Michael chattered next to him, trying to establish links between recent events. He said he understood why Clippesby might have attacked Rougham, but saw no reason for him to have killed Chesterfelde and the man in the cistern. He determined that when he next visited Clippesby, he would ask whether the Dominican knew Eudo and Boltone; he was sure they were involved in the mystery, but uncertain as to how.
‘And we cannot forget Abergavenny and his associates,’ he added. ‘If Gonerby did indeed die from a bite, then there is a connection there, too.’
Bartholomew was too tired to fit the facts into a logical pattern, and almost at the point where he did not care. He crossed the deserted Great Bridge and began to stride up Castle Hill, Michael wheezing at his side. It was a steep incline for Cambridge, topped by the brooding mass of the Norman fortress. This was a formidable structure, with a stone tower standing atop a sizeable motte, and sturdy curtain walls that defended its bailey. All Saints stood near its main gate. The church had once been impressive, and had served as castle chapel before a purpose-built one had been raised inside. Then All Saints had been relegated to parish church for those who lived in the nearby hovels. Poverty and dismal living conditions had conspired against these people when the plague had struck, and most had died. With no congregation and no priest, the building had crumbled from neglect. Now, when people referred to All Saints, most folk thought of the grander All-Saints-in-the-Jewry.
In the dark, it looked even more unprepossessing than it did during the day. The roof timbers were cracked and broken, giving its top a jagged, uneven look. Ivy climbed up its walls and seemed the only thing keeping them standing, and the squat tower with its broken battlements was a sinister and forbidding crag against the night sky. Bartholomew inched along the weed-encrusted path that led to the west door, moving slowly so his feet did not catch in the matted undergrowth. Michael followed, swearing when he stumbled and stung himself on nettles.
The physician pushed open a door that hung from broken hinges, and wondered what the Oxford men thought of being provided with an abandoned chapel in which to lay their dead. It was disrespectful, and it occurred to him that one might be so affronted on Chesterfelde’s behalf that he might attempt to avenge the insult. Duraunt would not, Bartholomew thought: he would believe prayers would do Chesterfelde more good than fine surroundings, while Polmorva would do nothing that did not benefit him directly. And the others? Bartholomew did not know them well enough to say. He took a deep breath as he stepped through the door and into the black interior.
* * *
Water dripped in echoing plops, and the entire place stank of mould and rotting wood. The ivy that coated the outer walls had made incursions inward, too, crawling through windows and those parts of the roof that were open to the elements. People had been in to see what they could salvage, and most of the floor had been prised up and spirited away. Paint peeled from the walls, although, when Michael lit a lamp, Bartholomew could still make out some of the images that had been lovingly executed by some long-dead artist. St Paul was recognisable amid a host of faceless cherubs, while the Virgin Mary gazed from the mural over the rood screen.
Bartholomew took the lamp and made his way to the chancel, where he supposed the body of Chesterfelde had been taken. Even in a derelict church, this was the most sacred part, and it had not suffered as badly from looters as had the nave. It still possessed some of its flagstones, and it was on these that the water dripped, sending mournful echoes along the aisles. The altar had been left, too. It was oddly clean, and Bartholomew recalled events from several years before, when he had witnessed acts of witchcraft around it. He supposed the place was still used for devilish purposes, because it was apparent that someone visited regularly – the chancel was relatively free of the debris that littered the nave and there was evidence that candles had been lit. But then, perhaps someone loved All Saints, and performed small acts of devotion to ensure it retained some of its dignity.
Chesterfelde lay on what looked to be a door resting atop a pair of trestles. He was covered by a grey woollen blanket, and a piece of sacking moulded into a cushion near his feet suggested someone had been kneeling there. Since Duraunt was the only priest in the party from Oxford, Bartholomew supposed the crude hassock was to protect his ancient knees.
The body was much as Bartholomew remembered from his examination three days before, although someone had wiped its face and brushed its hair. He had assessed it meticulously the first time, and knew he would learn nothing new by repeating the process. All he wanted to do that morning was study the wrist and see whether he could identify teeth marks.
