Duraunt’s expression was sombre. ‘That is precisely why we were all so shocked. I sleep lightly, and wake at the slightest sound, but I heard nothing last night, and neither did anyone else. I suppose I was exhausted – I was in church most of yesterday, preparing myself for Pentecost.’
Michael was bemused. ‘Are you telling me Chesterfelde was killed while he was in the same room as you both?’
Duraunt nodded unhappily. ‘I am afraid so, Brother.’
Michael raised his eyebrows and gazed dispassionately at Polmorva. ‘I see. Were the three of you alone, or were there others present, too?’
Duraunt rubbed his eyes. ‘There was Spryngheuse, who is a Merton man, like me. Chesterfelde was from Balliol, but he and Spryngheuse were friends regardless. And there were three Oxford burgesses called Abergavenny, Eu and Wormynghalle.’
‘Chesterfelde was murdered in the presence of six other people?’ asked Michael, making no attempt to hide his incredulity. ‘And none of you heard or saw anything?’
‘That is what we said,’ replied Polmorva insolently. ‘Would you like me to repeat it, so it can take root in your ponderous mind?’
Bartholomew blocked Michael’s way, as the monk took an angry step towards him. He knew from experience that Polmorva could goad people to do or say things they later regretted, and he did not want Michael to strike him and face some trumped-up charge of assault that would divert attention from Chesterfelde’s death. Then it occurred to him that Polmorva might have antagonised Chesterfelde, and the resulting fracas had ended in a death. It would not be the first time such a thing had happened and, as far as Bartholomew was concerned, Polmorva was at the top of his list of murder suspects.
‘Where are Spryngheuse and the three merchants now?’ he asked.
‘Out,’ replied Polmorva shortly. ‘They grew tired of waiting for you to come, so they left.’
Michael was now in control of himself. He smiled pleasantly as he took a seat opposite Duraunt. ‘Then we shall have to make do with you two. What can you tell me about Chesterfelde? Why did he come here? Because he was friends with Spryngheuse?’
Polmorva sighed. ‘We answered these questions when you came to poke into Okehamptone’s death. Do you have nothing better to do? Cambridge scholars are a wild and undisciplined rabble. Surely your time would be better spent in taming them?’
‘I hardly think we need that kind of advice from you,’ retorted Michael tartly. ‘You have been obliged to run away from your University because it is so unsettled. At least here we can walk the streets without resentful townsmen coming after us with pitchforks and spades.’
This was not strictly true, and the relationship between University and town was uneasy, to say the least. But there had been no serious disturbances for several months, and Cambridge was as calm as could be expected. Bartholomew hoped it would stay that way until the Archbishop had been and gone.
‘We all came for different reasons,’ replied Duraunt, striving to keep the peace. ‘As I told you before, Brother, I am here to do an inventory of Merton property in Cambridge. There is evidence that Bailiff Boltone and Eudo are keeping some of the profits that should come to us . . .’ He trailed off unhappily, clearly uncomfortable with his role in investigating others’ dishonesty.
‘The man who let us in?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘He did not seem worried about you being here.’ He did not add that the bailiff seemed more concerned with the scholars’ maudlin spirits than bothered by what they might learn about his accounting practices.
‘Probably because he thinks he has covered his tracks,’ said Polmorva. ‘But why do you think I told him to be about his work, and not to stand gossiping with you? It is because I want to impeach the fellow, as he deserves, so we can move to another of Merton’s manors and leave this nasty town.’
‘So, Polmorva is here because Oxford is too dangerous for him,’ said Bartholomew, addressing his summary to Duraunt. ‘And you came to investigate a dishonest tenant. What about the others? Why are three Oxford burgesses staying here, and what about the dead men: Okehamptone and now Chesterfelde? Why did they come?’
‘I am not the only one who believes it is prudent to let Oxford settle before we return to our studies,’ replied Polmorva. ‘Chesterfelde and Spryngheuse also left because they feared for their safety. As Duraunt said, they were friends – Spryngheuse decided to flee, so he invited Chesterfelde to run with him.’
