They edged through the cheering crowd until they reached the soldiers who had arrested her. Bartholomew immediately sensed something was wrong. He started to run towards them, but stopped abruptly when he saw Tulyet. The Sheriff’s hands were sticky with blood.
‘Help her, Matt,’ he said.
‘I cannot,’ said Bartholomew, kneeling to confirm what he already knew just by looking. ‘She is already dead.’
‘What happened?’ asked Michael.
‘Those damned teeth,’ said Tulyet unsteadily. ‘She used them to cut her own throat.’
EPILOGUE
‘It was all very simple in the end,’ said Michael, as he and Bartholomew sat together on the old apple tree in Michaelhouse’s orchard. Clippesby was with them, and Bartholomew was teaching him to juggle with stones. Michael was chewing on a stick in an attempt to assuage the pangs of hunger that racked his portly frame. The Visitation had lasted a week – Islip had left that morning – and Bartholomew was impressed by the way the monk had kept to a rigid dietary regime of his own devising. Michael had been deeply alarmed by his inability to come to his friend’s rescue in the stationer’s shop, and had taken Brother Thomas’s warning to heart. He was determined to be slender.
‘Yes,’ agreed Clippesby, attempting to juggle and talk at the same time. ‘Joan Gonerby wanted to be a scholar, and completed a term at Merton College in Oxford, but her husband disapproved. So, with the blessing of a cunning brother, she instigated a riot that would serve as a way to murder him without anyone knowing what had really happened.’
‘Unfortunately, she did not kill him instantly, and he heard her talking about going to Cambridge,’ continued Michael. ‘He charged Eu and Abergavenny – and Wormynghalle, without knowing his role in the affair – to bring his killer to justice. Then Joan and her brother decided to turn what could have been an awkward situation to their own advantage. We might have had the answer to this sooner, Matt, if you had mentioned that King’s Hall was recruiting women. I could have told you no good would come of it.’
‘She was an excellent scholar,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘Besides, I see no reason why women should not be allowed to study.’
‘Neither do I,’ said Clippesby, throwing his stones in the air. ‘Pigs do it, and the world has not tumbled around our ears. There is very little more erudite than a sow, you know.’
‘I shall take your word for it,’ said Michael shortly. He resumed his analysis before Clippesby could lead them off into some strange world of his own. ‘Joan exhorted the merchants to investigate her husband’s death, then came to enjoy herself at King’s Hall.’
‘Polmorva had witnessed Gonerby’s murder and was encouraged to accompany the merchants,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Joan did not care – she knew he had seen nothing of import or she would have killed him – but Duraunt extended the invitation because he thought Polmorva planned to dispatch the Master of Queen’s College for personal gain.’
‘Wormynghalle wanted Eu and Abergavenny to come, because it was a chance to rid himself of two burgesses who would vote against him as Mayor,’ continued Clippesby. ‘Duraunt suggested they should all travel together, and offered them accommodation at Merton Hall when he realised they were likely to cause trouble. But why was he so magnanimous? The Merton Hall cat told me he is not an especially good man, just an average one.’
‘Because Oxford is under interdict, and he does not want Cambridge to fall into the same pit,’ replied Michael. ‘Cambridge is Merton’s bolt-hole, should Oxford be suppressed or collapse. It is in his interests to preserve Cambridge.’
‘So, you were wrong to assume that the Oxford men came to cause trouble,’ said Clippesby, jigging and dodging to keep his stones in the air. ‘None of them cared anything for Islip and his rumoured foundation. It was something you might have done, Brother, but nothing they considered.’
Michael ignored the accusation that he was a schemer. ‘As soon as her brother arrived, Joan went to visit him, but she was heard discussing her success by Okehamptone. Joan killed him with her teeth, and they hid the wound, so I would think a fever had claimed him.’
‘But Joan knew – probably through Paxtone – that the Senior Proctor has a Corpse Examiner who is thorough,’ said Clippesby, putting his hands over his head as his stones plummeted around him. ‘So, she arranged for Weasenham to summon Matt for his toothache and prevent him from looking at the body.’
‘How did she do that?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Weasenham did have toothache, but how did she persuade him to choose me over Rougham, his regular physician?’
