Susanna GREGORY - The Mark of a Murderer

Duraunt went to sit on the cistern wall. The pit was already half full, recovering quickly from Tulyet’s drainage. ‘I find the notion of you caressing a two-week-dead corpse painfully disturbing. Did you “inspect” him with the help of a knife and rouse out his innards while you were there?’

‘I did not,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘That would be illegal.’

Duraunt sighed, and was silent for a while, evidently too unsettled to discuss the matter further. Eventually, he changed the subject. ‘The merchants are itching to be back to their businesses. I suspect they plan to blame Okehamptone or Chesterfelde for killing Gonerby, just to have something to tell this demanding widow. Both are dead, so not in a position to argue.’

‘They may be maligning the names of innocent men.’

‘Is that worse than seizing someone en route and dragging him to Oxford for hanging? Because that is what they will do if they fail to catch a culprit: they have vowed not to return empty-handed. I shall be glad to go home, though. Oxford is violent and unsettled, but I have friends there, and I know where I stand. Here I do not know who to trust.’

‘Like Polmorva, you mean?’

‘No, I do not mean Polmorva,’ said Duraunt, although his eyes dipped away when he spoke. ‘I know you dislike him, but it is the merchants I am worried about. Eu and Wormynghalle hate each other, and Abergavenny is hard-pressed to keep the peace. I would not be surprised to learn that one of them took the lives of Okehamptone, Chesterfelde and Spryngheuse. They hate my University with a passion, and may regard this as a good opportunity to rid themselves of a few of us.’

‘Then why did you invite them to stay at Merton Hall?’

‘Because I fear the St Scholastica’s Day riots were started deliberately, and I do not want the same thing to happen here. I would rather have the merchants where I can see them.’

It sounded noble, but Duraunt no longer struck Bartholomew as a man who would put his own scholars in danger to protect a strange town. Once again he was not sure what to think.

Duraunt forced a smile. ‘Let us talk of happier things, Matthew. Have you read any of the theories recently proposed by Heytesbury? We are proud to have him at our College.’

‘A Fellow from King’s Hall – Hamecotes – is visiting Oxford at the moment,’ said Bartholomew, grateful to discuss a topic that would not be contentious. ‘He has gone to buy books, and says he has already secured Heytesbury’s Regulae solvendi sophismata from Merton.’

Duraunt shook his head. ‘Not from Merton, Matthew. We never sell our books, because we barely have enough for ourselves, as I am sure you will remember. And Heytesbury’s Regulae would be far too valuable to exchange for mere money. It would be priceless to us.’

‘How odd,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘I wonder if Hamecotes made the story up, and has gone off on business of his own – or whether someone wants us to believe he is somewhere he is not.’

‘You think he is dead? Perhaps he is the body you saw in the cistern.’ Duraunt glanced behind him at the murky water, and stood quickly.

‘There is no reason to think that. Perhaps he has escaped with a lover, as Weasenham says. Or perhaps he is with Wolf, nursing him through his pox.’ Bartholomew went to where Spryngheuse lay, sorry he was dead and recalling the man’s distress in the days before he died.

‘Do not touch him, Matthew,’ said Duraunt softly, watching the physician close the staring eyes. ‘If you examine him and discover he committed suicide, then we shall have to inter him in unhallowed ground: my conscience will not allow anything else. But as long as there is doubt, he can rest in a churchyard. Let there be doubt, so he can be given a Christian burial.’

Reluctantly, Bartholomew complied.

Suspecting his Corpse Examiner would never have an opportunity to examine Spryngheuse unless he took matters into his own hands, Michael abandoned the notion of taking the body to St Clement’s, and arranged for it to go to St Michael’s instead. This, he assured the suspicious Oxford contingent, was a great honour, and Spryngheuse would be guaranteed prayers from men who were members of a University, like himself. When they remained sceptical, he offered to bury Chesterfelde at the same time – two interments for the price of one. Father William had agreed to undertake vigils with his Franciscan students, and Michael said he would recite the requiem mass himself, which met with further suspicion from Polmorva, gratitude from Duraunt and indifference from the merchants. It was, after all, not they who would be footing the bill for the funeral expenses.

‘And what about the interdict?’ asked Polmorva archly. ‘We have been told that prevents any Oxford citizen from being decently laid to rest.’

‘We shall bury them first and worry about the relevant dispensations later,’ replied Michael. He smiled at Duraunt. ‘Then, even if permission is refused, no one will want to exhume them, especially once Matt has described the diseases that might be unleashed in so doing.’

‘Thank you,’ said Duraunt, taking Michael’s hand in both of his own. ‘When will you perform the rite? It is Friday now and Chesterfelde died on Saturday. The sooner he is laid to rest the better.’

‘Today,’ said Michael, wanting the bodies out of St Michael’s well before the Visitation. He did not like the notion of the Archbishop stepping inside and declaring it reeked of the dead. ‘Before vespers. I hope you will all attend.’

‘We might,’ said Eu cautiously. ‘It depends on what else is happening.’

‘I will come,’ declared Duraunt. ‘And so will Polmorva.’ Polmorva looked none too pleased that he had been volunteered, but he inclined his head in reluctant assent.

Michael had arranged for Spryngheuse to be carried away by pall-bearers he had commandeered from Michaelhouse. Deynman and Falmeresham were more than happy to escape the monotonous tones of Master Langelee reading a text he did not understand, while Cynric was always willing to help the monk. The book-bearer nodded amiably at Abergavenny and exchanged a few words in Welsh, while Bartholomew and the students lifted Spryngheuse into the parish coffin. Then Cynric and Bartholomew took the front of the box, and the others grabbed the back.

‘What did he say?’ asked Bartholomew of the Welshman.

‘He asked me to keep you from dissecting Spryngheuse once you have him in your domain – but that if I cannot, then I am to make sure Duraunt and Polmorva do not find out.’

Bartholomew frowned. ‘What did he mean by issuing such a request? That he hopes no one will examine Spryngheuse, because there is evidence that he did not kill himself? And that Duraunt and Polmorva have a good reason for wanting such information kept hidden?’

‘Or that they are more likely to make a fuss,’ suggested Falmeresham practically. ‘That pair seem opposed to anatomy in any form, but especially when practised by you.’

‘Or that you may discover Spryngheuse was a suicide, which means he cannot be buried at St Michael’s,’ offered Cynric. ‘A suicide and a man under interdict is banned from hallowed ground on two counts.’

Bartholomew recalled Michael’s contention that Abergavenny was a man clever enough to kill and evade justice, and wondered whether the monk had been right. Tulyet was still convinced Eu was involved in more than he had revealed, while Bartholomew had not shaken his conviction that the blustering Wormynghalle was the villain. He grimaced when he recalled the way the tanner had levelled his accusation regarding the astrolabe, and supposed the dislike was mutual.

They reached the church, where Bartholomew ensured Spryngheuse was arranged neatly and covered with a clean blanket. Polmorva watched him with the eyes of a hawk, while Duraunt knelt nearby and prayed. Neither scholar made a move to leave the chapel, so Michael announced it was time for his mid-morning repast and begged them to excuse him. Bartholomew was bemused, because Michaelhouse did not run to additional meals during the day, and supposed the monk intended to inveigle an invitation to King’s Hall again. He followed him along the High Street and into St Michael’s Lane. After a few steps Michael doubled back, peering around the corner.