Bartholomew 11 - The Mark Of A Murderer

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘An interdict is a terrible thing,’ agreed Tynkell. ‘Corpses rot in the streets, because their kin refuse to allow them to be buried without a requiem mass. The stench offends my delicate senses.’

  For a moment, no one spoke, and all three merchants, Bartholomew and Michael regarded him in wary disbelief. Then Eu pointedly lifted a heavy pomander to his nose and mouth, while Abergavenny was clearly struggling not to snigger.

  Michael dragged his thoughts away from the Chancellor and back to the merchants. ‘Your task would be difficult if the killer had remained in Oxford, but how will you find him here, in a town where you have no friends and where no one has any reason to help you?’

  ‘And even if you do discover a scholar who was in Oxford the day Gonerby died, it will be impossible to prove he is the culprit,’ added Bartholomew. ‘Unless he confesses.’

  ‘There were many vicious murders that dreadful day,’ added Tynkell softly. ‘Sixty scholars were slaughtered as they tried to go about their lawful business. Sixty!’

  ‘And how many townsmen?’ demanded Eu. ‘Probably twice that number!’

  ‘More,’ said Wormynghalle, tugging aggressively on his sheep-head pendant.

  ‘But the scholars were unarmed,’ insisted Tynkell. ‘Chancellor Brouweon wrote to us, and described dreadful acts of savagery.’

  ‘If the scholars were unarmed, then why did so many townsmen die?’ asked Abergavenny quietly. ‘The killing – with weapons – was carried out by both sides.’

  ‘You clearly dislike scholars,’ said Bartholomew to Eu. ‘Yet you travelled to Cambridge in their company. Why?’

  ‘It made sense,’ explained Abergavenny, resting his hand on Eu’s arm when the spicer looked as if he was about to make a curt response about his travelling arrangements being his own affair. ‘Duraunt was due to inspect Merton’s Cambridge holdings, and three of his colleagues were itching to leave the city, because they fear reprisals. Thus there were four academics, and we were four – if you count Okehamptone the scribe among our number. It seemed safer to make the journey as a single party, given that the highways are so dangerous these days.’

  ‘I appreciate your predicament,’ said Michael, regarding the three merchants soberly. ‘You have been charged to find a killer and you are determined to carry out your duty. But I must refuse you permission to do it here. The Archbishop of Canterbury is due in a few days, and I cannot have merchants asking inflammatory questions of scholars. You may cause a disturbance here, too.’

  ‘But you must!’ cried Eu, coming to his feet. ‘Widow Gonerby will be furious if we return empty-handed, and will denigrate us to our fellow burgesses.’

  Abergavenny also stood. ‘Worse, she may come after this scholar herself, and then you will have a riot for certain. She is not a woman to be denied.’

  ‘I do not care,’ said Michael. ‘If she comes, she will be told what I am telling you: to go home.’

  ‘Then we shall see the Sheriff,’ declared Wormynghalle, making for the door. ‘He will not condone universities protecting scholars who slay innocent merchants.’

  Wormynghalle’s tirade faltered when he found his way blocked by a small man with pale hair and a wispy beard. Despite his diminutive size, the man exuded an aura of confidence and authority, and even though Wormynghalle was at least a head taller, he stopped dead in his tracks when the fellow raised a hand to indicate he was to return to his seat. Sheriff Tulyet had approached so silently that no one was sure how much of the discussion he had heard. Bartholomew liked Tulyet, who was able, intelligent and more than a match for the criminals who tried their luck in his town. He introduced himself, and Bartholomew was gratified to see Wormynghalle at a loss for words.

  ‘Well?’ asked Abergavenny when he had repeated their request. ‘Will you see justice done?’

  Tulyet walked to a window and stared across the grassy churchyard, hands clasped behind his back. ‘I know what happened on St Scholastica’s Day, and I do not want hundreds dead here because you interrogate our scholars. Brother Michael is right to forbid you from conducting your enquiries.’

  ‘But what shall we do?’ demanded Wormynghalle. ‘We cannot go home without a culprit, and I shall not stay here for ever.’