‘The bat, who lives in Weasenham’s roof, told me that Joan promised him all manner of gossip if he did as she asked,’ replied Clippesby. ‘Then, while her room-mate Hamecotes – who likes green ink and who was always in Weasenham’s shop buying it – obligingly fetched you, she regaled him with wild lies to keep her end of the bargain. This all happened a matter of hours before Hamecotes made his devastating discovery about her sex and threatened to expose her.’
‘A bat,’ said Michael flatly. ‘I do not suppose you happened to be lurking in the shop at the time, and also heard this chatter?’
‘Well, yes,’ admitted Clippesby, gathering his stones. ‘I was there, too. Joan also made sure that Paxtone was available when you needed a Corpse Examiner, knowing he dislikes touching the dead and would never properly investigate a body. So, that was Okehamptone dealt with. It transpired that Polmorva was the sole beneficiary of his will, which made you suspect him of murder, but he was innocent.’
‘The same night, they decided to get rid of Rougham,’ said Bartholomew. ‘They were right to try: Rougham would have made a fuss about his friend Okehamptone’s sudden death. The tanner was supposed to kill Rougham with the teeth, but he was not as proficient as Joan, and he failed.’
‘There was also me,’ said Clippesby. ‘I disturbed him before he could finish.’
‘Joan probably smeared the teeth with excrement,’ said Bartholomew. ‘She knew her brother was not as efficient as her, and added the filth as insurance against his failure. Clippesby saw Wormynghalle’s medallion during the attack, which he thought was wolf-shaped.’
‘Rougham was lucky you helped him, Matt,’ said Clippesby, hurling the stones in the air again, far too high. ‘He is not a good medicus, and if he had tried to physic himself he would be dead for certain. Your kindness came at high cost, though – for you and Matilde, as well as for me. It occurred to me to do nothing to ward off the attack, because he is an unpleasant man who I once saw kicking a cat, but I found I could not stand by and watch someone slaughtered.’
‘And that was Rougham finished,’ said Michael. ‘When he disappeared, they assumed he had run away. The following day, while he lay gripped by fever in Matilde’s house, Clippesby was sent to Stourbridge. But speaking of Matilde, it has been a week since you told me of your intention to marry her, Matt. What did she say?’
Bartholomew glared at him. ‘You know I have not been able to see her, because of all the extra duties imposed by the Visitation.’
‘She wants you to ask,’ said Clippesby. He smiled shyly when Bartholomew raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘Edwardus Rex, Yolande de Blaston’s dog, often hears Matilde talking about you. He says she will take you tomorrow, if only you would speak to her about it.’
‘I will, then,’ said Bartholomew softly. ‘I will ask her tomorrow.’
‘Good,’ said Clippesby. ‘Do it straight after prime. I will watch your class until you come back. Do not delay, because Edwardus says she will not wait for ever.’ He resumed his juggling, leaving Bartholomew determined to erect some strong gates when he was married, to prevent Clippesby from eavesdropping on Matilde’s confidences with her friends again.
‘Then Hamecotes died,’ said Michael, going back to their analysis. ‘Murdered by Joan because he stumbled across her true identity, but was not sympathetic. When Matt unveiled her on Wednesday, she set her brother to kill him, too. She trusted no one.’
‘Do not take any notice of what Duraunt said, Matt,’ said Clippesby, blanching as one of his rocks landed in Michael’s lap. ‘He claimed you were insular, because you disapproved of the false teeth. You have your foibles, but who does not?’
‘You do, and that is for sure,’ muttered Michael, snatching up the stone and threatening to lob it back. Clippesby sat down quickly. ‘So, Hamecotes was hidden in the Merton Hall cistern, where she imagined his body would remain for ever. But then Chesterfelde died, killed by a friendship pact, and Matt saw the blood. We asked Tulyet to drain the well, so Joan moved the body to King’s Hall, where she anticipated she would have time to work out what to do with it.’
‘But Dodenho practised his lectures there, and her secret was out,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Joan did an excellent job of brazening out the situation. She told us Hamecotes had sent letters, and seemed heartbroken by his death. She had me fooled.’