‘And the three merchants are here to look for a killer,’ explained Duraunt. ‘They believe a scholar used the St Scholastica’s Day riot as an excuse to kill one of their colleagues, and they have evidence that suggests the villain came to Cambridge afterwards. Okehamptone was their scribe.’
Michael pursed his lips. ‘You did not mention this when I was here last time. You said then that these merchants were here for business. This is poor form, gentlemen. The proper procedure for such matters is to inform the appropriate authority – me, in this case – immediately upon arrival. It is not polite to investigate crimes in other people’s towns without asking.’
‘They are with your Chancellor as we speak – obtaining official permission for something they have been doing anyway,’ said Polmorva smugly.
‘That is not true,’ said Duraunt sharply. Bartholomew recalled Polmorva’s unpleasant habit of rumour-mongering, and was disgusted the man had not grown out of it. ‘These are merchants – men always looking for opportunities to expand their trade. They have been visiting other burgesses in the area – not just in Cambridge, but in the surrounding villages – and have been so busy that they have had no chance to investigate the death of their colleague.’
‘Then Chesterfelde was murdered, and they realised Cambridge is just as dangerous as Oxford,’ finished Polmorva. ‘They decided they had better find their killer and go home before anyone else dies.’ He sighed, and glanced meaningfully at the sun. ‘Do you want to see Chesterfelde’s corpse or not?’
He led the way to the solar, where a body rested on the floor, covered with a sheet. A bulge near its shoulders indicated that although it had been moved to a more convenient location, nothing else had been done: Chesterfelde was lying on his front with the dagger still protruding from his back. Bartholomew pulled the cover away and began his examination, childishly gratified when he heard Polmorva’s soft exclamation of disgust, followed by a walk to the window for fresh air.
Bartholomew was thorough. He did not like the idea of a man being murdered in the same room as six other people, and no one noticing. He also felt there was more to the case than either Duraunt or Polmorva had led them to believe. Seeing Polmorva again reminded him of how much he had detested the man, and he admitted to himself that at least some of his attention to detail was in the hope that he would discover something that would incriminate him.
‘Whoever stabbed Chesterfelde did so after he was dead,’ he said eventually, sitting back on his heels and looking up at Michael. ‘No dagger killed this man.’
Astonishment flashed in Michael’s eyes, but was quickly suppressed; he did not want to appear at a loss in front of men from Oxford. ‘Matt is good at this kind of thing,’ he said, rather boastfully. ‘It is why we always – always – solve any crimes that are committed here. If a man has been killed in Cambridge, then you can trust us to bring his murderer to justice.’
‘I am glad he is useful,’ said Duraunt, although distaste was clear in his voice. ‘But what do you mean, Matthew? Of course he died from being stabbed. Look at the knife buried in his back!’
‘But there is very little blood. His clothes would have been drenched in it had the dagger killed him, and you can see they are not. This wound was inflicted after he died.’
‘Someone stabbed a corpse?’ asked Polmorva in a tone that suggested he thought the physician was wrong. ‘Why would anyone do that?’
‘I have no idea,’ said Bartholomew. He pointed to a ragged gash in Chesterfelde’s wrist. ‘But this is the injury that caused him to bleed to death.’
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CHAPTER 2
When Bartholomew had finished his examination of the dead scholar, he and Michael left Merton Hall. Duraunt was troubled, and urged Michael to solve the murder as quickly as possible. Polmorva informed the monk that there was nothing to solve, and that Chesterfelde had been killed by Bailiff Boltone or the tenant Eudo, claiming they must have mistaken him for Duraunt in the dark – Duraunt had come to expose their dishonesty, and it was obvious they had reacted to the threat he posed. Unfortunately for Chesterfelde, in the unlit room and with so many men sleeping, an error was made.
‘Duraunt seems decent, but Polmorva is an ass,’ declared Michael, as he and Bartholomew walked down Bridge Street. The monk was alarmed by the notion that three merchants planned to conduct their own murder enquiry in his town, and hoped to interrupt their meeting with the Chancellor before he granted them the requisite permission. The last thing he needed with the Archbishop’s Visitation looming was burgesses asking scholars if they had committed a savage crime. It would bring about a fight between town and University for certain.
