Susanna GREGORY - The Mark of a Murderer

‘Spryngheuse was an insignificant worm,’ called Polmorva, doing his part to prolong the discussion when Bartholomew and Michael fell silent. ‘Even Duraunt tired of him when he became too big a drain on his poppy juice. It is easy to procure enough for one man’s needs, but not two. Eh, Duraunt?’

The elderly scholar’s eyes remained closed, but his prayers became more fervent. Bartholomew was disappointed in his old teacher – for his lies as much as his dependence on soporifics.

‘Eudo helped, albeit unintentionally, by killing Chesterfelde,’ said Joan. ‘And then, when Spryngheuse learned that a man was attacked while wearing his cloak, it was the last straw. Justice was served with his death – his and Chesterfelde’s – because it was their fault that the chaos escalated. I only wanted Gonerby dead.’

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Did he discover you were a woman when you were at Merton?’

‘You are missing a vital piece of information,’ called Polmorva. His eyes showed fear, although his voice was steady. ‘The Wormynghalles marry well when they can – as Eu said, they are ambitious.’

Bartholomew gazed at Joan, recalling the name of the murdered merchant’s wife. ‘You are Joan Gonerby ? But it was she who insisted the burgesses came to catch her husband’s killer. Why would you do that, if you were the one who dispatched him in the first place?’

‘To rid me of a man who blocked my election as Mayor, and who damaged my business,’ replied the tanner. ‘And because he interfered with her ambition to study, by threatening to expose her.’

‘I see,’ muttered Abergavenny, still keeping Duraunt between him and the bows. ‘Gonerby refused to buy your skins to make his parchment, did he?’

‘I understand why you accused Matt of Gonerby’s murder,’ said Michael to Wormynghalle. ‘You were trying to confuse me with wild charges and irrational statements of dislike. It was you who said Gonerby was killed with a sword, rather than teeth, too. And you, alone of the merchants, did not want me to look for Gonerby’s killer – you were afraid I might find her.’

‘As he lay wounded, Gonerby heard Joan advising someone – probably her brother – that she was going to Cambridge,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And he passed the information to the men who found him dying. Wormynghalle’s presence was no coincidence, of course: he was there to prevent Gonerby from saying anything incriminating. But why involve Eu and Abergavenny in this hunt?’

‘To lure them to a distant town where they, too, would die,’ said Wormynghalle, pleased with himself. ‘Like Gonerby, they were going to vote against my election as Mayor, and their removal will see me win.’ He raised his bow, and Bartholomew saw he was impatient to use it.

‘So, you killed Gonerby to rid yourself of a tiresome husband and an annoying business rival,’ gabbled Michael. ‘Hamecotes was murdered because he discovered you were a woman, and Spryngheuse because he was unstable. But what about Okehamptone?’

Bartholomew scratched around for the few facts he knew about the scribe’s death. Duraunt’s prayers had petered out, and Polmorva seemed to have abandoned his delaying tactics. Abergavenny was exhausted from keeping himself and Duraunt above water, while Michael was trying not to reveal the depth of his own terror. Bartholomew saw he was on his own in keeping Joan and her brother occupied until he could conceive of a way to best them. He hoped something would occur to him soon, because he sensed he would not keep them gloating over their successes for much longer.

‘It was you who claimed Okehamptone’s fever came from bad water on the journey from Oxford,’ he said to Wormynghalle. ‘It was also your liripipe that hid the fatal wound. You said he had borrowed it, and that you did not want it back – not because it had adorned a corpse, but because it continued to conceal the gash in his throat.’

Wormynghalle addressed his sister. ‘I told you strangling was a better way to kill. They would never have deduced all this if you had used a more conventional method of execution.’

Joan shrugged.

‘It was you who refused to let Rougham see his friend, too,’ Bartholomew continued. ‘He said the door was answered by someone with fine clothes and a haughty manner, and we assumed it was Polmorva. But that description applies equally to you.’

‘I turned no one away,’ said Polmorva, sounding surprised.

‘Everyone drank heavily the night Okehamptone died,’ continued Bartholomew, wishing Michael would help, because he could not talk and devise an escape at the same time. ‘Of wine you bought.’

‘I should have noticed that,’ said Polmorva feebly. ‘Every time the tanner provided wine, someone died. But why kill Okehamptone?’

‘He overheard us talking the night he arrived in Cambridge,’ replied Joan. ‘He promised to say nothing, but we killed him anyway, just to be sure. While I disguised the wound on his body, my brother gave the meddlesome Rougham a good fright. He fled to Norfolk, I hear.’

‘Is that why you attacked me at Stourbridge?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘To make sure I did not reveal your secret, even though I gave you my word that I would not?’

‘Men break oaths all the time,’ said Joan. ‘Eu and Abergavenny swore to avenge my husband’s death, but were happy to forget their pledge once he was dead. None of you can be trusted.’

‘These teeth,’ said Bartholomew, removing them from his bag. ‘How did you come by them?’

‘I gave them to my predecessor at Merton,’ said Duraunt, barely audible. ‘He used them for years, but he died recently. Then I kept them in my room, but one of my students stole them.’

‘You,’ said Bartholomew to Joan. ‘You studied in Merton – you took them.’

‘They fascinate me,’ admitted Joan. ‘And I knew no one would guess I had killed my husband if I used the fangs to dispatch him. But they disappeared from my chamber this morning, and I wondered where they had gone. It was you, was it?’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew, wondering how Clippesby had managed to do it without being seen.

‘Well, give them back,’ ordered Joan. ‘Be careful when you toss them over. I keep them very sharp.’

Bartholomew pulled back his arm and hurled them into the trees as hard as he could. Joan pursed her lips in annoyance.

‘It does not matter,’ said Wormynghalle. ‘We have completed our business here, and it is time to return to a more civilised city. Now, jump in the water, monk.’

Michael began to slide with infinite slowness into the cistern. His face was as white as snow, but he refused to submit to the indignity of begging for his life. When he had gone, Bartholomew looked from Joan to her brother in despair. He suspected he could overpower the tanner, who was overly confident, but Joan was a different proposition. She had approached the problem of loose ends with the same precision she applied to her studies, and would never risk her safety by exercising mercy.

‘Eudo,’ he blurted, desperately trying to think of some way to delay the inevitable. ‘You told him what to write in his proclamation. You chose carefully, so something in it would be certain to incite unrest.’

Joan gave a tight smile. ‘I only want the beadles and the Sheriff distracted until we have left. We probably do not need a diversion with the Visitation, but there is no point in being careless.’

‘Joan,’ Bartholomew began. ‘I–’

‘No more talk,’ said Wormynghalle, pulling back his arm as he aimed his arrow.

Bartholomew willed himself to keep his eyes open and fixed on the man who would kill him. Neither Wormynghalle nor Joan showed remorse or distaste for what they were about to do, and he supposed it was such coldblooded ruthlessness that had allowed their family to prosper so abruptly.