‘Do you want me to trim it?’
‘No, I want a new one. This is almost finished, and it looks miserly when Michaelhouse always burns its candles down to the very last scrap of wax.’
Bartholomew left the chancel and went to the large cupboard at the back of the nave where candles and incense were stored. He thought he saw a flicker of movement behind one of the pillars and his stomach clenched in alarm, but when he went to investigate, there was nothing to see. He chided himself for his overactive imagination, and supposed it had been a bat, flitting about in search of insects. He groped for the key that was ‘hidden’ on the windowsill, then removed the bar that kept the cupboard door from swinging open when it was not locked. He knelt on the floor and began to rummage for the candle, straining to see in the darkness.
When he felt a breath of movement on the back of his neck, he assumed it was Michael, treading softly on the stone floor. He was about to tell the monk that there were no candles left, but that he would remind Langelee to order more, when he became aware that the presence at his shoulder was closer than Michael would have stood. His mind full of Okehamptone’s indignant spirit, Bartholomew leapt to his feet and backed away, heart thudding in panic. It was his rapid response that saved his life, for the heavy spade that had been aimed at his head missed, and smashed against the wall with a clang that echoed all around the building. He jerked away a second time as the implement swung again, and yelled for Michael. Even his tired mind had registered the fact that spirits did not wield agricultural tools and he knew it was no ghost that was trying to kill him.
The spade descended again, and Bartholomew found himself backed against the cupboard with nowhere to go. He tried to make out the features of the shadowy figure that lurched and ducked in front of him, and which seemed so determined to dash out his brains. Was it a thief, who had seen him enter the church, and thought he would be easy prey before the other scholars arrived? Was it someone connected to the peculiar case that involved Okehamptone and others being bitten? Foremost in his mind was Polmorva, who would not want the news spread that Okehamptone’s death was suspicious – even if he had not killed the man himself, he would lose what he had inherited. Or was Polmorva innocent, and it was someone else who wanted Okehamptone consigned to the ground with no questions asked?
‘Clippesby?’ he whispered, voicing a terrible fear that his colleague might have escaped from the hospital again. ‘Is that you?’
‘Matt?’ called Michael, much further away. ‘What are you doing?’
The silhouette faltered, then the spade came at Bartholomew in a jabbing motion. The physician twisted out of the way, lost his balance and toppled into the cupboard. Sprawled among the incense, he was an easy target, so he was bemused when there was a loud crash and he was plunged into total darkness. For several moments he did not understand what had happened, then he heard footsteps and Michael’s querulous voice. The cupboard door had been slammed closed and barred. He kicked and hammered furiously, but it was still some time before it was opened. He scrambled out and looked around him wildly. There was only Michael, standing with a pewter chalice clutched in one meaty hand, held like a weapon.
‘What?’ the monk demanded. ‘I thought there was something wrong when you started yelling, and now I find you playing a practical joke. I was praying, man! Have you no respect?’
‘Someone was here,’ Bartholomew shouted, pushing past him and aiming for the porch. ‘The door is open. You let him escape!’
‘Let who escape?’ asked Michael irritably. ‘There is no one here.’
‘Someone attacked me with a spade,’ yelled Bartholomew in agitation. He wrenched open the porch door and darted into the graveyard, looking around to see if he could spot someone running away or hiding. But the only movement was a cat tiptoeing through the dew-laden grass, trying to keep its feet dry.
‘A spade?’ echoed Michael, following him. ‘Who?’
‘I could not see his face,’ said Bartholomew, exasperated.
‘He was not a very efficient assassin, or you would not be here now, screeching like a demon and waking our neighbours. Keep your voice down, Matt, or we will be accused of conducting satanic rites that entail hurtling through dark graveyards and shrieking with gay abandon.’
‘Someone was here,’ Bartholomew insisted, although he spoke more softly. Michael was right: window shutters were beginning to ease ajar in the houses nearby. ‘Surely you saw him?’