  ‘And we do not want you here,’ said Tynkell with a deplorable lack of tact. ‘But it is not our fault you agreed to this ridiculous quest. You must devise a solution to your predicament yourselves.’

  ‘You cannot let a killer go unpunished, any more than we can,’ reasoned Abergavenny. ‘He will be so delighted to get away with one murder that he may commit another.’

  ‘Perhaps he has already struck,’ said Eu uneasily. ‘Chesterfelde was stabbed last night: perhaps he knew the killer’s identity, and was murdered before he could tell.’ He appealed to his colleagues. ‘The Sheriff is right: we cannot do anything here, and we should leave while we are still able.’

  ‘I suppose we could go home,’ said Abergavenny cautiously. ‘But . . .’

  ‘We could not,’ stated Wormynghalle firmly. ‘We are not Chesterfelde – a grinning fool who spouted Latin at every turn – and we will not slink away like beaten curs.’ He gazed defiantly first at Michael, and then at Tulyet.

  ‘Tell me a little about Chesterfelde, since you are here,’ said Michael opportunistically. ‘I heard you were in the hall when he was killed.’

  ‘We were,’ said Eu with a shudder. ‘It was not pleasant to wake up and find a corpse in our midst, I can tell you! We were all tired and slept heavily – even old Duraunt, who usually only naps. We doused the lamps at dusk – about nine o’clock on these light evenings – and none of us knew any more until Bailiff Boltone woke us shortly before dawn.’

  ‘It was a vile shock,’ agreed Abergavenny quietly. ‘Knowing you slept through a murdered man’s final agonies. There are similarities between the deaths of Chesterfelde and Gonerby, Brother, and you would be rash to ignore them.’

  ‘And those similarities are?’ asked Michael, surprised.

  Abergavenny raised his hands in a way that suggested he thought the answer obvious. ‘Both were killed with blades, and both were killed in such a way as to leave no witnesses.’

  ‘Gonerby was killed with a sword, and Chesterfelde with a knife,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘Chesterfelde died during the night, and Gonerby during a daytime riot. Gonerby was a parchment-maker and Chesterfelde a scholar. They do not sound similar to me.’

  ‘However,’ said Michael, ‘if these two deaths are related, then we shall have confirmation of it when I find Chesterfelde’s killer – which I will do, gentlemen.’ He looked at each one in turn, and Bartholomew thought that if any of the three merchants are the culprit, then he should be experiencing some serious unease. ‘I intend to have Chesterfelde’s killer in my prison before the Archbishop arrives, and if the fellow also did away with Gonerby, then your problem will be solved.’

  ‘How do we know we can trust you?’ asked Wormynghalle suspiciously.

  Michael did not dignify the question with a reply. ‘You will return to Merton Hall and throw yourself on Duraunt’s hospitality while I make some enquiries. Then, when I have my culprit, you can question him about Gonerby.’

  The three merchants looked at each other. Bartholomew could see Eu was ready to accept, because it was the easiest and safest option – and it would leave time free for business. Wormynghalle was against it, because he did not trust the monk to apprehend the right man. Abergavenny wavered, torn between wanting to be amenable to the authorities and preferring to conduct his own investigation.

  ‘Very well,’ said the Welshman eventually. ‘We shall do as you ask.’

  ‘We will bide by your decision until the Archbishop arrives – next Monday,’ said Wormynghalle, clearly irritated by the decision. ‘It is Sunday now, so you have seven full days. But then I am going home, and I will take a culprit with me. Either you will hand him to me, or I shall find one myself. I will not return to Oxford empty-handed.’

  The w
armth of the day, combined with the relaxed atmosphere of a Sunday and several nights of interrupted sleep, made Bartholomew drowsy. He knew he would be unable to concentrate on reading that afternoon, so did not mind when Michael suggested they return to Merton Hall to search for stained clothing and the place where Chesterfelde had died. Tulyet walked with them, heading for his house on Bridge Street, where he lived with his wife and their hellion son, Dickon.

  ‘I am not sure it was a good idea to volunteer to find their killer,’ said Bartholomew, watching a group of children play with a discarded cartwheel. Their shrill, excited voices drew disapproving glances from a group of Carmelite friars, who were chanting a psalm as they walked to their friary.

