Susanna GREGORY - The Mark of a Murderer

‘I suppose he will be taken to that horrible All-Saints-next-the-Castle,’ said Duraunt, looking sadly at the body as it lay in the damp grass. Bartholomew noticed his hands were shaking. ‘Like Okehamptone and Chesterfelde.’

‘It is outrageous,’ declared Polmorva. ‘When I return to Oxford, I shall complain to the highest authorities about our treatment here. Your town does not even allow us a consecrated church from which to bury our dead.’

‘You hail from a city under interdict,’ said Michael insolently. ‘What do you expect?’

Polmorva ignored him. ‘It may be too late for Okehamptone, but I shall do better for Chesterfelde and Spryngheuse. I want them buried deep in the ground – preferably hallowed – where they will be safe from physicians with macabre pastimes, and not in some vault where they can be picked at.’

‘I will arrange for them to be buried in St Clement’s,’ volunteered Michael. ‘Merton Hall is not in its parish, but the priest has plenty of room in his churchyard.’

‘That surprises me,’ said Polmorva unpleasantly. ‘I would have thought it would be stuffed full, given how many folk die in this sordid little settlement.’

‘The only people who have died recently are from Oxford,’ said Michael acidly, irritated that his offer should be treated with contempt. ‘But I cannot stand here all day when Spryngheuse lies without a coffin. I shall fetch one, and Matt will stay with the body until I return.’

‘Thank you,’ said Duraunt gratefully. ‘I will wait with him.’

‘There is no need for that,’ said Michael briskly. ‘Go inside. It looks as though it might rain.’

‘He wants you out of the way, so Bartholomew can examine Spryngheuse alone,’ said Polmorva astutely. ‘Do not let him. We do not want another of our colleagues defiled by his pawing hands.’

‘There will be no defiling here,’ vowed Duraunt, and Bartholomew was surprised by the glint of determination in his eyes. ‘Not on Merton land.’

‘Then do not leave Spryngheuse alone for an instant,’ advised Polmorva. ‘Besides, I have heard that the man who “discovers” a corpse is very often the man who has taken its life, and it was Bartholomew who first saw Spryngheuse. He probably killed him to strike at us.’

‘I have no reason to kill Spryngheuse,’ objected Bartholomew, becoming tired of the stream of accusations. ‘I barely knew him.’

‘He lent you his best cloak,’ snapped Polmorva. ‘Perhaps you thought that murdering him was the surest way to make sure you can keep it.’

‘Do not be ridiculous,’ retorted Bartholomew impatiently. ‘I have already returned it to him. And what makes you think his death is murder, anyway? How do you know he did not kill himself?’

‘Did he?’ asked Duraunt, concerned. ‘If that is the case, then he cannot be laid in hallowed soil, nor can he have the benefit of a requiem mass.’

‘He did not kill himself,’ declared Polmorva. ‘On the contrary, he was so determined to live that he spent the last few days telling everyone how frightened he was that someone might try to dispatch him. A man intent on suicide would not have cared.’

‘He was horrified when he learned Bartholomew was attacked while wearing his cloak,’ said Abergavenny thoughtfully. ‘He was certain it was his Black Monk, coming to snatch his soul.’

‘And he insisted on staying indoors, where he thought he would be safe,’ added Eu. ‘I wonder what induced him to go out today.’

‘I heard Duraunt telling him he would benefit from fresh air,’ said Wormynghalle, a sly and spiteful expression on his coarse features. ‘He must have taken the advice to heart.’

Duraunt was shocked. ‘I did nothing of the kind! Do not try to blame me for this death.’

‘I thought it was you who suggested he go,’ said Polmorva to the tanner, stirring already troubled waters, so that it was not long before everyone was shouting. Polmorva stepped back and folded his arms, and Bartholomew tried to assess what he was thinking. Was it simple satisfaction, because he had provoked another quarrel? Or was there a more sinister reason for his games – such as using the others’ anger to divert attention from himself?

Then Bartholomew studied Duraunt, who was suspiciously vocal in his denials that he had recommended a walk to Spryngheuse. Did that signify a guilty conscience, or was he merely appalled that anyone should think he was responsible for the scholar’s death? Bartholomew was deeply troubled by the notion that his old master might be involved in something untoward, but found the man difficult to defend when he thought about the poppy juice and what his sister had overheard in the apothecary’s shop. Were Michael and Langelee right when they pointed out that men changed over the years? Bartholomew had the sickening sense that Duraunt might have turned into something he no longer recognised, just as Duraunt had claimed Bartholomew himself had grown unfamiliar.

The merchants were equally impossible to read. Wormynghalle was red-faced with indignation that he should be associated with any wrongdoing, while Eu was loftily careless about what anyone thought, stating he had had nothing to do with the misfortunes that had befallen his travelling companions, and that was that. Abergavenny tried to placate them all, but it was some time before the voice of reason quelled those of dissent and anger.

‘Strong wine is the cause of all this,’ said Polmorva. ‘If you had not caroused so wildly the night Chesterfelde died, then he would still be with us and Spryngheuse would not have hanged himself.’

‘You were just as inebriated as the rest of us,’ snapped Duraunt. He realised he had admitted something he had denied before and a flicker of annoyance crossed his face. He gritted his teeth and continued. ‘You pretended to abstain, but you did not – not that night and not on other occasions. I heard you snoring later, in the way a drunken man sleeps.’

Polmorva assumed an expression of weary patience. ‘You lie, old man. You–’

‘Hanged himself?’ interrupted Wormynghalle, regarding Polmorva with raised eyebrows. ‘You just accused Bartholomew of murdering him, and I assumed you had good reason for doing so. Now you say suicide. Which is it?’

‘I do not know,’ said Polmorva icily. ‘I was not standing by this tree when he died to see what happened, was I?’

‘Really,’ said Michael flatly, in a tone that indicated he was not so sure. Polmorva bristled, but Michael turned to Duraunt before he could respond. ‘We will give Spryngheuse the benefit of the doubt, and will ensure he has all the due ceremony appropriate to a recently deceased scholar from a respected Oxford College. It is often difficult to tell the difference between murder and suicide in hangings, and we may never know what really happened.’

He shot Bartholomew a look that the physician interpreted as a suggestion that he should inspect the body later, without a hostile audience. It was a recommendation Bartholomew intended to follow, because he did not want to be accused of witchcraft or a morbid love of anatomy while he carried out his examination. Michael went to fetch the bier and Polmorva accompanied him, saying he wanted to ensure the monk left Merton Hall and did not go exploring by himself. The merchants declined to linger with a dead man – especially once it started to rain – and it was not long before Bartholomew was alone with Duraunt.

‘Are Polmorva’s accusations true?’ the old man asked in a voice that cracked with sorrow. ‘Do you defile corpses by prodding them after they have been laid to rest?’

‘I did inspect Okehamptone,’ admitted Bartholomew, not liking the way Duraunt considered his duties sacrilegious. ‘But only to find out how he died. I imagine most men would want justice if their lives were snatched by killers, and I do not think Okehamptone would object to someone discovering he had been murdered.’ He thought about the uneasy sensation he had experienced shortly after the examination, and sincerely hoped he was right.