Bartholomew 11 - The Mark Of A Murderer

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘Hours ago,’ replied Abergavenny. ‘He is probably praying for Chesterfelde. Why do you ask?’

  Bartholomew pointed. ‘He is not in any church. He is there: I recognise his cloak.’

  Duraunt joined him at the window, and his jaw dropped in horror. ‘But he is dangling from that tree – by the neck!’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Bartholomew softly. ‘And he is almost certainly dead.’

  Spryngheuse was indeed dead. When Bartholomew and Michael arrived in the garden, with the Oxford men behind them, it was obvious that the Mertonian was beyond any earthly help. Duraunt insisted the body should be cut down and removed to a church as soon as possible, and Polmorva and the merchants concurred in a rare consensus. They were furious that another of their number had perished, and Bartholomew had very little time to examine the body in situ before the rope around its neck was untied and Spryngheuse was lowered to the ground.

  ‘I suppose he will be taken to that horrible All-Saints-next-the-Castle,’ said Duraunt, looking sadly at the body as it lay in the damp grass. Bartholomew noticed his hands were shaking. ‘Like Okehamptone and Chesterfelde.’

  ‘It is outrageous,’ declared Polmorva. ‘When I return to Oxford, I shall complain to the highest authorities about our treatment here. Your town does not even allow us a consecrated church from which to bury our dead.’

  ‘You hail from a city under interdict,’ said Michael insolently. ‘What do you expect?’

  Polmorva ignored him. ‘It may be too late for Okehamptone, but I shall do better for Chesterfelde and Spryngheuse. I want them buried deep in the ground – preferably hallowed – where they will be safe from physicians with macabre pastimes, and not in some vault where they can be picked at.’

  ‘I will arrange for them to be buried in St Clement’s,’ volunteered Michael. ‘Merton Hall is not in its parish, but the priest has plenty of room in his churchyard.’

  ‘That surprises me,’ said Polmorva unpleasantly. ‘I would have thought it would be stuffed full, given how many folk die in this sordid little settlement.’

  ‘The only people who have died recently are from Oxford,’ said Michael acidly, irritated that his offer should be treated with contempt. ‘But I cannot stand here all day when Spryngheuse lies without a coffin. I shall fetch one, and Matt will stay with the body until I return.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Duraunt gratefully. ‘I will wait with him.’

  ‘There is no need for that,’ said Michael briskly. ‘Go inside. It looks as though it might rain.’

  ‘He wants you out of the way, so Bartholomew can examine Spryngheuse alone,’ said Polmorva astutely. ‘Do not let him. We do not want another of our colleagues defiled by his pawing hands.’

  ‘There will be no defiling here,’ vowed Duraunt, and Bartholomew was surprised by the glint of determination in his eyes. ‘Not on Merton land.’

  ‘Then do not leave Spryngheuse alone for an instant,’ advised Polmorva. ‘Besides, I have heard that the man who “discovers” a corpse is very often the man who has taken its life, and it was Bartholomew who first saw Spryngheuse. He probably killed him to strike at us.’

  ‘I have no reason to kill Spryngheuse,’ objected Bartholomew, becoming tired of the stream of accusations. ‘I barely knew him.’

  ‘He lent you his best cloak,’ snapped Polmorva. ‘Perhaps you thought that murdering him was the surest way to make sure you can keep it.’

  ‘Do not be ridiculous,’ retorted Bartholomew impatiently. ‘I have already returned it to him. And what makes you think his death is murder, anyway? How do you know he did not kill himself?’

  ‘Did he?’ asked Duraunt, concerned. ‘If that is the case, then he cannot be laid in hallowed soil, nor can he have the benefit of a requiem mass.’

  ‘He did not kill himself,’ declared Polmorva. ‘On the contrary, he was so determined to live that he spent the last few days telling everyone how frightened he was that someone might try to dispatch him. A man intent on suicide would not have cared.’

  ‘He was horrified when he learned Bartholomew was attacked while wearing his cloak,’ said Abergavenny thoughtfully. ‘He was certain it was his Black Monk, coming to snatch his soul.’

  ‘And he insisted on staying indoors, where he thought he would be safe,’ added Eu. ‘I wonder what induced him to go out today.’

