The Lost Prophecies

by The Medieval Murderers

  The monk emerged from the kitchens a few moments later, jaws working furiously. An enraged screech from Agatha indicated that he had supplemented his paltry meal by stealing something, although his face was the picture of innocence when she demanded to know the whereabouts of a pie. Nevertheless, he headed for the gate while he was still in one piece, informing Bartholomew that he wanted to return to Peterhouse and ask questions of Neuton’s friends, to see if any of them remembered anything suspicious, now they had had a night to dwell on it.

  ‘I have been thinking about the poison,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And it may have come from France. When I was there last year, fashionable folk were taking a cordial made from some kind of poisonous fish and regional herbs. It is supposed to aid digestion, but only when diluted – it is quite toxic in its concentrated form. It has a distinctive smell, which I think I detected in Neuton’s wineskin.’

  ‘So our poisoner has French connections, does he?’ Michael gave the matter serious thought as they walked towards the High Street. ‘Most of the Bardolfs have French mothers. Perhaps they decided to avenge their brother Hugh by claiming a high-ranking victim from Peterhouse.’

  ‘Having a French mother does not necessarily mean a supply of French cordials.’

  Michael narrowed his eyes. ‘But their grandmother is a witch, and it is not inconceivable that she thought such a potion might come in useful for her ambitious but not very talented grandsons.’

  ‘It is possible, I suppose. Neuton was never without a drink, so it was an obvious way to dispatch him. The door to the kitchen, where he filled his flasks, was often left open, according to Wittleseye, which means anyone could have come in and tampered with them. But there is a flaw in the theory: how would the Bardolfs know about the poor security? I did not.’

  ‘But you do not hate Peterhouse. You have no cause to study the weak points in their defences.’

  Bartholomew acknowledged his point with a nod. ‘But King’s Hall are not the only ones with French connections. Wittleseye and Neuton visited the Pope in Avignon last year. Perhaps the poison belonged to them.’

  Michael’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. ‘You think Neuton killed himself? But he was in fighting spirits yesterday, and a long way from suicide. And do not say he wanted his enemies accused of a capital crime, because he would have left more in the way of obvious clues had that been the case.’

  ‘Actually, I was thinking of Wittleseye. He was more angry than grieved by his cousin’s murder, and in the kitchen he made sure we noticed the open door. What better way to strike a blow at the Bardolf clan than have them under suspicion of poisoning a priest in a church?’

  Michael rubbed his chin. ‘I am still bothered by the hooded whisperer, who seems so determined to have our town awash with blood. John was lucky when he was attacked yesterday, because I suspect he would have been killed had we not arrived when we did – he is a decent organizer of patrols, but no fighter. I believe the whisperer ambushed him to eliminate a peacekeeper – to give this feud a better chance of igniting. Perhaps Neuton was killed for the same reason.’

  ‘What reason?’

  ‘To escalate the violence. Perhaps the culprit has a liking for fighting in the streets. Or maybe he has a grudge against Peterhouse or King’s Hall and wants them in flames.’

  ‘If you place any faith in the Black Book of Brân, and interpret “Will murder spoil the rock’s most sacred place” to mean Neuton’s death in Peterhouse’s collegiate chapel, then you still have King’s Hall’s shattered bones to come. Your whisperer may be in luck: the feud is predicted to worsen.’

  Michael shot him an unpleasant look. ‘I thought you did not believe in this sort of thing.’

  Bartholomew shrugged. ‘I do not. However, it is an uncanny coincidence.’

  Michael shivered suddenly, although the day was warm. ‘Then we had better hurry and do our work, because I do not want more deaths in my town, no matter what that madman wrote.’

  They met John on their way to Peterhouse. He tried not to be proud of the fact that the night had passed without violence, but he did not succeed. He grinned smugly when he reported that all was well, and was so pleased by his performance that he insisted he was not in the least bit tired and would accompany the Senior Proctor and his Corpse Examiner to see what more could be learned about the death of Neuton.