‘Me too,’ admitted Michael. ‘Meanwhile, she was afraid that Spryngheuse, who was frightened and unstable, would also cause problems. When Chesterfelde died, he became even more distressed, and it was an easy matter for her to don a Benedictine habit and urge him to kill himself.’
‘Wormynghalle knew that would work, because he was afraid of spirits himself,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He ran screaming from the church when your candle went out at Spryngheuse’s requiem. But none of these deaths had anything to do with the Visitation. And they had nothing to do with Oxford, either, except for the fact that some of the victims happened to hail from there. Joan tried to bring about a riot by telling Eudo what to put in his proclamation, but that was to create a diversion and allow her to escape, simultaneously leaving her last remaining adversaries to drown.’
‘Duraunt really did come to assess how far Boltone had been cheating his College,’ said Michael. ‘Okehamptone mentioned the deception to him a year ago, but he only acted now, because Oxford is under interdict and it is a good time to inspect distant manors. Chesterfelde also knew about the irregularities, because he was Boltone’s accomplice.’
‘I was wrong about Duraunt,’ said Bartholomew unhappily. ‘He drinks, swallows soporifics that he cannot bring himself to share with others, and lies to cover his weaknesses. But he had nothing to do with the murders. He told the truth about that, at least.’
‘Norton, Paxtone and Dodenho are innocent, too,’ said Michael. ‘And the travels of the silver astrolabe are irrelevant – all it did was pass through the hands of some very dishonest men.’
‘Nasty,’ said Clippesby with a shudder. ‘My advice to you is stay away from people, and look to animals. They never lie, nor do they murder. And speaking of animals, Wolf is back.’
‘He no longer matters,’ said Michael. ‘We have all our answers now.’
‘Not quite all,’ said Clippesby. ‘It was his hoard Weasenham found – the one with my silver dog and the astrolabe. He is your thief, not Eudo. You know Polmorva sold the astrolabe to Wormynghalle the tanner, then stole it back, and passed it to someone else before it arrived in the cistern?’
‘Yes,’ said Michael. ‘Are you saying Polmorva sold it to Eudo? Why? Eudo is not the kind of man to buy a scientific implement.’
‘Polmorva did not sell it to Eudo,’ said Clippesby. ‘He gave it, in return for a favour. I watched the transaction myself, and so did the Merton Hall chickens. And I, in company with the King’s Hall rats, saw Wolf steal it from Eudo one night in the King’s Head.’
‘Lord!’ muttered Michael. ‘That thing certainly travels! It is almost as though it is cursed, and can only stay with one owner for a few days. I wonder where it is now.’
‘Nowhere,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘It no longer exists, because Langelee had it melted down to pay for our new gutters.’
‘Eudo was innocent of the thefts, just as he claimed,’ said Clippesby. ‘He did not steal the astrolabe. He did not take the silver dog, either – Edwardus saw Wolf do that, when he visited Matilde to beg a remedy for his lover’s female pains.’
‘Why did Eudo try to kill us at the cistern, then?’ demanded Michael. ‘It was nothing to do with the fact that Hamecotes was there, either, because he knew nothing about that.’
‘Because Matt found Chesterfelde’s blood. It was wretched bad luck for Eudo and Boltone that Wolf used the well for his hoard, and that the Wormynghalles used it for Hamecotes.’
‘And that is an odd coincidence, too,’ remarked Michael.
‘Not really,’ replied Clippesby. ‘The Merton Hall hens told me that Wolf gave Joan the idea: she saw him use the pit for his treasure when she was visiting her brother, so she did likewise with an inconvenient corpse. Wolf had fled Cambridge because of Dodenho’s accusations, and it was doubtful whether he would return. Eudo just chose a remarkably bad week to mend the pulley – the pulley that was broken by Wolf’s excessive use of it.’
‘I still do not understand why Eudo tried to kill me with a spade, though,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Was it because I was the one who found Chesterfelde’s blood?’
‘The answer is there,’ said Clippesby. ‘You just need to review the evidence. First, as I have told you, Polmorva gave Eudo the astrolabe in return for a favour. Second, Eudo mentioned that Polmorva witnessed him dumping Chesterfelde’s body in the hall, but agreed to remain quiet in return for a favour. And third, Polmorva ran away very quickly when we all escaped from Joan and her brother.’