  ‘I heard Duraunt telling him he would benefit from fresh air,’ said Wormynghalle, a sly and spiteful expression on his coarse features. ‘He must have taken the advice to heart.’

  Duraunt was shocked. ‘I did nothing of the kind! Do not try to blame me for this death.’

  ‘I thought it was you who suggested he go,’ said Polmorva to the tanner, stirring already troubled waters, so that it was not long before everyone was shouting. Polmorva stepped back and folded his arms, and Bartholomew tried to assess what he was thinking. Was it simple satisfaction, because he had provoked another quarrel? Or was there a more sinister reason for his games – such as using the others’ anger to divert attention from himself?

  Then Bartholomew studied Duraunt, who was suspiciously vocal in his denials that he had recommended a walk to Spryngheuse. Did that signify a guilty conscience, or was he merely appalled that anyone should think he was responsible for the scholar’s death? Bartholomew was deeply troubled by the notion that his old master might be involved in something untoward, but found the man difficult to defend when he thought about the poppy juice and what his sister had overheard in the apothecary’s shop. Were Michael and Langelee right when they pointed out that men changed over the years? Bartholomew had the sickening sense that Duraunt might have turned into something he no longer recognised, just as Duraunt had claimed Bartholomew himself had grown unfamiliar.

  The merchants were equally impossible to read. Wormynghalle was red-faced with indignation that he should be associated with any wrongdoing, while Eu was loftily careless about what anyone thought, stating he had had nothing to do with the misfortunes that had befallen his travelling companions, and that was that. Abergavenny tried to placate them all, but it was some time before the voice of reason quelled those of dissent and anger.

  ‘Strong wine is the cause of all this,’ said Polmorva. ‘If you had not caroused so wildly the night Chesterfelde died, then he would still be with us and Spryngheuse would not have hanged himself.’

  ‘You were just as inebriated as the rest of us,’ snapped Duraunt. He realised he had admitted something he had denied before and a flicker of annoyance crossed his face. He gritted his teeth and continued. ‘You pretended to abstain, but you did not – not that night and not on other occasions. I heard you snoring later, in the way a drunken man sleeps.’

  Polmorva assumed an expression of weary patience. ‘You lie, old man. You—’

  ‘Hanged himself?’ interrupted Wormynghalle, regarding Polmorva with raised eyebrows. ‘You just accused Bartholomew of murdering him, and I assumed you had good reason for doing so. Now you say suicide. Which is it?’

  ‘I do not know,’ said Polmorva icily. ‘I was not standing by this tree when he died to see what happened, was I?’

  ‘Really,’ said Michael flatly, in a tone that indicated he was not so sure. Polmorva bristled, but Michael turned to Duraunt before he could respond. ‘We will give Spryngheuse the benefit of the doubt, and will ensure he has all the due ceremony appropriate to a recently deceased scholar from a respected Oxford College. It is often difficult to tell the difference between murder and suicide in hangings, and we may never know what really happened.’

  He shot Bartholomew a look that the physician interpreted as a suggestion that he should inspect the body later, without a hostile audience. It was a recommendation Bartholomew intended to follow, because he did not want to be accused of witchcraft or a morbid love of anatomy while he carried out his examination. Michael went to fetch the bier and Polmorva accompanied him, saying he wanted to ensure the monk left Merton Hall and did not go exploring by himself. The merchants d
eclined to linger with a dead man – especially once it started to rain – and it was not long before Bartholomew was alone with Duraunt.

  ‘Are Polmorva’s accusations true?’ the old man asked in a voice that cracked with sorrow. ‘Do you defile corpses by prodding them after they have been laid to rest?’

  ‘I did inspect Okehamptone,’ admitted Bartholomew, not liking the way Duraunt considered his duties sacrilegious. ‘But only to find out how he died. I imagine most men would want justice if their lives were snatched by killers, and I do not think Okehamptone would object to someone discovering he had been murdered.’ He thought about the uneasy sensation he had experienced shortly after the examination, and sincerely hoped he was right.

  Duraunt went to sit on the cistern wall. The pit was already half full, recovering quickly from Tulyet’s drainage. ‘I find the notion of you caressing a two-week-dead corpse painfully disturbing. Did you “inspect” him with the help of a knife and rouse out his innards while you were there?’

