Susanna GREGORY - The Mark of a Murderer

‘His lover?’ asked Dodenho, regarding Weasenham doubtfully. ‘I doubt he has one. No woman would want him near her, when there are men like me to oblige.’

Michael scowled at Bartholomew when he started to laugh and almost gave away the fact that they were close by. ‘I want to hear this,’ he hissed irritably.

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew, still amused. ‘You know it is rubbish – Rougham’s lover is a woman he pays every first Monday in the month, and he is definitely not enjoying himself with her now. Weasenham is a vicious-tongued snoop, and his stories are invariably lies.’

‘Rougham’s lover is no woman,’ said Weasenham, snagging Michael’s attention back again. Bartholomew peered through a gap in the shelving and saw the stationer’s face was bright with malice, lips pressed firmly together in sanctimonious disapproval.

‘It is not Chancellor Tynkell, is it?’ asked Dodenho. ‘I have heard he is a woman, and that is why he never washes – he does not want anyone to know what lies beneath his tabard.’

‘Do not be absurd,’ said Wormynghalle scornfully. ‘That story came from Bartholomew’s student – Deynman – and there are no grounds to it, other than his own ludicrously twisted logic. Of course the Chancellor is not a woman.’ Her fierce words made Dodenho take a step back in alarm.

‘You are getting away from my point,’ said Weasenham crossly. He was not interested in ancient rumours when he had new ones to spread. ‘Rougham’s lover is someone you know: it is Hamecotes. Do not believe the tale that he is in Oxford collecting books. It is not true.’

‘It is true!’ cried Wormynghalle, outraged by the aspersions cast on her room-mate. ‘I had a letter from him only this morning, telling me he has secured a copy of Regulae solvendi sophismata . It comes from Merton College, and he says it is annotated with notes in Heytesbury’s own hand .’ She glared at Weasenham, waiting for him to be suitably impressed. Bartholomew certainly was, and wondered whether King’s Hall would allow him to study it.

‘Besides,’ added Dodenho, equally affronted, ‘Hamecotes is not inclined towards men. He prefers women – and so does Rougham, if Yolande de Blaston is to be believed.’

‘Yolande is a whore,’ said Weasenham nastily. ‘She will say anything once she is shown the glitter of silver. Doubtless Rougham pays her to tell everyone he is a rampant and manly lover.’

Michael sniggered softly. ‘Poor Rougham! After all he has been through to keep his dalliance with Yolande a secret, here is Weasenham telling people that it cannot be true because he is in love with Hamecotes!’

‘Why pick on Hamecotes?’ demanded Wormynghalle icily. ‘Because he is away, and therefore cannot defend himself against these wicked fabrications?’

‘Wolf is away, too,’ said Weasenham, unperturbed by her ire. ‘Perhaps he is Rougham’s lover.’

‘Wolf has a pox, caught from dalliances with unclean women,’ confided Dodenho. ‘That is why he cannot be seen around the town this term, and why he cannot be Rougham’s lover. I should know, because I shared his room before he took himself off to the hospital at Stour…’ He stopped speaking and bit his lip, aware that he had said something he should not have done.

‘Now that is interesting,’ breathed Michael. ‘Here is something our friends at King’s Hall did not deign to mention before.’

‘You cannot blame them for that,’ Bartholomew whispered back. ‘Having Fellows with the pox is not something I would tell the Senior Proctor, either.’

‘Well, it is a pack of lies anyway,’ said Michael. ‘Wolf is not at Stourbridge, or you would have told me so when he first abandoned his duties. You have been there often enough recently, to visit Clippesby.’ He glanced sideways. ‘Right?’

‘Wolf is not there now,’ replied Bartholomew vaguely. He shook his head at Michael’s exasperation. ‘It is not my business to discuss the ailments of other scholars, Brother. That would make me as bad as Weasenham, and besides, who will hire a physician if he is the kind of man to spread embarrassing stories about his patients? It would not be ethical or proper.’

Weasenham’s eyes gleamed with interest at Dodenho’s slip, while Wormynghalle regarded her colleague in disbelief at his indiscretion. Weasenham was not so rash as to press Dodenho for details while she stood glowering, so he changed the subject back to Hamecotes.

‘I asked those Oxford men about Hamecotes and his alleged visits to the Other Place,’ he said snidely. ‘And they said no self-respecting college would sell scripts to a rival university. Then Polmorva told me that Hamecotes must be using book-buying as an excuse to enjoy his lover with no questions asked. So I put two and two together and…’ He raised his hands, palms upwards in a shrug, to indicate there was only one conclusion.

‘And made five,’ said Wormynghalle in disgust.

‘Hamecotes and Rougham are not lovers,’ said Dodenho, rallying too late to his colleague’s defence. ‘No self-respecting scholar would choose Rougham as a paramour.’

‘Because he could have you instead?’ asked Wormynghalle archly.

‘Quite,’ said Dodenho comfortably, thus telling anyone listening that he considered himself an excellent choice as a lover for people of either sex.

Wormynghalle grimaced in distaste at the conversation, and her expression echoed Bartholomew’s own opinion. The physician started to move away, wanting to leave them to their nasty speculations. What he heard next stopped him dead in his tracks.

‘Rougham is not the only scholar to have a secret lover,’ said Dodenho, trying to make amends for his lack of loyalty by attacking someone else. ‘Bartholomew of Michaelhouse is seeing Matilde, who lives in the Jewry. He is quite flagrant about it.’

Michael’s expression hardened, and Bartholomew held his breath, wondering whether Weasenham would be able to resist the opportunity to tell what he knew. If he did, then he was certain Michael would act on his promise to ruin him.

‘I know nothing of that,’ said the stationer stiffly, after a transparent battle between desire and self-preservation. Michael grinned in satisfaction, while Bartholomew was simply relieved that he and Matilde were no longer a target for the man’s spiteful tattle. ‘They are honourable people, and I do not see him flouting University rules.’

‘How dare you malign Bartholomew!’ snarled Wormynghalle, so white-faced with rage that Dodenho jumped in alarm. ‘He is a good man.’

Michael’s eyebrows shot up and he began to cackle. ‘You have an admirer – Wormynghalle has taken a fancy to you. You should take care you are never alone with the man, or Weasenham will be spreading rumours that half the Fellows in the University are in love with each other.’

Bartholomew said nothing, but was touched that Wormynghalle had come to his defence. After a few moments, she busied herself with selecting pens, while the stationer wrapped the ones Dodenho had already chosen. Dodenho looked around, then lowered his voice conspiratorially, although it was still loud enough to be audible to the eavesdroppers. ‘Have you heard the news from the Castle?’

‘Tulyet dredged Merton Hall’s cistern,’ said Wormynghalle flatly, attempting to stall yet more idle chatter by showing she already knew the tale. ‘Looking for a corpse. But he never found one, and there are rumours that it was never there in the first place.’

‘I do not mean that,’ said Dodenho, and Bartholomew saw him fixing the stationer with very beady eyes. Weasenham shifted uncomfortably. ‘But I think you know what I am talking about, Master Stationer.’