‘Duraunt is a good man,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘However, Boltone and Eudo have little to fear from an investigation into these alleged accounting irregularities: if Boltone says they made an honest mistake, Duraunt will believe him. Boltone no doubt knows this, which is why he seems unconcerned. However, if Duraunt recruits Polmorva, then Boltone will be in trouble: Polmorva will see him dismissed – or worse – on the most tenuous of evidence. Duraunt may be keen to see the good in people, but Polmorva always looks for the worst.’
‘I do not understand why Duraunt should invite Polmorva to travel with him in the first place. Gentle men do not choose that sort of company without a compelling reason.’
Bartholomew shrugged. ‘I imagine Polmorva heard that Duraunt planned to leave Oxford, and seized an opportunity to escape the turmoil for a few weeks.’
‘I would love to discover that Polmorva killed Chesterfelde. I do not like his sneering smile or his condescending manners. But tell me about this feud of yours. You clearly detest each other, and since it is unlike you to harbour such feelings over two decades, it must have been a serious quarrel you had.’
‘It was a long time ago,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘It hardly matters now.’
Michael gave a derisive snort. ‘That was not how it appeared to me! If Duraunt had not been there, you would have been at each other like fighting cocks.’
‘It sounds ridiculous now,’ said Bartholomew, smiling ruefully. ‘But it started with those teeth Duraunt mentioned. Polmorva designed them, and hired them out to edentulous monks so they could eat the same amount of meat as their fully fanged colleagues. Obviously, metal teeth are not as good as real ones, and several monks became ill – partly because they were swallowing food that was not properly chewed, and partly because the wretched things were used communally.’
Michael started to laugh. ‘They shared them – passed them around like a jug of wine?’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘And they did not clean them, so contagions passed from one to another. I was young and insensitive, and informed the monks that they owed their resulting sicknesses to greed, because they ate fine foods after God and Nature had decided it was time for them to stop.’
Michael regarded him with round eyes. ‘You said that? Do you not think it was a little sanctimonious? It is not for some student to tell an old man what he can or cannot eat.’
Bartholomew winced. ‘As I said, I was young.’
‘And this is why you and Polmorva are at loggerheads?’ asked Michael, thinking it ludicrously petty. ‘He invented some teeth and you denounced them?’
‘Eventually, a monk died. I accused Polmorva of bringing about the fatality and he objected. Once the gauntlet was down all manner of quarrels and fights followed. But then I left Oxford and that was the end of it.’
‘Until now,’ mused Michael. ‘Is that why you went to Paris, instead of continuing your studies at Oxford? You wanted to escape from Polmorva?’
‘He was one factor,’ admitted Bartholomew. ‘But the chief reason was that I wanted to study with an Arab physician – their medicine is so much more advanced than our own. Paris had such a master, Oxford did not.’
Michael thought about what he had been told. ‘You are right; your feud is ridiculous – although, having met the man I can see why you fell out. But he will be gone soon, and you can forget about him again.’
‘Not if we find him guilty of Chesterfelde’s murder.’
‘There are other suspects – Boltone and Eudo for a start, although it would be galling to admit that Polmorva is right. So, what can you tell me about Chesterfelde? Are you sure that small wound on his wrist was the fatal one, and not the huge hole in his back? I did not want to question you in front of Polmorva, but I confess I am unconvinced.’
‘Chesterfelde’s sleeve was bloodstained, and the fact that the injury bled so profusely means he was alive when it was inflicted. However, the comparative lack of blood seeping from his back indicates he was dead when that happened. There is only one conclusion: his wrist was slashed, bringing about death by exsanguination, and the wound in his back was added later – to his corpse.’
‘You also said there were no other marks on his body – no bruises and no indication that he struggled. Why would he allow his wrist to be sliced, and then do nothing while he bled to death?’
