Susanna GREGORY - The Mark of a Murderer

‘Matthew was always better than you at astrological calculations,’ said Duraunt softly. ‘Do not accuse him of poor scholarship in an area where he excelled.’

‘Why did you buy it in the first place?’ asked Michael, while Polmorva reddened at the reprimand. ‘Or do you make a point of purchasing inferior goods with your unlimited wealth?’

The look Polmorva shot him was supremely venomous. ‘I have a liking for unusual objects – how many silver astrolabes have you ever seen? – and Dodenho asked a very reasonable price. Then Wormynghalle took a liking to it, and since it did not work well enough to be useful, I sold it to him. At a handsome profit.’

‘How handsome?’ demanded the tanner, not liking the notion he had been fleeced.

‘And why did you buy a defective astrolabe?’ demanded Michael, rounding on him.

‘Because he thought owning one would make him appear erudite,’ said Eu with a superior sneer. ‘He buys anything he thinks will raise him in the opinion of his peers.’

Wormynghalle came to his feet, his thick features flushed with rage. ‘What did you say?’

‘You heard,’ said Eu, leaning back in his chair and stretching his legs in front of him in an attitude that screamed disdain. ‘No amount of good cloth and expensive jewels can change the fact that you hail from a ditch. You should have claimed a kinship with that grubby scholar from King’s Hall, because even he would have improved your pedigree.’

‘You vain cockerel–’ began Wormynghalle, making towards Eu with a murderous expression on his face. Michael interposed his substantial bulk between them and Wormynghalle almost lost his footing when he cannoned into him and bounced off again.

‘Now, now, gentlemen,’ said the monk. ‘I did not come to hear you quarrel. I want answers about this astrolabe. It belonged to Polmorva, who sold it to Wormynghalle. Then what?’

‘It was stolen,’ said Wormynghalle sullenly. He clutched his sheep-head pendant so hard that his fingers were white, and Bartholomew had the feeling he would dearly love to bludgeon Eu with it. It was heavy enough to do serious damage, and the physician made a mental note to check it for bloodstains, if Eu was ever murdered. ‘And I know exactly who took it.’

‘Who?’ demanded Michael. ‘Eudo? Boltone?’

‘Bartholomew,’ said Wormynghalle, pointing an accusing finger at the physician. ‘I wanted to report him to the Chancellor, but Duraunt persuaded me to overlook the matter, on the grounds that I can buy a better one in Oxford anyway.’

‘Of course it was him,’ said Polmorva, so Bartholomew knew exactly who had planted the seed of that particular accusation. ‘As I said, he will never earn enough to buy one for himself, so theft was his only recourse.’

‘I do not want us associated with any more disagreeable matters,’ explained Duraunt to Michael. ‘And if Matthew needed an astrolabe, then I could not find it in my heart to take it from him.’

‘I did not steal it,’ objected Bartholomew, amazed Duraunt should think he had. A charge from Polmorva was one thing, but to have his old teacher convinced of his guilt was another altogether.

‘You were the only one we saw looking at it,’ said Duraunt. ‘If it was not you, then who was it?’

‘It was him,’ snapped Wormynghalle. ‘He is poor and of course will covet such a lovely thing – especially knowing it had once been the property of his rival.’

‘But I do not want an astrolabe,’ objected Bartholomew indignantly. ‘I have no time for calculating pointless horoscopes that are of no use to man nor beast.’

‘Matthew!’ exclaimed Duraunt, shocked. ‘You are a physician: you cannot manage without the calculations that tell you how and when to treat your patients. It would be grossly negligent.’

‘He probably relies on the Devil to tell him what to do,’ said Polmorva.

Bartholomew did not deign to reply, suspecting that anything he said would be twisted and given a sinister meaning. Suddenly he wished Polmorva and the whole Oxford contingent would just go home, taking their petty disputes and unfounded accusations with them. He was tired of them all, even Duraunt, and regretted agreeing to accompany Michael to Merton Hall.

‘But if you did not swipe it, then who did?’ demanded Wormynghalle.

‘I imagine it was someone here,’ replied Michael. ‘Polmorva told us he purchased it because it was unusual, and he is an astute man, who would have tested the thing before parting with his gold. Ergo , he knew it was defective when he bought it, and so would not have sold it for that reason, as he has just claimed.’

‘What are you saying?’ demanded Polmorva, anger flashing in his eyes. Bartholomew saw something else, too. Alarm. Michael was coming close to the truth.

Michael shrugged. ‘I was just thinking about one of the Sheriff’s cases, where a man sold a horse, and then stole it back again to sell a second time. He was unable to resist the lure of a “handsome profit”, you see. But suffice to say that the astrolabe was taken from Wormynghalle, and ended up in the cache recovered from the cistern, along with other stolen property.’

‘The cistern?’ asked Abergavenny. ‘You mean the one that was emptied here? We have not been told about any cache. To whom did it belong? Eudo, I suppose. That must be why he fled with Boltone.’

‘The astrolabe’s travels are very confusing,’ said Duraunt, while Polmorva scowled and Wormynghalle looked as though he was not sure what to think. ‘It was originally Dodenho’s, but it went missing from King’s Hall before reappearing again. Dodenho sold it to Polmorva, Polmorva passed it to Wormynghalle, then…’ he hesitated, not sure how to phrase the next part.

‘…then it was removed from Wormynghalle,’ said Michael smoothly, ‘and found its way to the cistern hoard, and it is now in the care of Weasenham the stationer.’

‘Then Weasenham will restore it to its rightful owner,’ said Duraunt with a pleased smile. ‘And we need say no more about the matter.’

‘That is me,’ said Wormynghalle, ‘although I am not sure I want a defective instrument. I will offer to sell it to him – for a “handsome profit”.’ He glared at Polmorva.

Polmorva was outraged with Michael. ‘You have accused me of the vilest of crimes. Me! A one-time Chancellor of Oxford University and a Fellow of Queen’s College! I demand an apology.’

While Polmorva was ranting, Bartholomew had been gazing out of the window, thinking about the astrolabe and wondering whether its travels between various murder suspects were significant. He could see the cistern in the distance, surrounded by muck from its recent dredging. As he stared, he became aware of something else, too. He frowned, and looked harder.

‘Spryngheuse,’ he said, interrupting Polmorva’s tirade. ‘When did he go out?’

‘Hours ago,’ replied Abergavenny. ‘He is probably praying for Chesterfelde. Why do you ask?’

Bartholomew pointed. ‘He is not in any church. He is there: I recognise his cloak.’

Duraunt joined him at the window, and his jaw dropped in horror. ‘But he is dangling from that tree – by the neck!’

‘Yes,’ agreed Bartholomew softly. ‘And he is almost certainly dead.’

Spryngheuse was indeed dead. When Bartholomew and Michael arrived in the garden, with the Oxford men behind them, it was obvious that the Mertonian was beyond any earthly help. Duraunt insisted the body should be cut down and removed to a church as soon as possible, and Polmorva and the merchants concurred in a rare consensus. They were furious that another of their number had perished, and Bartholomew had very little time to examine the body in situ before the rope around its neck was untied and Spryngheuse was lowered to the ground.