He peeled back the cover and pushed up Chesterfelde’s sleeves. The body’s right arm was unmarked, although there were patches of hardened skin around the thumb that were familiar to a physician used to treating scholars. They were writing calluses, caused by the constant chafing of a pen. Then Bartholomew inspected the left wrist. The wound was still there, ragged and open, but it was now washed free of blood.
‘If Chesterfelde died near the cistern – and the stains there suggest he did – then someone cleaned him up before taking him to the hall,’ he said. ‘The only reason for anyone to do such a thing is to mislead those examining the body. I cannot begin to imagine why: it does not matter whether Chesterfelde died from a slash to his arm or a stab in his back. It is murder, regardless.’
‘Are you certain the wrist wound killed him? Is it possible he injured himself, but managed to stem the bleeding, and died from some other means? Poison, maybe? Or suffocation?’
‘It is possible, but this wound unattended would certainly have brought about his death. Look. You can see the severed blood vessels.’
Michael made a disgusted sound at the back of his throat. ‘A simple yes or no would have sufficed, Matt. But what made the injury? Can you tell whether it was teeth?’
‘It is ragged,’ said Bartholomew, inspecting the gash carefully. ‘And longer than it is deep.’
‘Meaning?’ asked Michael impatiently, uninterested in the mechanics of the damage and wanting only to know what it implied for his investigation.
‘Meaning it is a slashing wound, not a stabbing one.’
Michael considered. ‘Well, you do not stab with your teeth – unless you have long fangs like Warden Powys of King’s Hall. You are more likely to slash with them.’
‘But not in this case, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, straightening up. ‘I see no evidence that teeth were used, just some blunt old knife that was in sad need of sharpening.’
‘Clippesby did not do it, then?’ asked Michael, relieved. ‘So, we are back to our original suspects – Eudo and Boltone, and the Oxford men: Polmorva, Spryngheuse, Duraunt and the merchants.’
‘Not Duraunt,’ pressed Bartholomew doggedly. ‘But do not leave Dodenho of King’s Hall off your list. He knew Chesterfelde, and he lied about it. And there is that curious business about his silver astrolabe, which was stolen, then found, then appeared at Merton Hall in the tanner’s hands.’
‘I have not forgotten Dodenho,’ said Michael. ‘Nor his conveniently missing colleagues, Hamecotes and Wolf. Nor Norton, either, who also admits to knowing Oxford.’
‘It is a pity Okehamptone is buried,’ said Bartholomew, replacing the sheet over Chesterfelde, and glad that particular task was over. He recalled what Clippesby had said about the scribe’s death: that the geese knew more about it than Michael. Was the man spouting nonsense in his deranged state, or was he playing some complex game in which only he knew the rules? ‘I would be happier if we knew for certain Clippesby had nothing to do with that, either.’
‘Okehamptone died of natural causes,’ said Michael, surprised by the comment. ‘Paxtone confirmed it – said there was no doubt at all. He even signed a document to that effect, at Polmorva’s request, because Polmorva was Okehamptone’s designated heir.’
Bartholomew stared at him. ‘But Paxtone did not examine the body: he accepted the explanations of the dead man
’s companions, and he said a few prayers, but that is all. And now you say Polmorva had a strong motive for murdering him? He will inherit all Okehamptone owned?’
Michael’s eyes were huge in the gloom. ‘Are you saying Okehamptone’s death might be suspicious, too?’
‘I have no idea, but I doubt you will ever get permission to find out. People do not like disturbing the dead once they have been buried. Damn Weasenham’s toothache! If he had not summoned me, I would have been able to examine Okehamptone in the first place.’
Michael scratched his chin. ‘Damn indeed. I should have known to look more carefully at a death in which a man like Polmorva was involved. Let us not forget that business about how much wine was swallowed on the night of Chesterfelde’s death, either. Spryngheuse said Polmorva drank very little. Perhaps he waited until the others were suitably insensible, and then used the opportunity to rid himself of Chesterfelde, buoyed up by his success with Okehamptone.’
‘But why?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Even Polmorva would not kill without a motive.’