  ‘I think Joan would have been impressed with my performance,’ he said, trying to keep the triumph from his voice and failing miserably. ‘Lads from Peterhouse and King’s Hall slipped past the beadles and went looking for trouble, but they did not get far. I anticipated their every move, and the proctors’ gaol is bursting at the seams to prove it.’

  ‘And no one made any more attempts on your life?’ asked Michael. ‘Or the beadles’ lives?’

  John shook his head. ‘We were all careful. Did I tell you the Peterhouse contingent slipped past their guards because they intended to steal the Black Book of Brân? I heard Shirford screaming for help, and when I arrived they were trying to batter down the door. I arrested the lot of them.’

  ‘And King’s Hall?’ asked Michael. ‘Why did they sneak out?’

  ‘Beadle March found them lurking behind Peterhouse making fire-arrows.’

  Michael was genuinely impressed. ‘You have done well.’

  John preened, but then a shadow crossed his face. ‘I do not suppose you would put that in writing and send it to the Earl of Suffolk, would you? The last time we met, he told me I was too scholarly.’

  Michael smiled. ‘He is not stupid; he knows wits can serve him just as well as swords, especially at court. I have heard that Joan prefers ruffians, but I am sure you will win her round.’

  John looked rather daunted by the prospect, but mustered a manful smile. He cleared his throat and turned his attention to the matter in hand. ‘Are you sure Neuton was poisoned? He did not die of a seizure, or some such thing?’

  ‘There were burns in his throat,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘I do not think I have ever seen a more clear case of death from toxins. The killer made no attempt to conceal his handiwork.’

  John shuddered. ‘Then the sooner we catch him, the better. I am inclined to look to King’s Hall for the culprit. They are the ones with a grudge against Neuton.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Michael. ‘However, we have not a shred of evidence, so we must ask some careful questions of Neuton’s colleagues first. A false accusation could start all manner of trouble, and I do not want “shattered bones” on my conscience.’

  Peterhouse wanted everyone to know that King’s Hall had killed five of their students. They had painted the victims’ names on a sheet, which was pinned across the front of their church. For the benefit of those who could not read, drawings of the dead lads’ faces had been included, each with a skull below it, to represent death. When Bartholomew, Michael and John arrived, Wittleseye was ordering the artist to add a picture of King’s Hall with flames coming out of it.

  ‘You will do no such thing,’ snapped Michael. ‘It would be akin to a declaration of war, and I told you last night that I want the violence to end.’

  ‘That was before they murdered Neuton,’ said Wittleseye sullenly, watching the artist slink away before the Senior Proctor could fine him for his handiwork. ‘The situation has changed now.’

  ‘We came to ask you about Neuton,’ intervened John hastily, seeing Michael’s temper begin to fray. The Senior Proctor did not like scholars defying him. ‘Had you known him for long?’

  ‘Of course I had,’ snarled Wittleseye. ‘He was my cousin, and we had known each other since childhood. The archbishop will be furious when he hears what has happened.’

  ‘Did Neuton have any enemies other than the Bardolf brothers?’ asked Michael. ‘And do not fob me off with nonsense about him being popular, because we both know he was anything but.’

  Wittleseye glared at him but then relented. ‘All right, I admit that wine made him dour on occasion. But he was not so irascible as to make
someone want to kill him.’

  ‘Sometimes the most obvious solution really is the right one,’ whispered John to Michael. ‘The Bardolfs lost Hugh, so they reciprocated by eliminating a Peterhouse man.’

  ‘Will you agree to a search of Neuton’s room?’ asked Michael of Wittleseye. ‘I must ensure that your cousin did not have a secret stash of French cordial before I tackle King’s Hall.’

  ‘I will agree to no such thing,’ declared Wittleseye, incensed. ‘We are the injured party here, with Neuton and five students slaughtered. Why should we submit to such indignities?’

  ‘Because it is part of the process of learning the truth,’ replied John soothingly. ‘Please let us do our duty, sir. It will be better for everyone in the end.’

  Wittleseye was mollified by the polite plea. ‘Very well, John de St Philibert. But only Neuton’s chamber. If you set so much as a toe in anyone else’s, I shall have you removed by force.’