‘He did not even stop to see if anyone needed his help,’ said Michael.
‘He had good reason. Duraunt thwarted him over the murder he wanted to commit in Oxford, so he intended to try his hand at another instead. I heard the entire transaction, as I told you. Polmorva hired Eudo to murder you, Matt – for old times’ sake.’
‘Lord!’ breathed Michael, appalled. ‘He may come back and try again.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Clippesby soberly. ‘He might.’
The following morning, when dawn heralded the start of another glorious sun-filled day, a small cart clattered along the tangled lanes of the Jewry and headed for the High Street. It was still early, and the wispy clouds were not yet tinged with the sun’s golden touch, although the birds were awake and sang loud and shrill along the empty streets. Folk were beginning to stir, and the air was full of smoke as people lit fires to heat ale and breakfast pottage. Bells announced the office of prime, and here and there neat lines of scholars and friars made their way to the churches for their devotions.
Matilde urged her horse to trot a little faster, not wanting to meet the men of Michaelhouse, but the cart was heavy – it was loaded with all her possessions and the beast was not able to move as briskly as she would have liked. She passed King’s Hall with its magnificent gatehouse, and ducked inside her hood when she saw Paxtone, Norton and Dodenho emerge, and walk to St Mary the Great together. They did not so much as glance at the cart and its single occupant, but she kept her face averted anyway. Then she passed sturdy St Michael’s, and her eyes misted with tears. She glanced down St Michael’s Lane and saw Langelee striding along it, his scholars streaming at his heels as he led his daily procession. Matilde could not see whether Bartholomew was among them because her tears were blinding her.
She reached the Trumpington Gate and passed a coin to the man on duty, knowing he would barely acknowledge her. Guards were trained to watch who came into the town, but they did not care who left it. He waved his hand to indicate she could go, and she flicked the reins to urge her horse into a trot, wanting to put as much distance between her and Cambridge as she could before any of her friends realised she had gone.
Matilde was going to Norwich, where she had a distant cousin. The Guild of Frail Sisters would survive without her, and she longed for the respectability that she knew she would never have in Cambridge. Folk had too readily believed she was the kind of woman to entertain men in her house all night, and she wanted something better. In Norwich she could begin another existence, where she would be staid and decent, and honoured by all. She would be c
ourted by upright men, one of whom she would eventually choose as a husband. After all, she could not wait for ever for the man she really loved, and it was clear he was never going to ask her to be his wife.
She did not look back as her cart rattled along the road that led to the future. She would not have seen anything if she had, with hot tears scalding her eyes. She did not hear the birdsong of an early summer morning, and she did not notice the clusters of white and pink blossom that adorned the green hedgerows. She wondered whether she would ever take pleasure in such things again.
When the service at St Michael’s had finished, Clippesby nodded encouragingly to Bartholomew, who grinned back and slipped out of the procession to head for the Jewry. He heard the birds singing, and saw the delicate clouds in the sky, and his heart felt ready to burst with happiness. He was going to see Matilde, and it was the first day of his new life.
HISTORICAL NOTE
On 10 February 1355, all hell broke loose in Oxford. It was St Scholastica’s Day, and several students had gone to an inn called the Swindlestock Tavern at the south-west corner of Carfax. There are conflicting accounts of what happened, but basically the scholars complained to the taverner, John Croidon, about the poor quality of the wine they had been served. A row ensued, and scholars named Walter Spryngheuse and Roger de Chesterfelde smashed the jug over Croidon’s head.
Then accounts begin to diverge. The citizens claimed that their bailiffs had tried to reason with the scholars, but that the students had rushed out and armed themselves with bows and arrows. The bailiffs had then asked the University Chancellor to call for calm, but Chancellor Brouweon refused, and a throng of two hundred academics began looting, killing and setting the city alight. Meanwhile, the scholars maintained that the taverner had summoned a mob to attack them, and that Brouweon was almost murdered when he appealed for peace. It was only when the University men feared they were all about to be slaughtered that the bells were rung to summon them to arms.
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