‘I heard a good deal of yelling and crashing – all of it coming from you. And, as for the porch door being left open, it could have been the wind. You know what that latch is like. You are overwrought after examining Okehamptone, and—’
‘I did not imagine anything,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘Someone tried to hit me, then locked me in that cupboard, so he could escape.’
‘The bar had been placed across the cupboard door,’ said Michael thoughtfully. ‘I assumed you had rigged it somehow, so it would drop down on its own, to make me wonder how you had done it. But this attack on you makes no sense. From what you say, the fellow had you at his mercy but gave up at the last moment.’
‘Probably because you were coming to my aid.’
‘Look,’ said Michael, crossing the grass to point at something. It was a sturdy spade of the kind owned by every man with a patch of ground to cultivate for vegetables. ‘This was not here when we arrived, so I suppose it is the weapon your would-be murderer intended to use.’
Bartholomew nodded, feeling weak-kneed now the excitement was over. ‘I saw nothing, other than the fact that he wore a hood to conceal his face. It could have been anyone: the Oxford merchants, Eudo or Boltone, Polmorva. Or someone from King’s Hall – Wolf, Norton or Hamecotes.’ He hesitated. ‘Or Clippesby.’
‘Damn!’ muttered Michael. He scratched his chin, fingernails rasping on his bristles. ‘Did he say anything to you? Did you recognise his voice?’
‘He said nothing. I asked whether he was Clippesby.’
Michael was thoughtful. ‘I wonder if that is what saved you.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Your question may have told him you were not who he wanted. Think, man! Look at what you are wearing: a distinctive grey-hemmed cloak lent to you by Spryngheuse. And Spryngheuse’s friend Chesterfelde has been murdered.’
Bartholomew considered. ‘We have just walked from Castle Hill, which is the direction we would have taken had we been coming from Merton Hall. I suppose it is possible that someone mistook me for him in the dark.’
‘So, he followed you, grabbing a spade in anticipation. His first blow missed, you began to yell and he realised he had the wrong man.’
‘What does this tell us – other than that the attacker is not Spryngheuse?’
‘It suggests it is not Clippesby, either.’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew sadly. ‘It does not. If Clippesby really is losing what little reason he has left, then it may just mean that my calling his name brought him to his senses. And it complicates matters. We have at least two deaths caused by bites, but this man did not use his teeth.’
‘That does not imply we have more than one killer. It might just mean that our man is flexing his wings, learning to experiment and use whatever comes to hand.’
Bartholomew rubbed his eyes. ‘Lord, Brother! The sooner we resolve this, the happier I will be. I do not feel safe, and I sense that other people will die if we do not have some answers soon.’
‘I agree. My students will have to do without me for a while, because I should devote myself to this problem until it is solved. Only then can I be certain that the Archbishop’s Visitation will take place without some madman racing around wielding spades and flexing his jaws. Will you help me?’
When Bartholomew returned to Michaelhouse, a messenger was waiting with notification that his postgraduates’ disputations had been scheduled a week earlier than anticipated, and abandoning them to help Michael was out of the question. The monk went alone to his office a
t St Mary the Great, to look at the records that would tell him exactly when Clippesby had applied for leave of absence over the past year – and when he had been fined for going without permission. He had not been working long when he saw a familiar figure pass his window. He set off in pursuit, catching up with the fellow as he was lighting candles in the Lady Chapel.
‘Warden Duraunt,’ he said pleasantly. ‘All alone this morning?’
The elderly master smiled. ‘Polmorva is attending a lecture at the Dominican Friary. He is a dedicated scholar, and always seizes any opportunity to hear other academics speak.’
‘He will not find much to stimulate his intellect among the Dominicans,’ said Michael, voicing what every Cambridge man knew for a fact. ‘What about the merchants?’
‘Eu is in Grantchester, to see whether the lord of the manor might buy his spices; Wormynghalle went with him, because Eu is a good businessman and our tanner is hoping to learn the secret of his success; and Abergavenny followed them, to make sure they do not argue and kill each other along the way. I find their constant squabbles a sore trial, Brother.’
‘You do seem tired,’ said Michael.
