Bartholomew craned his neck to peer through the freestanding shelves, and saw the stationer was indeed serving the two scholars from King’s Hall. He could hear Dodenho’s braying voice as he demanded the best quality equipment, anxious that everyone should know him to be a man of means and good taste. Wormynghalle gave her full, quiet attention to the task in hand, and her face was intense as she considered the writing implements Weasenham displayed. Bartholomew saw that the incident in Paxtone’s room had unnerved her, because she had been to even more trouble to render herself masculine. She had dirtied her clothes to emulate her more slovenly colleagues, and there was grime under fingernails that had previously been clean. She also had a brazenly feminine silk glove tucked into her belt, proclaiming to all who saw it that she kept a female lover. Michael saw it, too, and Bartholomew was certain it would result in a fine.
A group of Bartholomew’s students were on the premises, too, under the loose supervision of Deynman and Falmeresham. They were assessing the cost of vellum, to use for the short treatises they were obliged to produce by the end of the term. Deynman had already purchased the most expensive kind, no doubt hoping that its superior quality would detract from the poor standard of what was written on it. The atmosphere was jovial, with light-hearted banter that resulted in a lot of laughter.
After a moment, the door rattled open and several Gonville Hall scholars bustled in. Bartholomew recognised their leader as William of Lee, Rougham’s most senior student, who took his master’s classes when he was away. Lee looked more like a wrestler than a physician, and would have done better as a surgeon, where brute force was useful for setting bones and sawing off damaged limbs. When he saw the Michaelhouse lads, he swaggered towards them.
‘Now there will be trouble,’ muttered Michael uneasily.
‘Stop it, then,’ suggested Bartholomew, searching the shelves for the parchment he wanted. ‘You are the Senior Proctor.’
‘I will wait and see what happens. I do not want Lee to accuse me of heavy-handedness. He is quick to take offence, and if he insults me, your boys will rally to my defence with their fists.’
He edged closer, taking care to keep himself well concealed behind the labyrinth of storage furniture that displayed Weasenham’s wares. Bartholomew followed, not to help, but because the type of parchment he was hunting for had been moved since the last time he had visited the shop.
‘I am surprised to see you here,’ said Lee tauntingly to Falmeresham. ‘I did not think you could afford decent supplies.’
‘You are right,’ replied Falmeresham pleasantly. ‘I do not come from a wealthy family, but Deynman is buying it for me, as payment for the help I have given him with his studies this year.’
‘Then he is a fool,’ said Lee contemptuously. ‘Only an ass would waste money on such a stupid exercise.’
‘Stupid exercise?’ echoed Falmeresham innocently. He appealed to Lee’s cronies, who were ranged in a pugilistic line behind him. ‘Take heed, gentlemen. Lee thinks helping friends is a “stupid exercise”. You should ask yourselves whether he is someone worthy of your companionship.’
‘That is not what I meant,’ snapped Lee, irked by the way his words had been twisted. ‘I meant he is squandering his gold by buying vellum for the likes of you. I heard you are a bastard.’
Michael stiffened, readying himself to intervene, while Wormynghalle tore herself away from the pens and listened to the burgeoning argument with an expression of alarm. She started to edge towards the door, unwilling to be implicated in an incident that might draw unwanted attention. Dodenho, however, was more interested in holding forth about quills, and Weasenham was too intent on securing a sale to notice the quarrel brewing under his roof.
‘What is a waste of money,’ said Falmeresham lightly, ‘are lessons from Doctor Rougham.’
‘True,’ muttered Michael to himself. ‘But this is not a good time to mention it.’
Lee’s brows drew together. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean he is never here,’ replied Falmeresham, who had meant nothing of the kind and was obviously enjoying playing with the slow-witted Lee. ‘He has been gone for more than two weeks – in the middle of term and when his students need him most.’
‘He is on leave,’ replied Lee. ‘We had a letter saying he has gone to visit his family.’
‘Then I hope he returns as good a teacher as when he left,’ said Falmeresham ambiguously.