  ‘I did not,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘That would be illegal.’

  Duraunt sighed, and was silent for a while, evidently too unsettled to discuss the matter further. Eventually, he changed the subject. ‘The merchants are itching to be back to their businesses. I suspect they plan to blame Okehamptone or Chesterfelde for killing Gonerby, just to have something to tell this demanding widow. Both are dead, so not in a position to argue.’

  ‘They may be maligning the names of innocent men.’

  ‘Is that worse than seizing someone en route and dragging him to Oxford for hanging? Because that is what they will do if they fail to catch a culprit: they have vowed not to return empty-handed. I shall be glad to go home, though. Oxford is violent and unsettled, but I have friends there, and I know where I stand. Here I do not know who to trust.’

  ‘Like Polmorva, you mean?’

  ‘No, I do not mean Polmorva,’ said Duraunt, although his eyes dipped away when he spoke. ‘I know you dislike him, but it is the merchants I am worried about. Eu and Wormynghalle hate each other, and Abergavenny is hard-pressed to keep the peace. I would not be surprised to learn that one of them took the lives of Okehamptone, Chesterfelde and Spryngheuse. They hate my University with a passion, and may regard this as a good opportunity to rid themselves of a few of us.’

  ‘Then why did you invite them to stay at Merton Hall?’

  ‘Because I fear the St Scholastica’s Day riots were started deliberately, and I do not want the same thing to happen here. I would rather have the merchants where I can see them.’

  It sounded noble, but Duraunt no longer struck Bartholomew as a man who would put his own scholars in danger to protect a strange town. Once again he was not sure what to think.

  Duraunt forced a smile. ‘Let us talk of happier things, Matthew. Have you read any of the theories recently proposed by Heytesbury? We are proud to have him at our College.’

  ‘A Fellow from King’s Hall – Hamecotes – is visiting Oxford at the moment,’ said Bartholomew, grateful to discuss a topic that would not be contentious. ‘He has gone to buy books, and says he has already secured Heytesbury’s Regulae solvendi sophismata from Merton.’

  Duraunt shook his head. ‘Not from Merton, Matthew. We never sell our books, because we barely have enough for ourselves, as I am sure you will remember. And Heytesbury’s Regulae would be far too valuable to exchange for mere money. It would be priceless to us.’

  ‘How odd,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘I wonder if Hamecotes made the story up, and has gone off on business of his own – or whether someone wants us to believe he is somewhere he is not.’

  ‘You think he is dead? Perhaps he is the body you saw in the cistern.’ Duraunt glanced behind him at the murky water, and stood quickly.

  ‘There is no reason to think that. Perhaps he has escaped with a lover, as Weasenham says. Or perhaps he is with Wolf, nursing him through his pox.’ Bartholomew went to where Spryngheuse lay, sorry he was dead and recalling the man’s distress in the days before he died.

  ‘Do not touch him, Matthew,’ said Duraunt softly, watching the physician close the staring eyes. ‘If you examine him and discover he committed suicide, then we shall have to inter him in unhallowed ground: my conscience will not allow anything else. But as long as there is doubt, he can rest in a churchyard. Let there be doubt, so he can be given a Christian burial.’

  Reluctantly, Bartholomew complied.

  Suspecting his Corpse Examiner would never have an opportunity to examine Spryngheuse unless he took matters into his own hands, Michael abandoned the notion of taking the body to St Clement’s, and arranged for it to go to St Michael’s instead. This, he assured the suspicious Oxford contingent, was a great honour, and Spryngheuse would be guaranteed prayers from men who were members of a University, like himself. When they remained sceptical, he offered to bury Chesterfelde at the same time – two interments for the price of one. Father William had agreed to undertake vigils with his Franciscan students, and Michael said he would recite the requiem mass himself, which met with further suspicion from Polmorva, gratitude from Duraunt and indifference from the merchants. It was, after all, not they who would be footing the bill for the funeral expenses.

  ‘And what about the interdict?’ asked Polmorva archly. ‘We have been told that prevents any Oxford citizen from being decently laid to rest.’

  ‘We shall bury them first and worry about the relevant dispensations later,’ replied Michael. He smiled at Duraunt. ‘Then, even if permission is refused, no one will want to exhume them, especially once Matt has described the diseases that might be unleashed in so doing.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Duraunt, taking Michael’s hand in both of his own. ‘When will you perform the rite? It is Friday now and Chesterfelde died on Saturday. The sooner he is laid to rest the better.’

