Bartholomew 11 - The Mark Of A Murderer

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘They were helping me,’ said Rougham, collapsing white-faced on to a bench. ‘They met me near the Barnwell Gate, and offered to assist me on the final leg of my journey from Norfolk.’

  ‘But I saw you in Matilde’s house yesterday . . .’ began Weasenham immediately.

  ‘No, you did not,’ said Rougham with a conviction that Bartholomew could only admire. ‘That must have been someone else, because I have only just arrived. I was afraid I would miss the Visitation, but I am just in time.’

  ‘You will not be making the Archbishop’s acquaintance, either,’ said Eudo. ‘I have reason to believe it was you who wrote to Okehamptone, telling tales about us, so you are the reason we are in this vile predicament.’

  ‘Did you kill Okehamptone, Eudo?’ asked Michael, before Rougham could admit to anything. ‘Did you cut his throat because he believed you were dishonest?’

  ‘We have not killed anyone,’ said Eudo firmly. He indicated Bartholomew with a nod of his head. ‘Not even him, unfortunately.’

  ‘It was you who attacked me with the spade?’ asked Bartholomew. The weaving, cloaked figure in St Michael’s Church had been about the right size and shape for the tenant.

  ‘I should have gone through with it,’ said Eudo resentfully. ‘But you made me panic with all that yelling, and then the monk came. I shoved you in the cupboard, when I should have finished the job.’

  ‘But why?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘What have I done to you? We barely know each other.’

  ‘Enough chatter,’ said Boltone impatiently, seeing Eudo ready to oblige with an explanation. He stepped towards the stationer and brandished his bow. ‘We are short of time, so do not sit there listening to talk that does not concern you. Write.’

  Weasenham flinched at the anger in his voice, and turned his attention to the parchment that lay in front of him. It was covered in the stationer’s small, neat script.

  ‘I want to go home,’ said Rougham feebly. He looked dreadful, with a sheen of sweat coating his pallid face. ‘And I need my colleagues to help me. I do not care what you are doing here.’ He attempted to stand, but Eudo strode towards him with a furious glower and he sank down again.

  ‘He is ill,’ said Bartholomew, moving instinctively to stand between his patient and the felons. He had a sudden inspiration. ‘It is a contagion, contracted on his journey from Norfolk. Possibly a fatal one. You do not want him in here with you.’

  ‘A contagion is the least of our worries,’ said Boltone bitterly, although Eudo looked alarmed. ‘But we will not catch it if he keeps well away from us. You two can sit next to him, and prevent him from coughing in our direction.’

  ‘I will stay here, thank you,’ said Michael, leaning against the shelves with his hand still clapped to his bruised face. He had no intention of going where they could all be conveniently covered with one weapon. ‘A man with a broken nose is vulnerable to contagions.’

  Boltone should have insisted on obedience, but instead he turned on Eudo, and Bartholomew saw they were incompetent criminals. ‘I told you this was a bad idea, but you insisted it would work. Now what are we going to do?’

  ‘We will kill them before we leave. It is not our fault: they brought it on themselves.’

  ‘No,’ said Boltone, alarmed. ‘Not murder – especially of a monk! It will not matter that we are innocent of theft, if we then commit an even more serious crime.’

  ‘Listen to him, Eudo,’ recommended Michael. ‘You say you have not killed anyone so far, so it would be foolish to begin now. Let Rougham go, and we can devise a solution—’

  ‘We cannot be merciful. We have too much to lose.’ Eudo took a step towards Weasenham and his handsome features creased into a scowl. ‘Write! Or I will chop off your hands.’

  ‘I am going as fast as I can,’ bleated Weasenham. ‘I have been scribing all night, and my fingers are so cramped I can barely move them.’

  ‘You are preparing proclamations,’ said Bartholomew, craning his neck to see what Weasenham was doing. There was already a substantial pile of sheets on the table, at least half in a different hand, and he supposed Boltone too had been writing before he had been obliged to abandon clerkly activities to point a crossbow at Michael.

  ‘I told you to keep the door locked,’ grumbled Boltone, rounding on Eudo a second time. ‘But you would insist on looking outside every few moments to see whether Islip had arrived, even though it is still far too early. It is your fault we are in this mess. I would have devised a way to explain away Chesterfelde’s blood when the Senior Proctor came prying, but oh, no! You have to start a fight and we end up accused of killing Hamecotes.’