‘Who knows what disagreements they might have had in the past? He has not seen you for twenty years, but his enmity towards you has grown no less intense. For all we know, Okehamptone and Chesterfelde were his rivals, too. We do not know his motive, but that does not mean he does not have one.’
Bartholomew was disgusted. ‘So, if Polmorva did kill Okehamptone, then he has got away with it. We will never know whether he killed Chesterfelde, either, because no one will tell us the truth.’
‘Not so. There are questions I have yet to ask about Chesterfelde – particularly of Eudo and Boltone. I have sent the reliable and determined Beadle Meadowman to hunt for them, so it is only a matter of time before they are caught. I have not given up on Chesterfelde, believe me. And if Polmorva killed Okehamptone, then he is out of luck, too.’
‘What do you mean?’
Michael’s eyes gleamed in the darkness. ‘Okehamptone is not buried. I told you earlier that there is a theological query about whether men from a city under interdict can be buried in hallowed ground – that is why Chesterfelde lies here in the chancel. The same is true for Okehamptone. His body is temporarily consigned to the vault, right under our feet. All you have to do is open a coffin.’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘There is a big difference between looking at Chesterfelde here, and burrowing in crypts after corpses that have been interred for two weeks. I will not do it.’
‘You must,’ said Michael. ‘You are my Corpse Examiner and that is what you are paid to do. I cannot do it myself – I would not know what to look for. Besides, do you want Polmorva to evade a charge of murder in your own town? Here is your chance to strike back at the man, and show him he cannot go a-killing wherever he pleases.’
He had a point: Bartholomew was reluctant to see Polmorva commit murder and enjoy what he inherited. There had been times in the past when he had suspected his sly adversary of ridding himself of men he considered a nuisance, although he had never managed to obtain proof. Okehamptone offered a chance to investigate one death properly, and Michael was right to urge him to seize it. He followed the monk to where a stout door marked the entrance to the undercroft, and watched him struggle with the bars and bolts that were designed to keep dogs and wild animals at bay.
When the monk eventually prised it open, Bartholomew saw it led to a flight of damp, slime-covered steps that descended into a sinister blackness. Taking the lamp, he climbed down them, bracing one hand on the wall when his feet skidded on the uneven surfaces. As he went deeper, an unpleasant smell assailed him. It was a combination of the recently dead, the mould that pervaded every stone and scrap of wood in the abandoned building, and the rankness of a place that had been derelict for too many years.
When he reached the last step, he raised the lamp and looked around. The vault was a simple affair: a single chamber that was about the length of the chancel. Its ceiling was low, and thickly ribbed to shore up the weight of the building above. A number of stone tombs were placed at intervals along the walls, some adorned with metal crosses that were green and crusted with age. Several had collapsed, leaving hefty slabs lying at odd angles and rubble littering the beaten earth floor. Niches cut into the wall held coffins, all crumbling and fragile, indicating that they had lain undisturbed for years. One was not, however, and was fashioned from bright new wood.
‘I assume that is him,’ he said, turning to look at Michael only to find he was alone. He sighed impatiently. ‘I need you to hold the lamp,’ he shouted up the steps.
‘Set it on a shelf,’ Michael called back. ‘I shall stay here, and say prayers for Okehamptone’s soul. But hurry. It will be light soon, and I do not want anyone to catch us here. It will look macabre, to say the least.’
Muttering resentfully under his breath that Michael should order him to do something so deeply unpleasant and then decline to help, Bartholomew grabbed the coffin lid and tugged, anticipating that he would need to find something to use as a lever, but it yielded easily. The wood was cheap and the barest minimum of nails had been used. He leapt in alarm when a rat shot out and ran across his hand, and he became aware that more of them were moving in the darkness to one side, rustling and scratching. Hurrying to be away before they decided that fresh meat might make an interesting change from old, he turned his attention to the contents of the coffin.