  ‘Today,’ said Michael, wanting the bodies out of St Michael’s well before the Visitation. He did not like the notion of the Archbishop stepping inside and declaring it reeked of the dead. ‘Before vespers. I hope you will all attend.’

  ‘We might,’ said Eu cautiously. ‘It depends on what else is happening.’

  ‘I will come,’ declared Duraunt. ‘And so will Polmorva.’ Polmorva looked none too pleased that he had been volunteered, but he inclined his head in reluctant assent.

  Michael had arranged for Spryngheuse to be carried away by pall-bearers he had commandeered from Michaelhouse. Deynman and Falmeresham were more than happy to escape the monotonous tones of Master Langelee reading a text he did not understand, while Cynric was always willing to help the monk. The book-bearer nodded amiably at Abergavenny and exchanged a few words in Welsh, while Bartholomew and the students lifted Spryngheuse into the parish coffin. Then Cynric and Bartholomew took the front of the box, and the others grabbed the back.

  ‘What did he say?’ asked Bartholomew of the Welshman.

  ‘He asked me to keep you from dissecting Spryngheuse once you have him in your domain – but that if I cannot, then I am to make sure Duraunt and Polmorva do not find out.’

  Bartholomew frowned. ‘What did he mean by issuing such a request? That he hopes no one will examine Spryngheuse, because there is evidence that he did not kill himself ? And that Duraunt and Polmorva have a good reason for wanting such information kept hidden?’

  ‘Or that they are more likely to make a fuss,’ suggested Falmeresham practically. ‘That pair seem opposed to anatomy in any form, but especially when practised by you.’

  ‘Or that you may discover Spryngheuse was a suicide, which means he cannot be buried at St Michael’s,’ offered Cynric. ‘A suicide and a man under interdict is banned from hallowed ground on two counts.’

  Bartholomew recalled Michael’s contention that Abergavenny was a man clever enough to kill and evade justice, and wondered whether the monk had been right. Tulyet was still convinced Eu was involved in more than he had revealed, while Bartholomew had not shaken his conviction that the blustering Wormyn
ghalle was the villain. He grimaced when he recalled the way the tanner had levelled his accusation regarding the astrolabe, and supposed the dislike was mutual.

  They reached the church, where Bartholomew ensured Spryngheuse was arranged neatly and covered with a clean blanket. Polmorva watched him with the eyes of a hawk, while Duraunt knelt nearby and prayed. Neither scholar made a move to leave the chapel, so Michael announced it was time for his mid-morning repast and begged them to excuse him. Bartholomew was bemused, because Michaelhouse did not run to additional meals during the day, and supposed the monk intended to inveigle an invitation to King’s Hall again. He followed him along the High Street and into St Michael’s Lane. After a few steps Michael doubled back, peering around the corner.

  ‘There they go,’ he said with satisfaction. ‘I knew they would not linger once we had gone. Come on, before the Franciscans arrive for their vigil.’

  He grabbed the physician’s arm and hauled him back to St Michael’s, where he barred the door to make sure the Oxford men did not return and catch them unawares.

  ‘Hurry,’ he ordered peremptorily. ‘We do not have long, and I need answers.’

  ‘I am not sure about this,’ said Bartholomew unhappily. ‘Duraunt asked me not to determine whether the death was suicide or murder, because he wants Spryngheuse buried in the churchyard.’

  ‘We shall put him there regardless,’ said Michael. ‘The wretched man was terrified out of his senses these last few days, and we always bury lunatics in hallowed ground, no matter how they die.’

  ‘He claimed a Black Monk was following him,’ said Bartholomew, making no move to comply.

  ‘Then that proves he was addled,’ said Michael. ‘I know every Benedictine in this town, and none is in the habit of stalking people. Spryngheuse imagined this spectre, which is why no one else ever saw him. Come on, Matt. I need to know what happened.’

  Bartholomew examined the marks around the dead man’s neck, trying to be fast and thorough at the same time, eager to be done before Polmorva or Duraunt returned. It was not long before he had learned all he could. He turned to Michael.