  ‘Write!’ shouted Eudo at Weasenham, refusing to acknowledge his friend’s accusations.

  Bartholomew thought fast, rearranging facts and conclusions in the light of what he had just heard. Rougham had been wrong to think either Eudo or Boltone was the wolf. They were exactly what they appeared: cornered petty felons. They knew something about Chesterfelde’s death, but nothing about the others, because the wolf was clever and this pair were not. They had mishandled the situation at the cistern, and now they had allowed themselves to become trapped in a position where they had four hostages to manage.

  ‘You can still escape,’ he said in a reasonable voice. ‘Abandon what you are doing and leave. You will find another property to run, given the number left vacant by the plague, and you can begin your lives again somewhere else.’

  ‘Why should we?’ demanded Eudo. ‘I will not be driven away by lies. This is my home.’

  ‘They are not lies,’ said Michael. ‘You have stolen – from people like Matilde, and from Merton – and you have been found out. Personally, I would rather see you hang, but my colleague is offering you a chance. Take it, before you end up with a rope around your necks.’

  ‘No!’ shouted Eudo. ‘None of it is true – except for the accounting, and that was Boltone. I have stolen nothing! I am the victim of a University plot, which blames me for its own crimes. But I have a plan. I will exonerate myself, and everything will return to normal.’

  ‘These will not exonerate you,’ said Michael, picking up one of the proclamations. ‘Lies can be written just as easily as they can be spoken, and putting pen to parchment does not produce a truth.’

  ‘You see?’ said Boltone. ‘I told you it would not work.’

  ‘People will believe what is written,’ insisted Eudo stubbornly. ‘Especially clerks. They will read what I dictated, and see that the real villains are scholars – Polmorva, Dodenho and men like them.’

  ‘Chesterfelde visited Cambridge regularly,’ said Bartholomew, turning over what he had deduced. ‘I think it was he who helped keep your deception from Merton for so long – for a price, I imagine. What was it? A third of the profits?’

  ‘How do you know that?’ demanded Boltone, aghast. ‘He said he never told anyone.’

  Bartholomew did not want to admit that it had been a guess. ‘You two and Chesterfelde met last Saturday night, to discuss what to do about Duraunt’s inspection. You formulated a plan to evade exposure, and to demonstrate the depth of your commitment, you decided to sign it with blood.’

  ‘To mingle blood,’ corrected Boltone, glowering at Eudo. ‘As a sign of undying brotherhood. It was a stupid idea.’

  ‘A stupid idea devised by men in their cups,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘Eudo had been drinking at the King’s Head, while Chesterfelde was drunk on wine provided by the merchants.’

  ‘The mixing of blood was symbolic of our loyalty,’ protested Eudo. ‘Knights do it all the time.’

  ‘But Chesterfelde cut himself too deeply – or you did it for him.’ Bartholomew considered. ‘No, he did it himself. The wound was on his left wrist, and I know he was right-handed because I saw writing calluses on his fingers: he used his right hand to slice his left arm. Blood pumped from him as he stood by the cistern, and none of you could stop it.’

  ‘We did not know how,’ said Eudo resentfully. ‘We tried
holding the limb in the air, we hunted for leeches in the cistern, but nothing worked. Meanwhile, Tulyet’s brat was watching everything.’

  ‘Dickon,’ mused Michael. ‘So, it was Chesterfelde’s death he saw – the splashing he mentioned was you searching for leeches, not the sound of Hamecotes’s corpse being dropped down the well. He identified you as the killer, but was vague about the victim.’

  ‘He shot me later,’ said Eudo resentfully. ‘Evil little tyke. I will put an end to his violent antics when I am reinstated as tenant of Merton Hall. He will not spy on me again.’

  ‘I was not drunk,’ said Boltone. ‘Well, not very, and the brat cannot have me blamed for what happened to Chesterfelde.’

  ‘And what was that?’ asked Michael. ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Eudo frightened Chesterfelde with his fury over Duraunt’s inspection. It made him cut himself over-vigorously – to demonstrate the extent of his kinship with us.’

