

‘He was a scholar-scribe,’ said Abergavenny before Eu could respond. ‘So, of course he was pompous. But, as Eu said, he was a pleasant fellow – not wealthy, but his clothes were of a decent quality and he was clean.’

‘And that cannot always be said of scholars,’ added Eu, determined to have his say. He did not look at anyone, but Bartholomew assumed he was thinking of Tynkell.

‘You say he was murdered,’ said Duraunt when Michael looked indignant. ‘How do you know?’

‘That is a good question,’ said Polmorva. ‘What have you done? Been to the church and dragged the poor man from his coffin?’

Duraunt turned appalled eyes on Bartholomew. ‘Please tell me you did not disturb a man’s mortal remains. I know there are universities in Italy that condone that sort of unchristian behaviour, but I thought English schools were above such barbarism – especially scholars I once taught.’

‘Of course they have been in Okehamptone’s grave,’ said Eu. ‘How else could they have “new evidence”? They cannot solve Chesterfelde’s murder, so they have turned to Okehamptone instead, in an attempt to prevent us from finding Gonerby’s killer – to muddy the waters.’

‘Okehamptone died from an injury to his throat,’ stated Michael baldly.

‘His throat?’ breathed Duraunt, shocked. ‘I did not see anything amiss with his throat.’

‘Did you look?’ Michael pounced.

‘Well, no, but–’

‘Then someone must have invaded Merton Hall during the night and killed him,’ said Polmorva with a shrug, to indicate he considered the matter of scant importance. ‘He was alive when we went to bed, but dead by dawn.’

‘Wormynghalle provided us with a casket of wine the night Okehamptone died,’ recalled Duraunt. ‘He drank some of that, but we all did. Besides, wine does not wound a throat.’

‘It was our first night here, and I felt we should celebrate our safe arrival,’ said Wormynghalle, a little defensively. ‘Duraunt will accept no coins for our board, so I decided to repay his hospitality in time-honoured fashion.’