Susanna GREGORY - The Mark of a Murderer

‘But I do not,’ muttered Michael, peeved. ‘I hope they do not go all obtuse on us.’

‘I have no idea what you mean,’ said Weasenham, slapping a wrapped pen on to the table to indicate that the sale – and the discussion – was over.

Dodenho had other ideas. He leaned forward and placed his hand over pen and the fingers that held it, making sure he had Weasenham’s full attention. Wormynghalle looked from one to the other in confusion, while the stationer was visibly alarmed by the grip that pinned him to the bench.

‘When Tulyet saw there was no body in the well, he abandoned his search,’ whispered Dodenho. ‘But a small crowd had gathered to watch the proceedings, and some folk lingered, disgruntled because they were deprived of the spectacle of a bloated corpse. One hovered longer than most, and eventually approached the cistern and had a poke around for himself.’

‘You were watching me!’ exclaimed Weasenham accusingly. ‘Where were you?’

‘Nearby,’ replied Dodenho vaguely. ‘I am not a man for obvious gawking, but I have no objection to witnessing such events from a discreet distance.’

‘I do not think that is a very nice thing to–’ began Wormynghalle uncomfortably.

Dodenho ignored her. ‘I saw this onlooker fish about with a hook for some time before he snagged something of interest. He took his find – a waterlogged sack – to some bushes, where he thought he could inspect it unseen.’

‘What do you want?’ asked Weasenham wearily. ‘Half of what I found? You are welcome. Most of it comprised baubles that I shall toss into the river as soon as I have a free moment.’

‘Blackmail!’ cried Wormynghalle, looking at Dodenho in horror. He took no notice and fixed all his glittering attention on the unhappy merchant.

‘There was a little silver dog. I saw it being made for mad Master Clippesby of Michaelhouse. That was no mere bauble.’

‘It was a gift from Clippesby to Matilde,’ said Weasenham. His expression became gleeful as he saw a way to change the subject. ‘For services rendered.’

‘For her kindness to an injured cat,’ corrected Wormynghalle sharply. ‘Clippesby is besotted with animals, and she helped one that was hurt. She is a good woman and he wanted to show her his appreciation, so do not make it sound sinister, Master Weasenham, when we know it was innocent.’

Bartholomew warmed to her even more, admiring her for speaking out in defence of two people whose reputations were currently compromised in the unforgiving little town.

‘The dog was stolen from Matilde,’ said Dodenho. ‘There are rumours that Eudo took it, but the Sheriff found no trace of the thing when he searched Merton Hall. Now we know why. Eudo – aided by Boltone – kept his stolen goods submerged in the cistern, where no one would ever think to look. Tulyet’s men missed them, because they were looking for a body, not a sack of treasure. But you did not.’

‘I see,’ murmured Bartholomew. ‘Eudo and Boltone did not attack us because they were concealing a murdered corpse, but because they were protecting stolen goods. They had been working on the pulley when we confronted them, either because they wanted it mended so they could retrieve the sack, or because they had acquired new treasures that needed to be hidden.’

‘Interesting,’ mused Michael. ‘So, the bailiff and his tenant had nothing to do with the dead man. That particular corpse simply had the misfortune to be stored in the same place as Eudo’s loot.’

Bartholomew reconsidered. ‘Although we should not discount the possibility that they killed him because he discovered their hoard. Also, we should not forget that Chesterfelde probably died near the cistern – of a cut wrist. And Eudo also has a damaged arm.’

‘Eudo would not have let you examine his injury if he thought it would lead you to connect him with Chesterfelde’s death. The two gashed hands are coincidence, and the “connection” will mislead us if we pay it too much attention.’

‘What else was in the sack?’ demanded Wormynghalle of Weasenham, clearly disgusted by the stationer’s dishonest activities. ‘I assume you intend to return it all to its rightful owners?’

‘Just trinkets,’ reiterated Weasenham, with an anxious glance at Dodenho. ‘It contained nothing any owners would want to see again, I assure you.’

‘He is lying,’ whispered Bartholomew. ‘Eudo would not have tried to kill us for trinkets.’

‘I do not believe you,’ said Dodenho. ‘Why would anyone hide a sack of rubbish?’

Weasenham sighed in resignation. ‘I will show you, if you like. The dog was the only valuable piece, and you can have it – but only if you agree to say no more about the matter.’

‘No, thank you,’ said Dodenho with disdain. ‘I have no wish to possess stolen silver. My belongings are regularly searched by students desperate for my learned writings, and I do not want them to discover contraband in place of my erudite scribbling.’

‘What do you want, then?’ asked Weasenham. ‘My wife?’

‘Lord, no! She does not have the time,’ said Dodenho. Weasenham frowned, and Bartholomew was intrigued that the stationer should be observant in the affairs of others, but so blind in his own. ‘I want nothing more than a decent arrangement over parchment. It is expensive.’

‘I do not like this,’ said Wormynghalle uneasily. ‘I refuse to be involved in anything immoral, and–’

‘Quite right,’ agreed Weasenham. ‘You are a sensible man, sir. The King will not be pleased to learn that scholars from the hall his father founded submit poor merchants to extortion…’

‘I am not blackmailing anyone,’ said Dodenho smoothly. ‘I am asking for a mutually acceptable arrangement regarding the purchase of parchment. I go through a large amount of it when I pen my thoughts, and it would be of great benefit to the academic world if I did not have to worry about how much I consume.’

‘Very well,’ said Weasenham, defeated. He wrote a figure on a scrap of vellum.

Dodenho shook his head. ‘If you want to keep the noose from your neck, I recommend you be a little more generous.’

Weasenham wrote another figure. ‘And I will sell you this at a very reduced price,’ he said desperately, placing something on the bench next to the pen. ‘Every scholar should have one, and I hear you do not.’

It was Dodenho’s missing astrolabe.

It was not long before Alyce Weasenham returned to her duties, flushed and with her hair in disarray. Bartholomew saw Langelee through the window, making no attempt to hide the fact that he was adjusting his undergarments. Michael paid Weasenham for a small quantity of parchment and ink, and the two scholars escaped from the shop in some relief.

‘Lord, Matt,’ breathed Michael. ‘What a place! Did you see Dodenho’s face when Weasenham offered to sell him the astrolabe that was once his anyway? He looked as if it might bite him.’

‘Have you noticed how so many strands of this mystery lead back to Dodenho?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘He knew Chesterfelde – they laughed together in his chamber. He was in Oxford on St Scholastica’s Day, and I am under the impression he is a fairly frequent visitor there.’

‘He is – and he foists himself on Merton, to be precise. It is in our University’s records; all applications to study away must be ratified by the Chancellor, as you know. However, the foray he made in February was unofficial, because there is no copy of a request, although we know he went: we heard him admit as much ourselves. And now there is the curious business of his astrolabe.’

‘He accused his colleagues of stealing it,’ recalled Bartholomew. ‘Wormynghalle – and Clippesby – said Wolf may have disappeared as a result of the complaint, because he did not like being called a thief. Then Dodenho abruptly dropped the claim, and the astrolabe appeared in the hands of the tanner at Merton Hall. Then it was in Eudo’s hoard at the cistern, and now it is offered to Dodenho again.’