Susanna GREGORY - The Mark of a Murderer

Bartholomew was deeply unhappy with the step Michael had insisted they take, which entailed securing Clippesby in his cell and not allowing him out to help with the other patients. Clippesby said nothing, but his eyes held an immense hurt that had cut Bartholomew to the quick. He only hoped the case would be resolved quickly, and the Dominican could be either freed or convicted. He was certain either would be preferable to the friar than an indefinite prison sentence. He promised to bring scrolls, to help him pass his long hours of solitude and, on a whim, offered to find a cat or a puppy to keep him company. Clippesby declined, claiming he would not wish imprisonment on any living thing, and that the hell visited on him for communing with nature was his to bear alone, and not to be inflicted on other innocent creatures.

Physician and monk were still quarrelling when they met Tulyet. The Sheriff was striding along the High Street with some of his men, all of whom were dirty, wet and scowling, and Bartholomew supposed they had just finished searching the cistern. Tulyet did not seem overly pleased to see his friends, and Bartholomew sensed something was wrong.

‘Have you confiscated that bow from Dickon yet?’ asked Michael, either not noticing Tulyet’s cool manner or not caring. ‘If not, I would like to borrow him for a while. There are a number of people in this town I would not mind him dispatching.’

‘Do not jest about such things,’ said Tulyet curtly. ‘There are several folk he dislikes, and my wife is terrified he may try to shoot them, just as he did Eudo.’

‘Dickon disliked Eudo?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I was not aware they even knew each other.’

‘Dickon likes to look over our boundary wall, but Eudo took exception, and words were exchanged. So were stones at one point. I did not know about this until today, because my wife was afraid I would be angry. She says Eudo came to complain about it.’

‘Dickon lobbed rocks at him?’ Michael was amused.

‘They threw them at each other, apparently,’ said Tulyet. ‘But Dickon’s were better aimed.’

‘I am not surprised Eudo objected to a pair of curious eyes, given what has been happening around his cistern,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Clippesby claims to have witnessed a murder there a week ago, and says that was where Chesterfelde received his fatal injury, too. But Dickon saved us with his timely arrow, and I shall always be grateful to him.’

Tulyet gave a tight smile. ‘That is the only spark of light in this nasty affair: Dickon rescued two dear friends.’

‘Twice,’ said Michael. ‘Once when he shot Eudo and drove him away, and again when he fetched you to pull us out of the well. Has he told you about anything else he saw? I know Matt thinks Clippesby is a credible witness, who will impress any jury with his clarity and common sense, but I would sooner trust Dickon.’

‘You could never believe anything Clippesby says,’ said Tulyet, regarding Bartholomew as though he was insane himself. ‘He told me he was a monkey last month.’

‘Did he?’ asked Bartholomew, troubled.

‘He claims the similarity between men and apes means God used the same mould when He created them. Have you ever heard such nonsense? But I have questioned Dickon again and again about Eudo, and I still have no clear idea of what the boy saw. I suppose it is not surprising: he is very young and has no proper concept of time.’

‘Then what did your dredging reveal?’ asked Michael. ‘Who is this man with the cut throat?’

‘No one,’ said Tulyet. ‘We emptied the pit to the bottom, and nothing was in it except mud. Either you were mistaken, Matt, or someone was there before us and retrieved the body first. There is no corpse in the well, and no indication that there ever has been.’

‘I do not know whether to be relieved or alarmed,’ said Michael, as he and Bartholomew took their leave of the disgruntled Sheriff. ‘Without a body, we have no evidence of a crime, so I am not obliged to cram another investigation into my already busy schedule. However, assuming you did not imagine the entire incident and the corpse really does exist, then we have yet another mystery to look into: why did someone steal it?’

‘I hoisted it up easily enough,’ said Bartholomew. ‘So, anyone else could have done the same once word was out that Dick planned to drain the cistern. Eudo and Boltone could have reclaimed it before making their escape a second time.’

‘That assumes they put it there in the first place,’ Michael pointed out.

‘They must have done. Why fight us otherwise? It would not have been worth the trouble – or the risk. Boltone has a good job as Merton’s bailiff, while Eudo is a local man with friends who say he likes living here. Neither would willingly turn outlaw without good reason.’

‘Boltone is the subject of an enquiry. His life as a bailiff will never be the same, even if Duraunt deems him innocent, so perhaps he thought he had nothing to lose.’

‘Perhaps,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘It is a pity we do not know the dead man’s identity. He was youngish, because his teeth were white, but that is all I could tell you about him.’

Michael was thoughtful. ‘You should not be too convinced that Eudo and Boltone are responsible for this mysterious corpse. As far as I am concerned, he is Clippesby’s victim. I imagine he will be pleased to learn that the body could not be found.’

Bartholomew gave a triumphant smile. ‘And that is something to consider, Brother! If Clippesby killed this man and threw him in the cistern, then who pulled him out? The only person to benefit would be Clippesby, and he could not have done it, because he has been locked up at Stourbridge.’

‘Then what about all the times he escaped? He could easily have gone out, retrieved the body and been back before dawn, with no one any the wiser.’

‘How could he have known that Tulyet planned to drain the well?’

Michael sighed. ‘I imagine a robin or a weasel warned him. But I refuse to discuss this further until we have more information.’

‘And how do we get that?’

Michael tapped his temple. ‘By using our minds, as we have done on other occasions. We shall return to Michaelhouse, write down all we know, and analyse every eventuality until we see a pattern emerge. Are you prepared to spend a morning scribing for me? I do not trust anyone else.’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘And we will prove Clippesby is innocent.’

‘I see you intend to conduct the exercise with a suitably impartial mind.’

Since both had run out of parchment, they were obliged to visit the stationer’s premises, to buy more. The shop, strategically sited on the High Street, was a grand affair with a tiled roof and several spacious rooms. Weasenham, Alyce and their servants lived on the upper floor, while the lower chambers were where they manufactured their writing materials, scribed their exemplar pecia , and made their sales. Bartholomew liked the shop with its sharp, metallic aroma of ink, and the warm, rich scent of new parchment, although he was less keen on its gossiping owner. When he followed Michael inside, he saw business was good: the place was crammed full of scholars and clerks, some trying to read the exemplars without actually buying them, some passing the time of day with acquaintances, and others waiting to be served.

Weasenham himself stood at a table, where he showed two customers an array of pens made from swan feathers, demonstrating how much easier they were to sharpen than those made from the more traditional goose. Alyce was near the back of the shop, engrossed in a deep discussion with Langelee. She was laughing, and their conversation was clearly about more than the glue Langelee was pretending to inspect. When he saw his Fellows approach, Langelee left abruptly and somewhat furtively. Moments later Alyce followed, and Bartholomew glimpsed them both darting down the small lane that led to the rear of the house.