  ‘He should not have used such a large dagger,’ said Eudo, sounding more indignant than sorry. ‘It was unwieldy and he was clumsy from wine. He should have used my little knife instead.’

  ‘And then you tried to make the accident look like murder, by dumping his body in the hall with the dagger in his back,’ surmised Michael. ‘His Oxford companions were all drunk, too, so they slept through the racket you must have made.’

  ‘Except Polmorva,’ said Eudo. ‘The others were all snoring but he saw what we were doing. He promised to say nothing, in return for certain favours.’

  ‘It was Eudo’s idea,’ said Boltone bitterly, before Michael could ask what favours the sly scholar had demanded. ‘He said if we left Chesterfelde’s body in their midst, the Oxford men would be blamed for his death, and we would not.’

  ‘Your only crimes are dishonesty and stupidity,’ said the monk, disgusted with them both. ‘You are innocent of murder, and it was just unfortunate coincidence that someone used your cistern as a grave for Hamecotes, not knowing it was where you kept your hoard.’

  ‘We have no hoard,’ insisted Eudo. ‘I keep telling you: we had nothing to do with that.’

  ‘You stole Matilde’s silver dog.’

  ‘I visited her for a remedy – my woman will not lie with me as long as she has female pains; I gave Alyce the cure, but she still only has eyes for Ralph de Langelee – but I stole nothing from Matilde.’

  Michael glanced at Weasenham, who sat scratching out his proclamations and weeping softly. ‘Go,’ the monk said to Eudo and Boltone, pointing to the door. ‘Leave Cambridge while you can.’

  ‘I will not, and I will kill anyone who tries to make me,’ Eudo shouted, brandishing the crossbow in a way that made his prisoners flinch in alarm. ‘No one saw you coming here – I watched you sneaking down the lane myself – and no one saw us, either. Therefore, no one will know it was us who killed you.’ He looked pleased with his logic.

  ‘Weasenham will know,’ Michael pointed out. He rested a heavy forearm on one of the shelves and gave it a nudge to test its stability. Bartholomew saw what he intended to do, and started to edge slowly along the bench towards him.

  ‘He will die, too,’ said Eudo coldly. ‘He has almost finished what he is writing, and we have no further need of his services.’

  ‘No!’ shrieked Weasenham. ‘You said I would live if I did what you asked. You promised!’

  ‘That was before they arrived,’ snapped Eudo. ‘I cannot release a witness to their deaths.’

  ‘I can keep secrets!’ howled Weasenham. ‘I have kept the one about Bartholomew visiting Matilde. Ask Brother Michael. I have not breathed a word about that to anyone.’

  ‘Finish that document, and let us bring an end to this,’ said Eudo, unbarring the door to glance outside. Bartholomew saw the streets were becoming busy, as people flocked towards the Market Square, and there was an atmosphere of excitement in the rattle of many footsteps. He eased closer towards the shelves, gradually slipping down the slick surface of the bench, and trying not to let Eudo see what he was doing. ‘We have one of those proclamations for every scholar, priest and clerk in the town, and a copy is sure to reach the Archbishop. He will recognise the truth and will take our case before the King.’

  ‘He will not,’ said Michael scornfully. ‘And it will be obvious who killed Weasenham, since this parchment – covered in his writing – is to be distributed throughout the town. It is a ludicrous plan.’

  ‘You see?’ demanded Boltone of Eudo. ‘I told you it would not work.’

  ‘It would have done, if these scholars had not spoiled it,’ snarled Eudo. A thought occurred to him, and a wicked smile crossed his face. ‘We will shoot them first, then set the shop alight. All anyone will find is charred corpses, and no one will ever know what really happened.’

  ‘But murder, Eudo!’ whispered Boltone. ‘And the Proctor is a monk, a man of God.’

  ‘We have no choice. If you let them live, you will hang. Do you want to die just because you are too frightened to loose a judicious arrow against men who put us in this situation in the first place?’

  Boltone was obviously unhappy, but the increasing clamour in the street and its sense of urgency was beginning to rob him of his common sense. He nodded reluctant agreement.

  ‘Good,’ said Eudo, flexing his fingers around his bow. ‘Then we must hurry, because we are running out of time. You shoot Bartholomew and I will kill the monk. Then we will reload and dispatch Weasenham and Rougham, who are weaker and less likely to stop us. Ready?’