Lee scratched his head as he considered the statement, and Falmeresham lost interest in baiting him. It was too easy; he preferred someone who provided more of a challenge. He doffed his hat in an insulting manner, then turned back to the vellum. His friends followed his lead, and were soon engaged in a good-natured debate that filled the room with ringing voices and boisterous laughter. Lee did nothing for a moment, but then moved to the back of the shop, where he and his cronies began to discuss whether Rougham would prefer his remedies book copied in brown or black ink.
Michael heaved a sigh of relief. ‘That was close! Lee was determined to fight, but Falmeresham was too clever for him.’
‘He is clever,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘And I doubt he will forget what Lee said to him today – no man likes being called illegitimate. Those remarks will cost Gonville dearly in time.’
But Michael was not paying attention. He was leaning forward to eavesdrop on the discussion between Weasenham and the King’s Hall men. Now the danger of a spat was over, Wormynghalle was back at the counter, fingering the glove in the hope that the stationer would notice it and begin a few rumours about her masculine lechery. Weasenham and Dodenho had agreed a price, and the stationer was regaling his customers with some post-sale gossip. The Michaelhouse students’ cheerful banter was enough to mask any sound Michael might have made with his muttered asides, but was not sufficiently loud to drown out the words of the chattering scholars. The situation was perfect for the monk to listen unobserved, and he intended to make the most of it, keen to hear for himself whether the stationer was spreading lies about the Oxford murders.
‘Gonville students are the worst,’ Weasenham was saying. ‘They are not too bad when Rougham is here, because he uses his sharp tongue to keep them in line, but now he is away, they are a menace.’
‘When will he return?’ asked Wormynghalle. She did not sound very interested in the answer and gave the impression she had asked only to be polite.
‘No one knows.’ Weasenham’s voice dropped to a salacious whisper so that Michael had to strain to hear him. ‘They say he has gone to enjoy himself with his lover.’
* * *
‘His lover?’ asked Dodenho, regarding Weasenham doubtfully. ‘I doubt he has one. No woman would want him near her, when there are men like me to oblige.’
Michael scowled at Bartholomew when he started to laugh and almost gave away the fact that they were close by. ‘I want to hear this,’ he hissed irritably.
‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew, still amused. ‘You know it is rubbish – Rougham’s lover is a woman he pays every first Monday in the month, and he is definitely not enjoying himself with her now. Weasenham is a vicious-tongued snoop, and his stories are invariably lies.’
‘Rougham’s lover is no woman,’ said Weasenham, snagging Michael’s attention back again. Bartholomew peered through a gap in the shelving and saw the stationer’s face was bright with malice, lips pressed firmly together in sanctimonious disapproval.
‘It is not Chancellor Tynkell, is it?’ asked Dodenho. ‘I have heard he is a woman, and that is why he never washes – he does not want anyone to know what lies beneath his tabard.’
‘Do not be absurd,’ said Wormynghalle scornfully. ‘That story came from Bartholomew’s student – Deynman – and there are no grounds to it, other than his own ludicrously twisted logic. Of course the Chancellor is not a woman.’ Her fierce words made Dodenho take a step back in alarm.
‘You are getting away from my point,’ said Weasenham crossly. He was not interested in ancient rum
ours when he had new ones to spread. ‘Rougham’s lover is someone you know: it is Hamecotes. Do not believe the tale that he is in Oxford collecting books. It is not true.’
‘It is true!’ cried Wormynghalle, outraged by the aspersions cast on her room-mate. ‘I had a letter from him only this morning, telling me he has secured a copy of Regulae solvendi sophismata. It comes from Merton College, and he says it is annotated with notes in Heytesbury’s own hand.’ She glared at Weasenham, waiting for him to be suitably impressed. Bartholomew certainly was, and wondered whether King’s Hall would allow him to study it.
‘Besides,’ added Dodenho, equally affronted, ‘Hamecotes is not inclined towards men. He prefers women – and so does Rougham, if Yolande de Blaston is to be believed.’
‘Yolande is a whore,’ said Weasenham nastily. ‘She will say anything once she is shown the glitter of silver. Doubtless Rougham pays her to tell everyone he is a rampant and manly lover.’
Michael sniggered softly. ‘Poor Rougham! After all he has been through to keep his dalliance with Yolande a secret, here is Weasenham telling people that it cannot be true because he is in love with Hamecotes!’