  Michael narrowed his eyes, suspicious of the caveat, and immediately launched into an interrogation of Wittleseye that was only just short of offensive. Bartholomew left them bickering and accompanied John to Neuton’s quarters, afraid the Junior Proctor might not recognize the French cordial if he found it. It did not take long to root through Neuton’s worldly goods, but Bartholomew had the distinct impression that someone had been there before them, although whether to hide poison or just to see what there was to inherit was impossible to say.

  ‘I did not like the way Wittleseye ordered us not to search anywhere else,’ John whispered when they had finished. ‘I am going to have a quick look around. You keep watch.’

  Bartholomew was acutely uneasy with that. ‘We have no authority—’

  John gripped his arm, his voice urgent. ‘Wittleseye wants us to accuse King’s Hall of the crime, but his own behaviour is deeply suspect. This will not take a moment, and I have a bad feeling about Peterhouse’s vengeful priests.’

  He had disappeared before Bartholomew could object further, then took far longer than ‘a moment’. When footsteps warned that someone was coming, and John still declined to break off his hunt, the physician braced himself for the embarrassment of discovery. But with impeccable timing, the Junior Proctor appeared an instant before Wittleseye came to see what was taking so long.

  ‘There you are,’ said Wittleseye. He glanced at the door to his chamber, which now stood ajar. ‘I hope you confined your activities to my cousin’s room and have not trespassed elsewhere.’

  ‘Of course not,’ said John, although the uncomfortable expression on his face screamed that he was lying. He turned to Michael and began to gabble. ‘Have you finished, Brother? If so, then we should let Wittleseye go about his business. I am sure he is very busy.’

  Michael raised his eyebrows when they were outside. ‘You need to learn how to dissemble, man! Wittleseye would have to be a drooling idiot not to guess that you had extended your search.’

  John raised his hands defensively. ‘I am sorry, Brother, but he was so vehement about keeping us out of his room that it made me suspicious.’

  Michael nodded slowly. ‘Me too – and I am delighted that you had the nerve to act on it. Well? What has unsettled you so? Did you find evidence that he poisoned his own cousin in order to see King’s Hall blamed for the crime?’

  In reply, John shook his arm, causing an object to slide from his wide sleeve and fall to the ground. It was a mallet, the kind that was used to smash stones into gravel. It had a metal head, and something red adhered to it. Bartholomew bent to inspect it, then rose slowly and met John’s eyes.

  ‘I found it hidden under Wittleseye’s bed,’ explained John quietly. ‘Wrapped in some old linen. Is it blood?’

  Bartholomew nodded. ‘I think so.’

  ‘So what?’ asked Michael, looking from one to the other. ‘Neuton was poisoned, not bludgeoned. And it cannot be connected to yesterday’s slaughter, because all those victims died from wounds inflicted by swords or daggers.’

  ‘Perhaps we just have not found the body yet,’ said John. He scowled, as if this was a personal affront. ‘I thought I had prevented mischief last night, but maybe I gloated too soon.’

  ‘The beadles claim a mouse could not have wandered about unseen last night,’ said Michael. ‘March was complaining bitterly about it, because he was obliged to work for once.’

  John looked angry. ‘But we were looking for groups, not lone men. It is possible for a stealthy fellow to have slipped through my net. Damn! I thought I had done a decent job. I hope the earl does not hear about this – or Joan. She told me she is rather good at organizing military-style manoeuvres.’

  ‘She does have something of a reputation in that respect,’ agreed Michael. ‘But you are jumping to conclusions, man. There is nothing to say Wittleseye harmed anyone with that mallet.’

  ‘Then why was he so determined to keep us from searching his room?’ demanded John. ‘And why wrap the thing in rags and hide it under his bed?’

  ‘If you are so convinced of his guilt, then why did you not confront him with it?’ asked Michael. ‘Why wait until you were out here before showing us what you found?’

  John sighed. ‘Because I wanted to think about it first. If I had launched into an interrogation ill-prepared, he would have fobbed me off with lies. I needed to gather my thoughts first. Was I wrong?’