Okehamptone was not a pleasant sight, and Bartholomew was grateful the lamp was dim and masked some of the more grisly details. He had seen corpses aplenty, but not many after they had been buried or interred, and although there was little difference in the appearance of one that had been left above ground for two weeks and one that had been in a crypt, there was a subtle distinction between the two in his mind. He regarded one as part of the duty demanded by his office; the other made him uncomfortable.
Breathing as shallowly as he could, he began his examination. Okehamptone was swathed in a blanket, and the liripipe Paxtone had mentioned was still around his head and neck. Bartholomew observed that no one had done anything to the body except move it into its coffin – no one had washed it, brushed its hair or performed any of the usual acts of respect accorded to the dead.
Wanting to be thorough, Bartholomew ran his hands over the man’s head to assess for bludgeoning, then pulled back some of his clothes to look for other injuries. If Polmorva had poisoned Okehamptone, then there was nothing Bartholomew could do now, but he could ascertain whether the cause of death was due to a wound. He completed his examination, careful not to rush and miss something vital, then shoved the lid back on the box with considerable relief. He used a lump of stone to hammer the nails home again and left, slipping and stumbling up the slick steps in his eagerness to be away.
When he reached the chancel, he did not wait for Michael to secure the door after him, but darted straight into the graveyard, where he stood taking deep breaths of cool, fresh air, savouring the clean, fragrant scent of wet earth and living vegetation. His legs were unsteady and he was aware that the miasma of old death clung to his clothes. He walked to a nearby ditch, and crouched down to rinse his hands, using fistfuls of grass to scrub them clean.
‘Well?’ asked Michael, coming to stand next to him. ‘Did he die from a fever?’
‘He may have had one,’ replied Bartholomew, still breathing deeply. ‘But it is not what killed him.’
‘What then?’ asked Michael, although Bartholomew could tell from the expression on his face that he already knew the answer.
‘A wound to his throat,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It was completely concealed by the liripipe. Paxtone heard he had a fever, and thought nothing odd about the victim being wrapped up for warmth. However, Okehamptone bled to death, which explains why Paxtone said his face – what he could see of it without moving the hood – was pale and waxy.’
‘But even I know a good deal of blood escapes from a throat wound. Surely Paxtone would have noticed that?’
‘I imagine that is why t
he body was wrapped in the blanket – to hide the blood.’
‘Damn Paxtone! I thought I could trust him. No wonder he refused to accept payment. I thought he was being noble, but it was because his conscience would not let him take money for something he did not do. So, Okehamptone was murdered after all?’
‘I have seldom seen a more savage injury, and there is no earthly possibility that he could have inflicted it himself.’
Michael sighed. ‘Then there is one more thing I need to know.’
‘You want to know what caused it. It looks like a bite, Brother. Okehamptone died from a wound that shows clearly etched teeth marks.’
Neither Bartholomew nor Michael wanted to linger near All-Saints-next-the-Castle, so they left the churchyard and walked briskly down Castle Hill towards the town. Dawn was close, and here and there were signs that folk were stirring. Smoke wafted through the air as fires were kindled, and lights could be seen through the cracks of the window shutters of those wealthy enough to afford lamps. A cockerel crowed and a dog barked at the sound of Tulyet’s soldiers marching back to their quarters after a night on duty.
It was Michael’s turn to conduct the daily mass – although he was a monk, he had been granted dispensation by his bishop to perform priestly duties during the plague, and he had continued the practice since – and Bartholomew was scheduled to assist him, so they made their way directly to St Michael’s. While Michael laid out the sacred vessels, Bartholomew busied himself by checking the level of holy water in the stoup, sweeping the porch and lighting the wax candles that stood on the altar. Neither spoke, and Bartholomew found himself unsettled by what he had discovered – not to mention the uncomfortable sensation that Okehamptone had not approved of his meddling. He felt as though something was watching him, and edged closer to the monk.
‘The wick on this candle is defective,’ announced Michael, breaking into his uneasy musings. His voice was loud in the silence, and Bartholomew jumped. ‘I do not want it to extinguish itself just as the miracle of the sacraments is about to take place. There are those who would consider it a sign of divine disapproval.’
Bartholomew 11 - The Mark Of A Murderer Page 21