‘Why pick on Hamecotes?’ demanded Wormynghalle icily. ‘Because he is away, and therefore cannot defend himself against these wicked fabrications?’
‘Wolf is away, too,’ said Weasenham, unperturbed by her ire. ‘Perhaps he is Rougham’s lover.’
‘Wolf has a pox, caught from dalliances with unclean women,’ confided Dodenho. ‘That is why he cannot be seen around the town this term, and why he cannot be Rougham’s lover. I should know, because I shared his room before he took himself off to the hospital at Stour . . .’ He stopped speaking and bit his lip, aware that he had said something he should not have done.
‘Now that is interesting,’ breathed Michael. ‘Here is something our friends at King’s Hall did not deign to mention before.’
‘You cannot blame them for that,’ Bartholomew whispered back. ‘Having Fellows with the pox is not something I would tell the Senior Proctor, either.’
‘Well, it is a pack of lies anyway,’ said Michael. ‘Wolf is not at Stourbridge, or you would have told me so when he first abandoned his duties. You have been there often enough recently, to visit Clippesby.’ He glanced sideways. ‘Right?’
‘Wolf is not there now,’ replied Bartholomew vaguely. He shook his head at Michael’s exasperation. ‘It is not my business to discuss the ailments of other scholars, Brother. That would make me as bad as Weasenham, and besides, who will hire a physician if he is the kind of man to spread embarrassing stories about his patients? It would not be ethical or proper.’
Weasenham’s eyes gleamed with interest at Dodenho’s slip, while Wormynghalle regarded her colleague in disbelief at his indiscretion. Weasenham was not so rash as to press Dodenho for details while she stood glowering, so he changed the subject back to Hamecotes.
‘I asked those Oxford men about Hamecotes and his alleged visits to the Other Place,’ he said snidely. ‘And they said no self-respecting college would sell scripts to a rival university. Then Polmorva told me that Hamecotes must be using book-buying as an excuse to enjoy his lover with no questions asked. So I put two and two together and . . .’ He raised his hands, palms upwards in a shrug, to indicate there was only one conclusion.
‘And made five,’ said Wormynghalle in disgust.
‘Hamecotes and Rougham are not lovers,’ said Dodenho, rallying too late to his colleague’s defence. ‘No self-respecting scholar would choose Rougham as a paramour.’
‘Because he could have you instead?’ asked Wormynghalle archly.
‘Quite,’ said Dodenho comfortably, thus telling anyone listening that he considered himself an excellent choice as a lover for people of either sex.
Wormynghalle grimaced in distaste at the conversation, and her expression echoed Bartholomew’s own opinion. The physician started to move away, wanting to leave them to their nasty speculations. What he heard next stopped him dead in his tracks.
‘Rougham is not the only scholar to have a secret lover,’ said Dodenho, trying to make amends for his lack of loyalty by attacking someone else. ‘Bartholomew of Michaelhouse is seeing Matilde, who lives in the Jewry. He is quite flagrant about it.’
Michael’s expression hardened, and Bartholomew held his breath, wondering whether Weasenham would be able to resist the opportunity to tell what he knew. If he did, then he was certain Michael would act on his promise to ruin him.
‘I know nothing of that,’ said the stationer stiffly, after a transparent battle between desire and self-preservation. Michael grinned in satisfaction, while Bartholomew was simply relieved that he and Matilde were no longer a target for the man’s spiteful tattle. ‘They are honourable people, and I do not see him flouting University rules.’
‘How dare you malign Bartholomew!’ snarled Wormynghalle, so white-faced with rage that Dodenho jumped in alarm. ‘He is a good man.’
Michael’s eyebrows shot up and he began to cackle. ‘You have an admirer – Wormynghalle has taken a fancy to you. You should take care you are never alone with the man, or Weasenham will be spreading rumours that half the Fellows in the University are in love with each other.’
Bartholomew said nothing, but was touched that Wormynghalle had come to his defence. After a few moments, she busied herself with selecting pens, while the stationer wrapped the ones Dodenho had already chosen. Dodenho looked around, then lowered his voice conspiratorially, although it was still loud enough to be audible to the eavesdroppers. ‘Have you heard the news from the Castle?’