  ‘No,’ said Michael, although the expression on his face said otherwise. ‘Take the mallet to the proctors’ office and put it somewhere safe. We may need it to challenge him later. Meanwhile, Matt and I will go to King’s Hall to ensure that everyone there is hale and hearty.’

  The town was wary after the trouble of the previous day, and the streets were quieter than normal. Carts still clattered to and from the Market Square, and merchants still opened their shops for business, but the atmosphere was subdued and cautious, and there was none of the customary banter as folk went about their affairs. Some churches remained closed too, while all the colleges and hostels retained the extra guards on their gates. Without the usual crowds to hinder their progress along the High Street, it did not take Bartholomew and Michael long to reach King’s Hall.

  They found it in a state of turmoil. Even from outside, they could hear folk running this way and that, and voices raised in anger and alarm. Michael’s first knock went unanswered, so he pounded the metal-studded gate until he was able to attract someone’s attention. He was astonished when it was Beadle March who opened the door.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ the monk demanded. ‘You are supposed to be at All Saints’.’

  ‘I have resigned,’ said March smugly. ‘I am tired of being treated like an ordinary beadle, when I am more intelligent than the rest of them put together. Besides, I overheard John de St Philibert tell you that he killed Hugh, and I do not want to work for proctors who condone murder.’

  Michael glowered at him. ‘If you have aggravated the situation by telling tales, you will spend the next four weeks in gaol. But you have not answered my question: what are you doing here?’

  March glowered back. ‘Vice-Warden Bardolf hired me, because he says I might prove useful.’

  ‘Then he is a fool,’ said Michael, regarding the ex-beadle with rank disdain. ‘However, there are more important issues than you at the moment, such as why is everyone in such a panic?’

  ‘Murder,’ replied William coldly, coming to greet them. He was wearing a military-style jerkin in place of his academic tabard and boiled-leather leggings. He carried a sword, and there was a mace tucked in his belt. His brothers were similarly armed, and so were many students.

  Michael was alarmed. ‘I know you grieve for Hugh, but—’

  ‘Not Hugh,’ snapped William, rounding on him so furiously that the monk took an involuntary step backwards. ‘Although that was outrage enough. It is Roger.’

  ‘Roger is dead?’ asked Michael, shocked.

  ‘March found him at dawn,’ replied William angrily. ‘His body lies in our hall, although you
will not need your Corpse Examiner to tell you he was unlawfully slain.’

  ‘Show me,’ ordered Michael, intending to keep him occupied until his temper had cooled, in the hope that he would have second thoughts about leading his troops in a frenzy of revenge.

  ‘With pleasure,’ snarled William. ‘We want the Senior Proctor to see what Peterhouse did.’

  ‘Follow me,’ said March, clearly enjoying himself. ‘I will lead the way.’

  Roger’s body had been placed on a table behind the servants’ screen. He was covered by a blanket, which Bartholomew peeled away at a nod from William. Roger’s unattractive face was pale and waxy in death, the eyes half-open. There was a dark stain behind his head, and when March helped him turn the body Bartholomew saw that the back of Roger’s skull had been stoved in.

  ‘Where did you find him, March?’ asked Michael, watching the physician assess the body for other wounds.

  ‘All Saints’ churchyard.’ March tried to keep his face sombre, but he was too pleased with all the attention to succeed. ‘John de St Philibert made me patrol the High Street, and I discovered Roger when I went to rest on a tombstone for a while. I immediately came here, to bring the news to—’

  ‘It did not occur to you to report the incident to me first?’ asked Michael, fighting down his anger. The news could have been broken more gently by a proctor, and the potential for violent revenge considerably reduced.

  ‘No,’ replied March insolently. ‘I thought his kin had a right to know before you.’

  Michael shot him a disgusted look, then addressed William. ‘Why was Roger out in the first place? I asked you all to stay in.’

  ‘He wanted to be near the book,’ replied William. His temper was only just under control. ‘He was afraid it might be stolen, and was eager to help Shirford protect it.’

  ‘Did he go alone?’ asked Michael.

  ‘Yes. I offered to accompany him, but he said he could look after himself. I thought he was right.’ William sounded bitter as well as angry.