  ‘I had no choice,’ said Michael, turning a flabby white face to the sky, relishing the sun’s caressing rays. ‘What a trio! They would have Cambridge in flames within a day.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Tulyet. ‘They care nothing for our town, and want only to give this vengeful widow someone to hang. Eu, who is the most dangerous of the three, is not a reasonable man.’

  ‘You think Eu was the worst?’ asked Michael in surprise. ‘I had the Welshman marked as the villain. He pretends to be amiable, but he manipulates the others like puppets.’

  ‘The tanner was the one I did not like,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He is desperate to be accepted by ancient and respected families, and I think he will do anything to prove himself worthy. He is also determined to have himself elected Mayor. It would not surprise me to learn that he had engineered this whole business of avenging Gonerby, just to show voters his mettle.’

  ‘He is not clever enough,’ argued Tulyet. ‘But Eu is cunning. I am from an old Norman family myself, and I recognise his kind. You mark my words: if Michael does not hand him a culprit in a week, it will be Eu who selects a victim.’

  ‘We shall have to agree to differ,’ said Michael, ‘because you are both wrong. But it is a strange business that brings them here. Hundreds of folk died in the St Scholastica’s Day riots, and I find it difficult to believe that these men travelled all this way to investigate one death. Perhaps they instigated the disorder themselves, for reasons we have yet to fathom.’

  ‘Actually, scholars were responsible for that,’ said Tulyet. ‘I had a letter from the Mayor, and he said it was all the fault of the students – a fight started over wine in a tavern.’

  ‘A Mayor would say that,’ declared Michael disparagingly. ‘I heard the whole thing began with a quarrel over claret, too, but it was townsmen who took it to its bloody conclusion.’

  ‘There was a sinister set of coincidences in the chain of events that led to the trouble,’ mused Bartholomew, thinking about what Michael had told him. ‘First, weapons were readily available – for scholars and townsfolk alike. And second, alarm bells sounded very quickly after the initial squabble in the Swindlestock Tavern. It was almost as if someone was fanning the spark of an insignificant incident, to ensure it caught and ignited the rest of the city.’

  ‘Do you think it had something to do with the death of Gonerby?’ asked Tulyet. ‘It would explain why these merchants are so determined to have his killer. The fellow also left their town in ashes.’

  ‘If that is true, then you are putting yourself in considerable danger,’ said Bartholomew to Michael. ‘Eu capitulated very quickly when you refused him permission to investigate: he was glad to see someone else take the risks.’

  Michael waved a dismissive hand. ‘I am more than a match for anyone from Oxford. However, the real reason Eu gave way so readily was that he and his cronies have no intention of obeying my orders. They plan to make their enquiries, regardless. I read it in the Welshman’s eyes.’

  Tulyet agreed. ‘I will set a sergeant to follow them, and ensure they do not cause trouble. I would just as soon lock them up until the Archbishop has gone, but I do not think we can get away with it – not with prosperous merchants. Our own burgesses would claim I had overstepped my authority, and they would be right. But we may be worrying over nothing: there are hundreds of scholars in Cambridge, and any one of them could be this killer. Our merchants will never identify their man.’

  ‘Not so,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘Most of our students were here on the tenth day of February, keeping University term. There will not be many who were away.’

  ‘That is easy to find out,’ said Michael. ‘Any scholar wanting to leave during term must apply in writing for permission, so his request will be documented. Of course, the murderer may be an Oxford man who is visiting us for a few weeks – but we have lists of those, too. So if Gonerby’s killer really is an academic who was in Oxford in February, and who then came here, he will not be difficult to identify.’

  Tulyet began to tell Michael about the arrangements the town was making to entertain the Archbishop, and Bartholomew listened with half his attention; the rest was engaged in a sluggish contemplation of the lurid pink wash that adorned the home of the town’s surgeon. The guilds had united to organise a splendid feast, Tulyet was saying, while public buildings and the Market Square were being cleaned. The Sheriff pointed out the parallel drains that ran along the High Street, and declared proudly that they had never been so empty. Bartholomew knew this perfectly well: he had been summoned to tend several people who had been taken unawares by the sudden appearance of deep trenches in Cambridge’s main thoroughfares, and had fallen down them. Tulyet had also raised funds to pay for additional dung collections, and the High Street was oddly bereft of the odorous piles that usually graced it. People with horses had been ordered to remove what their animals left behind, and the public latrine pits had been emptied. Bartholomew thought it a pity the improvements would last only as long as the Visitation was under way. As soon as Islip departed, business would be back to normal, and Cambridge would revert to its usual vile, stinking state.