  As one, he and Boltone raised their weapons and pointed them at the scholars.

  ‘Now!’ shouted Michael, flinging himself backwards as hard as he could. Bartholomew did likewise, at the same instant that Boltone released his quarrel. The physician heard a snap and something hit his chest before he fell. For a moment, he felt nothing, then there was a dull throb. When he glanced down, his clothes were stained red, and he realised he had been hit.

  Meanwhile, his and Michael’s combined weight had been more than the shelves could support. With a tearing groan, they came away from their moorings and toppled, sending their contents skittering across the room. Bottles smashed, pens tapped on the wooden floor, and parchments soared from their neat piles like birds, covering the shop with a carpet of cream. Eudo began to reload, regarding first Michael and then Bartholomew with an expression of hatred, while Boltone was momentarily stunned by a box that had struck his head.

  ‘Michael!’ Bartholomew gasped, knowing the monk could disarm Eudo if he moved fast enough. It took a moment or two to wind a crossbow.

  But Michael wallowed with agonising helplessness among the inkwells and scrolls, and seemed unable to climb to his feet. Bartholomew was sharply reminded of Brother Thomas’s prediction that the monk’s obesity would bring about his friend’s death, and was appalled it should come true quite so soon. He saw Boltone shake his head to clear it, then scramble towards the weapon he had dropped. The physician managed to reach it first, struggling to keep hold of it while the bailiff tried to snatch it back.

  ‘Michael!’ he yelled again, watching Eudo load his weapon with all the time in the world. But Michael only rolled this way and that, like a landed fish among the sea of parchment.

  Weasenham dived under a table with a petrified squeak, and it was left to Rougham to pick up a stone inkwell and lob it with his failing strength. It hit Eudo square in the face, and felled him as cleanly as any arrow. Boltone gazed at his fallen colleague in horrified disbelief, then abandoned his skirmish with Bartholomew to dart across the room, wrench open the door and flee as fast as his legs could carry him. Weasenham emerged from under the table to grab Eudo’s weapon, but the man was deeply insensible, and posed no further threat. Rougham appealed to Bartholomew.

  ‘I am feeling most unwell. Will you mix me a physic?’

  ‘Never mind you!’ shouted Michael furiously, finally upright. ‘What about Matt? He has been shot and is drenched in blood.’

  ‘Ink,’ said Rougham dismissively.
‘Weasenham threw it. He was actually aiming at Eudo and, since he missed his intended target, I was obliged to hurl a pot myself. I always say that if you want a job done properly, you should do it yourself, and this is just a case in point.’

  ‘But I saw the bolt fly loose,’ said Michael, while Bartholomew regarded the mess on his best tabard in dismay. He doubted it could be washed out.

  ‘It is lodged in the ceiling,’ said Weasenham, pointing with an unsteady finger. ‘Eudo is no better a marksman than I am, it seems.’

  ‘Tend me, please, Bartholomew,’ begged Rougham. ‘Before Weasenham really does have a corpse in his shop.’

  The stationer, relieved and grateful that he had escaped with his life, offered his own bed to the invalid, which was accepted with poor grace – Rougham claimed he did not want to return to Gonville a few houses at a time. But he slept readily enough, and Bartholomew thought he should be able to complete his journey the following day. Meanwhile, Michael went to summon beadles to collect Eudo before the tenant regained his senses. He found Tulyet first, and they returned within moments. The Sheriff, clad in his finest clothes, stepped carefully through the rainbow spillages that adorned Weasenham’s once-pristine floor.

  ‘So,’ he said, watching his men haul Eudo away. ‘You deliver me a pair of thieves, but no killer.’

  ‘A pair of thieves?’ asked Michael. ‘You caught Boltone?’

  ‘He ran right into my arms. He was covered in blood – just like you, Matt. Are you hurt?’

  ‘My best red ink,’ said Weasenham sadly, gazing at Bartholomew’s tabard as though he was contemplating wringing it out to see what he could salvage. ‘What a waste! You will not get it off, either, and Agatha will be furious. Do not tell her it happened in my shop. I do not want her storming in and waving her sword at my throat.’

  ‘How do you know she has a sword?’ asked Bartholomew.