Susanna GREGORY - The Mark of a Murderer

‘Well,’ drawled Polmorva, reverting to spoken insults. ‘I see you have not used your education to earn your fortune. How have you managed to fall on such hard times?’ He reached for the pouch that hung at his belt, and his voice dripped with contempt. ‘Perhaps I can oblige with a loan? At least you could buy a decent tabard.’

‘Who is this cockerel?’ demanded Michael of Bartholomew, affronted on his friend’s behalf.

Polmorva gave one of his infuriating smiles. ‘I see you are a forgetful man, Brother. We were introduced last week, when you examined Okehamptone’s corpse.’

‘I do not recall you,’ said Michael with calculated insouciance. ‘As Senior Proctor, I meet many important men, and tend to dismiss lesser mortals from my mind.’

Polmorva gave another of his nasty sneers. ‘I am William de Polmorva, formerly Chancellor of the University of Oxford, and now Fellow of Queen’s College.’

Bartholomew could not stop himself from gaping. ‘They elected you Chancellor?’

Polmorva preened himself. ‘A two-year appointment.’

‘Queen’s College?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘You were a Fellow of University College when I knew you – after you had been expelled from Exeter.’

‘I was not expelled,’ objected Polmorva stiffly, and Bartholomew saw he had annoyed him. ‘I resigned, because University College offered me a better room.’

Bartholomew turned to Michael. ‘There were rumours that he was dismissed for embezzling.’

‘The rumours were false,’ said Polmorva coolly, while Michael gazed at Bartholomew in astonishment. It was unlike his mild-mannered friend to be so brazenly uncivil.

‘What are you doing here?’ asked Bartholomew again. ‘In a house owned by Merton?’

‘I was invited,’ replied Polmorva silkily. ‘I expressed a desire to be away from Oxford’s unsettled atmosphere, and Warden Duraunt asked if I would like to accompany him here. When I did not see you at the public debates last week, I made the assumption – wrongly, it would seem – that you had moved away. I confess I am surprised to see you today: if you have no time to attend compulsory disputations, then surely you have no time to satisfy a ghoulish interest in cadavers.’

‘He has been busy,’ said Michael, ‘with no time for old acquaintances – not even ones of your evident charm.’

‘Warden Duraunt is here?’ asked Bartholomew with eager pleasure. Some of his happiest Oxford memories were associated with Duraunt, a mentor who had been acutely intelligent, but also patient and gentle. ‘He is Warden of Merton now?’

Polmorva inclined his head in a nod, and returned to his own quest for information. ‘Are you some sort of lackey to this monk, Bartholomew? Or do you make use of your medical skills to lay out corpses? We employ pauper women for that sort of thing in Oxford.’

Michael eyed him with distaste. ‘I must remember to thank the good Lord that Cambridge has William Tynkell as its figurehead, and not a chancellor like you. I would not give much for its chances during a riot if it had to rely on your tact and diplomacy to soothe an enraged mob. Is that why Oxford was aflame in February?’

Polmorva gave a short bark of laughter. ‘Master Brouweon was in office then, not I – if I had been Chancellor, the rabble that attacked us would have been put down with proper force. But do not allow me to detain your from your important duties. Come upstairs and see about removing this body. It is a damned nuisance, lying in the way.’

‘Tell me about Chesterfelde,’ said Michael, indicating that Polmorva was to precede them up the stairs. He tried to sound detached, but did not succeed: Polmorva’s manners had irritated him far too deeply, and his next question came out like an accusation. ‘Who killed him?’

‘I thought that was why you were here. If we knew the identity of the killer, we would have dealt with the matter ourselves, not invited outsiders to meddle.’

‘That is not how things work in this town,’ said Michael coolly. ‘I investigate all suspicious deaths and the perpetrators are always brought to justice.’ He looked hard at Polmorva, and the unmistakable message was that he hoped the ex-Chancellor would prove to be the culprit.

Merton Hall’s main chamber was a large room with narrow lancet windows set into thick walls, which made it a dark and somewhat cheerless space. There was a hearth in the middle, and a door at the far end led to the adjoining solar. The floor was of wood, and was badly in need of cleaning, while ancient cobwebs hung thickly from the rafters. Bowls containing herbs had been placed on the windowsills, but they had long since finished emitting their sweet scent; they were dry, dusty and mixed with dead flies, and should have been changed. In all, the hall looked in desperate need of someone who would care for it.

‘Matthew!’ exclaimed an elderly man who sat by the fire. ‘I assumed you had moved away from Cambridge.’

Smiling with genuine affection, Bartholomew went to greet the man who had taught him the Trivium – grammar, logic and rhetoric – so long ago. Duraunt had aged since Bartholomew had left Merton to complete his studies in Paris. His hair was white, and there were deep lines in his kindly face. He had taken major orders with the Austin Canons, too, and wore a friar’s habit, rather than the traditional Merton tabard Bartholomew recalled. When he clasped his teacher’s hand it felt thin and light-boned, although the grip was still firm and warm. His grin was warm, too, and his face lit with joy as Bartholomew sat next to him.

‘You did not write as often as you promised,’ Duraunt said, gently chiding. ‘Nor did you accept my offer of a Fellowship at Merton. What does Cambridge have that we could not provide?’

‘My sister,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘She wanted me near her. Besides, I like the Fens. They produce a poisonous miasma that is the cause of several interesting agues.’

Duraunt smothered a fond smile. ‘Well, that is a virtue with which Oxford cannot compete.’ He glanced at Polmorva. ‘I hope you two will behave respectfully towards each other, and do not continue that silly feud you began as students. It was a long time ago, and I doubt you even recall what started it.’

‘I do,’ said Polmorva coldly. ‘It is not something I am likely to forget – or to forgive.’

‘You could have asked me about Matt when I came to inspect Okehamptone,’ said Michael, after a short and tense silence; out of respect for Duraunt, Bartholomew refrained from responding in kind. ‘You did not mention then that you knew him, and I was with you for some time.’

Duraunt shrugged. ‘You are a Benedictine and Matthew detests that particular Order. I did not imagine there was any possibility that you and he would be acquainted.’

‘Is that so?’ asked Michael, startled. ‘And what, pray, is his problem with Black Monks?’

‘He is very vocal about their venality,’ explained Duraunt, oblivious to his former student’s discomfort. ‘And then there was that business with them and the set of artificial teeth provided at feasts for those who had lost their own. He made no secret of what he thought of that .’

‘I can imagine,’ said Michael, intrigued by a hitherto unknown episode in his friend’s past. ‘But perhaps you would elaborate?’

‘Another time,’ said Duraunt, finally noting the mortified expression on Bartholomew’s face.

‘You have still not explained why you have come to deal with a corpse,’ said Polmorva, addressing Bartholomew. ‘Have I underestimated you, and you have reached the dizzy heights of Junior Proctor?’ He smirked disdainfully.

‘He is the University’s Senior Corpse Examiner,’ replied Michael, making the post sound a good deal grander than it was, ‘and one of our most valued officers. So, lead us to Chesterfelde’s body, and we can set about bringing his killer to the hangman’s noose.’