  ‘And I do not want any lepers hanging around,’ Tulyet said sternly to Bartholomew, as if the physician was in a position to oblige. ‘They are invited to a special service in St Clement’s Church, where they will receive Islip’s blessing, but then they will make themselves scarce.’

  ‘Right,’ said Bartholomew, tiredness making him uncharacteristically caustic. ‘We do not want sloughed fingers and noses littering our clean streets, do we?’

  ‘No, we do not,’ agreed Tulyet, equally tart. He turned to Michael. ‘And you can make sure he has a good night’s sleep. I do not want him snapping at Islip, because he is overly weary.’

  ‘He will not listen to me,’ said Michael. ‘Nor am I bold enough to prise my way between a man and his paramour.’

  ‘Now, just a moment,’ began Bartholomew indignantly. ‘I do not—’

  Tulyet cut across him. ‘Rougham is away in Norfolk, so you must be ready should the Archbishop require a physician. I know you are busy, with Clippesby indisposed, but it cannot be helped. You are better than Lynton of Peterhouse and Paxtone of King’s Hall, and I want you to tend Islip, should the occasion arise. It is our duty to ensure he has the absolute best we can offer – of everything.’

  ‘I am surprised Rougham has chosen now to leave for a family reunion,’ said Michael conversationally. ‘He is an ambitious man, and I would have thought he would be here, showing off to important people. Still, he has a nasty habit of polishing his teeth on his sleeve after formal dinners – presumably to improve the quality of his smile – so perhaps it is just as well he is gone.’

  ‘Teeth polishing will not bother Islip,’ said Tulyet disapprovingly. ‘He does it himself. How is Clippesby, by the way? Still ailing?’

  ‘I plan to visit him today,’ replied Bartholomew, ‘and hope to find him a little recovered.’

  ‘You had better find him more than “a little recovered”,’ said Michael testily. ‘I cannot imagine why you have so suddenly decided he is unfit to teach. He has always been insane, and it has never bothered you before. I do not know how much longer I can teach his classes – I know nothing of musical theory and I am not interested in lea
rning. So, either declare him well and reinstate him, or declare him irrecoverably mad, so we can hire someone in his place.’

  ‘Soon,’ promised Bartholomew. ‘Give him time. He has been gone only a few days.’

  ‘Since Ascension Day,’ said Michael, aggrieved. ‘Ten days. I know, because that was when Langelee so blithely ordered me to teach a subject I have never studied. Does he think we are King’s Hall, with no standards?’

  ‘King’s Hall?’ asked Tulyet. ‘You criticise their teaching practices? I thought most of its scholars were men destined for high ranks within the Church or the King’s Court.’

  ‘Quite,’ muttered Michael venomously. ‘I met one Fellow last week who knew no Latin. None at all! I was obliged to speak to him in French, for God’s sake! And there are others who do not know the most rudimentary aspects of the Trivium. It must be like teaching children!’

  Tulyet bade them farewell when he reached his house. Even from the street, Bartholomew could hear the excited screeches of his son Dickon as he played some boisterous – and probably violent – game with the Sheriff’s long-suffering servants, and did not miss Tulyet’s grimace of anticipation as he knocked on the door to be allowed in. It could not be left open for people to come and go as they pleased, because Dickon would be out in a trice, and his parents were afraid he would come to harm. From what Bartholomew had seen of Dickon’s developing personality over the past few months, he was not entirely sure it would be a tragedy. Michael grinned as they walked on alone.

  ‘Poor Dick! That is the only child he will ever sire – within his marriage, at least – and the boy is a monster. How did it happen, do you think? William believes the Devil slipped into his bedchamber and fathered the brat. Dickon is so unlike his parents that I cannot help but think he may be right.’