‘Tulyet dredged Merton Hall’s cistern,’ said Wormynghalle flatly, attempting to stall yet more idle chatter by showing she already knew the tale. ‘Looking for a corpse. But he never found one, and there are rumours that it was never there in the first place.’
‘I do not mean that,’ said Dodenho, and Bartholomew saw him fixing the stationer with very beady eyes. Weasenham shifted uncomfortably. ‘But I think you know what I am talking about, Master Stationer.’
‘But I do not,’ muttered Michael, peeved. ‘I hope they do not go all obtuse on us.’
‘I have no idea what you mean,’ said Weasenham, slapping a wrapped pen on to the table to indicate that the sale – and the discussion – was over.
Dodenho had other ideas. He leaned forward and placed his hand over pen and the fingers that held it, making sure he had Weasenham’s full attention. Wormynghalle looked from one to the other in confusion, while the stationer was visibly alarmed by the grip that pinned him to the bench.
‘When Tulyet saw there was no body in the well, he abandoned his search,’ whispered Dodenho. ‘But a small crowd had gathered to watch the proceedings, and some folk lingered, disgruntled because they were deprived of the spectacle of a bloated corpse. One hovered longer than most, and eventually approached the cistern and had a poke around for himself.’
‘You were watching me!’ exclaimed Weasenham accusingly. ‘Where were you?’
‘Nearby,’ replied Dodenho vaguely. ‘I am not a man for obvious gawking, but I have no objection to witnessing such events from a discreet distance.’
‘I do not think that is a very nice thing to—’ began Wormynghalle uncomfortably.
Dodenho ignored her. ‘I saw this onlooker fish about with a hook for some time before he snagged something of interest. He took his find – a waterlogged sack – to some bushes, where he thought he could inspect it unseen.’
‘What do you want?’ asked Weasenham wearily. ‘Half of what I found? You are welcome. Most of it comprised baubles that I shall toss into the river as soon as I have a free moment.’
‘Blackmail!’ cried Wormynghalle, looking at Dodenho in horror. He took no notice and fixed all his glittering attention on the unhappy merchant.
‘There was a little silver dog. I saw it being made for mad Master Clippesby of Michaelhouse. That was no mere bauble.’
‘It was a gift from Clippesby
to Matilde,’ said Weasenham. His expression became gleeful as he saw a way to change the subject. ‘For services rendered.’
‘For her kindness to an injured cat,’ corrected Wormynghalle sharply. ‘Clippesby is besotted with animals, and she helped one that was hurt. She is a good woman and he wanted to show her his appreciation, so do not make it sound sinister, Master Weasenham, when we know it was innocent.’
Bartholomew warmed to her even more, admiring her for speaking out in defence of two people whose reputations were currently compromised in the unforgiving little town.
‘The dog was stolen from Matilde,’ said Dodenho. ‘There are rumours that Eudo took it, but the Sheriff found no trace of the thing when he searched Merton Hall. Now we know why. Eudo – aided by Boltone – kept his stolen goods submerged in the cistern, where no one would ever think to look. Tulyet’s men missed them, because they were looking for a body, not a sack of treasure. But you did not.’
‘I see,’ murmured Bartholomew. ‘Eudo and Boltone did not attack us because they were concealing a murdered corpse, but because they were protecting stolen goods. They had been working on the pulley when we confronted them, either because they wanted it mended so they could retrieve the sack, or because they had acquired new treasures that needed to be hidden.’
‘Interesting,’ mused Michael. ‘So, the bailiff and his tenant had nothing to do with the dead man. That particular corpse simply had the misfortune to be stored in the same place as Eudo’s loot.’
Bartholomew reconsidered. ‘Although we should not discount the possibility that they killed him because he discovered their hoard. Also, we should not forget that Chesterfelde probably died near the cistern – of a cut wrist. And Eudo also has a damaged arm.’
‘Eudo would not have let you examine his injury if he thought it would lead you to connect him with Chesterfelde’s death. The two gashed hands are coincidence, and the “connection” will mislead us if we pay it too much attention.’
‘What else was in the sack?’ demanded Wormynghalle of Weasenham, clearly disgusted by the stationer’s dishonest activities. ‘I assume you intend to return it all to its rightful owners?’
Bartholomew 11 - The Mark Of A Murderer Page 27