‘Did you sleep poorly?’ ‘I always sleep poorly – it is one of the burdens of old age. When it becomes too bad, I leave my bed and visit a church, just to sit in a quiet, peaceful place. Last night, for example, I went to St Giles’s at two o’clock. Polmorva escorted me, then returned to collect me just after dawn. Spryngheuse usually obliges but he has grown jittery since Chesterfelde died, and is reluctant to go out. He says he sees his Black Monk everywhere, but of course no such person exists. He invented the fellow, to take the blame for the riots, and has become so unstable that he now believes the lie.’
While he spoke, Michael watched him lighting candles, trying to assess whether he was strong enough to brandish a spade. He did not think Duraunt would harm Bartholomew, but he might have wanted Spryngheuse out of the way for reasons the monk had yet to fathom. But his examination was inconclusive, and in the end he had no idea whether Duraunt’s weariness came from attempting to kill someone with a hefty tool or from a genuinely restless night.
‘We saw Spryngheuse on the Great Bridge on Sunday,’ he said. ‘I am sure he intended to throw himself over the edge.’
Duraunt did not seem surprised. ‘I thought he would feel better, once away from the city where he is accused of bringing about a massacre, but first Okehamptone died, then Chesterfelde, and he is becoming increasingly distraught.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘I sent him to the stationer’s shop, just to get him into the fresh air. Now Boltone has absconded, I am obliged to make sense of the accounts he left behind, and I need more ink.’
‘Tell me about Polmorva. Why did he really agree to accompany you to Cambridge?’
‘Because he dislikes being in a city under interdict, like any Christian soul. It is a pity Matthew will not accept his offer of a truce. I had hoped they would have forgotten their differences after all these years, but Polmorva tells me Matthew rejects all his friendly advances.’
‘Polmorva is a liar,’ said Michael bluntly. ‘I am reliably informed that he witnessed the murder of Gonerby, and that is the real reason why he is here.’
‘No!’ exclaimed Duraunt. ‘I do not believe you!’
‘I am also told that he only pretended to be drunk the night Chesterfelde died,’ Michael went on. ‘He might be the one who cut the man’s wrist and allowed him to bleed to death.’
Duraunt considered, then shook his head. ‘He would have been covered in blood, and he was not. Perhaps he did deceive us about the amount he drank, but I am sure there is an innocent explanation for that.’
‘And you?’ asked Michael. ‘What is your explanation for the amount you drank? No, do not look indignant. You may be able to divert Matt with your reproach, but not me. You were seen at the Cardinal’s Cap the night after Chesterfelde died. You were also intoxicated on the night of his murder. And then there is the poppy juice.’
‘My habits are none of your affair,’ said Duraunt sharply. ‘I admit I like a cup of wine, and we all enjoyed several the night Chesterfelde was killed. Perhaps I did imbibe too much, but who does not, on occasion? And the night after, I needed wine to restore my spirits – I was distressed about Chesterfelde, and about the fact that Matthew insists on quarrelling with Polmorva. Polmorva is destined for great things, and Matthew should acknowledge his talents.’
‘You mean Matt should grovel to him? You do not know him very well if you think he would demean himself to such a man.’
‘I do not know him at all,’ countered Duraunt. ‘He has changed – and not for the better.’
Sensing they would not agree, and not wanting an argument that would serve no purpose, Michael took his leave of Duraunt. He strode out of the University Church and headed for the Dominican Friary, where he was not surprised to learn that Polmorva was not there or that no lecture was scheduled for that morning. He was retracing his steps to the High Street, when he saw the object of his enquiries trying to slip past on the other side of the road, Spryngheuse in tow. Smiling grimly, he waddled towards them and managed to snag a corner of Polmorva’s sleeve before he could escape. He was not so lucky with Spryngheuse, who declared he was terrified of all Benedictines, and fled without another word.
‘Brother Michael,’ said Polmorva, not pleased to be waylaid by physical force. ‘Have you identified Chesterfelde’s killer yet?’