‘Perhaps he was drunk. I doubt it was something that happened in his sleep, because it would have hurt enough to wake him up – unless he was fed some sort of soporific, I suppose.’
‘A soporific would explain why Duraunt slept through the incident, too,’ mused Michael. ‘He said he is usually a light sleeper.’
‘That means the entire party from Oxford – all four scholars and the three merchants – was dosed. They all claim to have slept through whatever happened last night.’
Michael nodded slowly. ‘We shall have to ask Boltone or Eudo whether they provided their guests with something more than wine.’
Bartholomew was silent for a moment, while he organised his thoughts. ‘I do not think Chesterfelde died in the hall. There would have been a lot of blood, and Duraunt and the others would definitely have woken up had someone started to scrub the floor in the middle of the night – sedated or otherwise. I think he must have been killed elsewhere.’
‘We shall have a good look around Merton Hall and its grounds later,’ promised Michael. ‘If as much blood was spilled as you say, then it will not be hard to find out where this foul deed took place. We can also search for stained clothing – his killer should be drenched in the stuff.’
‘Not necessarily. He may have slashed Chesterfelde’s wrist, then stood back. But it is worth looking, I suppose.’ Bartholomew gave a sudden, uncharacteristically malicious grin. ‘It will definitely be worthwhile if we discover something incriminating among Polmorva’s belongings.’
The town was busy by the time Bartholomew and Michael reached the High Street and started to walk to St Mary the Great, where Chancellor Tynkell had his office. People were out, enjoying the Feast of Pentecost before work began again the following morning. Merchants rode in carts drawn by sleek ponies or strutted in their Sunday finery, displaying to their colleagues that they were men of influence, who could afford the finest boots, the best cloth for their cloaks, and the richest jewellery for their wives and daughters. Apprentices gathered in gangs, yelling insults to passing students in the hope of goading them into a fight, while Michael’s beadles patrolled the streets, alert for any scholar who might be tempted to respond.
Even the poor were out in force, spending carefully hoarded pennies on jugs of strong church ale or the aromatic pies sold illegally – Sunday trading was an offence punishable with a heavy fine – by Constantine Mortimer the baker. Entertainers had flooded into the town, too, ready to take advantage of the holiday spirit among the townsfolk. Troops of jugglers vied for attention with singers and fire-eaters in the Market Square,
although only the very best could compete with the threadbare bear that danced an ungainly jig in the graveyard of St Mary the Great. It revealed broken yellow fangs as it scanned the fascinated spectators with its tiny, malevolent eyes, and gave the impression that it would dearly love to maul someone.
The atmosphere was generally amiable, although Bartholomew did not like the way the townsmen congregated in sizeable gaggles to savour their ale, or the fact that students from various Colleges and hostels tended to form distinct bands. He knew from experience that it took very little to spark off a riot – as Oxford had learned that February – and large gatherings of men with access to strong drink was often more than enough.
He considered the pending Visitation, and hoped the town would be peaceful when the Archbishop arrived. Simon Islip was deeply concerned about the number of clerics who had died during the plague, and had made it known that he intended to establish a new College for the training of replacements. He had studied in Oxford himself, and most people thought he would build it there, but every Cambridge scholar was united in the hope that he might be persuaded to change his mind. It was therefore imperative that he should find a town that was strife-free, clean and peaceful, filled with industrious, law-abiding scholars – and with townsmen who would welcome another academic foundation. Bartholomew thought uneasily of Chesterfelde’s death, and three merchants intent on investigating a murder, and prayed they would not spoil Cambridge’s chances of winning Islip’s patronage.
Then his mind drifted to the St Scholastica’s Day riot in Oxford, and he wondered whether the wanton destruction and indiscriminate killing would encourage Islip to look more favourably on Cambridge. Both towns and their universities were notoriously unstable, and fights were commonplace, despite Cambridge’s current attempts to pretend they were not. It occurred to him that Oxford’s disturbances must have been particularly serious, if they had encouraged ambitious and scheming men like Polmorva to abandon their homes. He said as much to Michael.
Bartholomew 11 - The Mark Of A Murderer Page 5