‘Where were you last night? You took Duraunt to St Giles’s Church, and collected him before dawn. Where were you the rest of the time?’
‘Asleep, of course. I am no ancient, who needs prayers to make me drowse, and I went to bed after escorting him to the chapel. Everyone else was already dozing, so I doubt they will remember me coming in. You will have to take my word for it.’
Michael changed the subject. ‘The day after Okehamptone died, you told me that you were the sole beneficiary of his will, but only if he died of natural causes. If his life ended by violent means, his property would revert to the Church, to fund masses for his soul.’
‘He did not own much,’ said Polmorva. ‘And I am already wealthy, so I shall probably donate his paltry leavings to my College – some impoverished student might cherish his cloak, two battered saddlebags and a handful of exemplar pecia. Now, if he had owned land, I might have been interested, but he did not.’
‘What about Gonerby?’ asked Michael, unsure whether to believe him. He was finding Polmorva almost impossible to read. ‘I have it on good authority that you saw what happened to him.’
‘Is that so?’ said Polmorva coldly. He tried to walk away, but Michael grabbed his arm.
‘Tell me the truth, because if you lie to me I will send word to Oxford’s Mayor that you watched a townsman murdered, and declined to step forward and do your civic duty.’
Polmorva sighed, to indicate he was bored with the discussion and that Michael’s threats were more tiresome than worrying. ‘I took refuge in a chapel when the riots began, and I happened to look out of a window to see Gonerby walking along. He was strutting confidently, arrogantly, as if he imagined no one would dare lay a finger on him. Someone did, and he died for his lack of humility.’
‘How was he killed?’
‘It was difficult to tell – I was some distance away and the killer had his back to me – but the merchants say there were teeth marks in his throat.’
‘Did you recognise the murderer?’ asked Michael.
‘Of course not. All I can tell you is that he was a scholar, and he wore a hooded cloak that hid his face. There was nothing distinctive about him. However, I can tell you that he moved towards Gonerby with a definite sense of purpose.’
‘Really?’ mused Michael. ‘Then he knew his victim. This was not a random stalking during civil unrest, when everyone was free to do as he pleased, but a deliberate assassination.’
‘I do not speculate on such matters, Brother. That sort of thin
g is for proctors.’
Despite his determination to remain calm, Michael found the man’s manner intensely aggravating. ‘I shall be watching you very carefully, Polmorva, and if I find you played even the smallest role in bringing about these deaths – Gonerby’s, Okehamptone’s or Chesterfelde’s – I will see you hang.’
Polmorva laughed derisively. ‘Do not threaten me, monk. I am no undergraduate to be cowed by hollow words. If you want to charge me with a crime, then you had better ensure you have a very strong case, because if you do not I shall bring my own against you for defaming my good name. And, by the time I have finished, you and your pathetic little College will be ruined.’
When teaching was over for the day, Bartholomew went to visit a patient on the High Street. He was on his way home again when he met Paxtone and John Wormynghalle, walking back to King’s Hall together after attending an afternoon of lectures on logic at Peterhouse. Paxtone, always hospitable, invited Bartholomew to his chambers, and Bartholomew accepted, thinking it would be a pleasant way to pass the time before a statutory Fellows’ meeting at Michaelhouse that evening. As they crossed the yard, they saw Dodenho, rubbing his chin as if deep in thought.
‘Look at him!’ said Norton, who was watching. ‘He is waiting for Warden Powys to come home, and has been strutting around in that affected manner for the best part of an hour. He is not thinking up new theories; he just wants to impress Powys, in the hope that he will be one chosen to sit next to the Archbishop of Canterbury next Monday night.’
‘Powys will not select him,’ said Paxtone with considerable finality. ‘He will spout some of his ideas on theology, and Islip might recognise them as his own. Dodenho will steal from anyone.’
‘I need an astrolabe,’ declared Dodenho, as he approached the gathering. ‘I have several complex equations in my mind, but I cannot calculate them without an astrolabe. The world is suffering as long as I am deprived.’
Bartholomew 11 - The Mark Of A Murderer Page 22