by Ann Swinfen
I said no more about where I had been, or what I had found, until we had eaten a supper of leek soup and bread, which steadied my empty stomach. Margaret put the children to bed, and by the time she returned to the kitchen I had made up my mind not only to tell her everything, but also to take Walter into my confidence. He was a man of good sense and discretion, and he would need to give Jordain a clear account of the afternoon’s events.
‘Jordain and I decided that William’s body might not have floated down the river from Holywell Mill, but from a side branch which links our channel of the Cherwell with that over where the King’s Mill stands. You know how the river winds about and splits and rejoins, all through those water meadows. We found a piece of his shirt snagged on a willow root, just at the junction. There was no time to walk up that way on Wednesday, so that is where I went today. Jordain must stay to see William’s mother and sister, so I went alone.’
I told them about the derelict mill and what I had found inside.
‘This ink well belonged to William,’ I said, taking it out of my scrip and setting it on the table.
Walter picked it up. ‘I remember it,’ he said. ‘He used it when he was here.’
The sheet of parchment I laid down as well, and recounted all that I had learned from Dafydd Hewlyn.
‘I am also certain this is the same batch.’
Walter fingered it. ‘Fine quality.’
‘Aye. Expensive.’
In order to account for all of this, I had to explain how we had discovered that William had been copying the precious Irish Psalter which belonged to Merton, and Walter whistled softly, a look of alarm on his face.
‘But how did he come by that?’
‘I do not know. Nor do I know where it is.’
I explained how I had been kneeling, searching under the sacking, when I was suddenly struck from behind.
‘By the time I came to myself, candles, quills, and parchment all were gone. So, it seemed, was the man who attacked me. It was the worst of the storm then, but I thought it wise not to wait about for him to return, so I made my way to the King’s Mill. And got a thorough soaking.’
‘He believed he had killed you,’ Margaret said flatly.
‘Mayhap. I do not know. He cannot have missed the ink well, or he would have searched me. Nor realised I had a key. Even if there were nothing else, the key links William to the mill. Who killed him, or why, I cannot tell, but I believe that is where his body was thrown into the river.’
When I had finished, neither of them said anything for some minutes. Eventually, Walter shook his head in bafflement.
‘I do not understand why the lad was doing this. Someone must have put him up to it. But why? If a copy of the book was wanted, we could have made one, here in the shop, open and fair.’
‘If Merton permitted,’ I said.
‘Aye, they might not have agreed. You say that it is kept safe in a special box in one of the college book rooms, and locked away at night. How could it be stolen?’
‘And if it was stolen,’ Margaret pointed out, ‘would not Philip Olney have started a hue and cry? His most precious darling gone? Worse than a murder!’
‘That also baffles me,’ I said. ‘How the book was taken. Where it is now, and why Olney is concealing the fact. Or so I suspect.’
‘Has no wish to see himself held responsible for the loss,’ Walter said shrewdly. ‘More than his Fellowship is worth, I’d say.’
‘You are probably right. In any case, I promised to tell Jordain how I fared, and there is all this now to tell him. If you are willing to walk up to Hart Hall, Walter, it would be a relief to my mind if Jordain knew all.’
Walter stood up. ‘I’ll gladly go, Master Elyot. And I thank you for trusting me with this. If I can help you discover who killed William, I will do all I can. He was a fine lad, and whatever tangle he got himself into, his death is a terrible waste.’
‘It is that,’ I said. ‘Take the ink well with you to show Jordain. I will keep the parchment, for I must collect Mistress Lapley’s book from Henry Stalbroke next week and I can show it to Dafydd Hewlyn at the same time.’
He went off at once, and as soon as he was gone, Margaret insisted on examining my head wound.
‘Let me first change into clothes that do not hang loose on me like these,’ I said, getting up a little unsteadily and heading for the stairs.
When I returned to the kitchen, she had set out a bowl of warm water and her own salves, although once she had unwound me from my Saracen turban she admitted that Mistress Harvey had done well enough.
My wound salved again, but bound less plentifully in linen, I sank back in the chair by the fire and allowed my eyes to close. After Margaret’s good soup I no longer felt so weak, but the blow had made me very sleepy. I think I must have dozed again before Walter returned.
I woke to the sound of several voices, and saw that Jordain had come with Walter.
‘Partly to assure myself that you are not dead,’ he said, with a grim smile. ‘It seems you are lucky the fellow did not draw a knife on you as he did on William.’
‘It may not have been the same man as killed William,’ I said, trying to struggle to my feet, until I was pushed down again by Jordain’s firm hand on my shoulder.
‘You think there are two murderers lurking about this old mill?’
‘Well, Dafydd spoke of two men, and so did the lad from St Edmund’s Hall. It was nothing but a momentary glance, but I think there was only one there today.’
‘And you say he is the red haired one?’
‘Truly, Jordain, I think so, but it was no more than a glimpse from the corner of my eye.’ I rubbed my hand over my face. My head was beginning to pound again, and I could not see quite as clearly as I should like.
‘He should be abed,’ Margaret said.
‘Soon.’ I lifted a hand to halt her, because she was rising to hustle Walter and Jordain away.
‘Tell me first, Jordain, how matters went with Mistress Farringdon and her daughter. Had they anything to say that might help us in all this tangle?’
He looked thoughtful. ‘Perhaps. Aye and nay.’
‘Don’t play the scholastic with me,’ I said, ‘I am too weary.’
‘Forgive me, I am not trying to be obscure.’ He pulled up a stool and sat down beside me, stretching his hands out to the fire. ‘Who would believe we have been hot for the last few days? Out there it feels as though February has returned. Sometimes I think our low-lying town caught in this web of water is not good for our health.’
Walter had retired to a far corner of the room and looked as though he was about to leave.
‘Come by the fire, man,’ I said impatiently. ‘You are part of all our schemes and our bafflement now.’
Walter brought over another stool and perched on it. Rowan, who had been stretched out with her rounded puppy stomach warming by the fire, sidled over and sat on his feet. He bent down and ran her silky ears through his fingers.
‘I am not sure that what William’s mother told me has any bearing on why William was killed,’ Jordain said. ‘He was last home with his family at Christmastide, but it was a sad season for them. His father was already failing and died before Twelfth Night. I knew very little about the family, for William never talked much about them, but it seems that his father commanded a division of light cavalry at Crecy and distinguished himself there and was sore wounded. The king himself granted him a pension of a hundred pounds a year, so the family was able to live quite comfortably, and send William to Oxford, which had always been his ambition. They held a farm of the Earl of Leicester, which William’s elder brother worked on his father’s behalf, until he died of the pestilence, and his young wife too, leaving an infant girl.’
‘And how was the farm managed after the brother’s death?’ I asked.
‘William had just started at Oxford then, but proposed coming home. His father said that he would employ a steward instead. William should continue with his stud
ies. In time he would make a better life for all the family than ever he would do on the farm, in which he had no interest.’
‘What became of the girl child?’ Margaret asked.
‘Her grandmother, William’s mother, took her in. She is left behind with a neighbour at present. The other girl, William’s sister, is here with her mother. I would judge her to be about thirteen or fourteen.’
‘But,’ I said – and despite the ache in my head I could put my finger on the nub of the problem – ‘when the father died, the pension died with him.’
‘Aye. The rent on the farm and the steward’s wages were paid up to Lady Day, but in the weeks since then the mother and the two girls have stayed on in the farm by grace of the lord. He wants them out now. The steward has left. The new tenant is in a hurry to take up the tenancy. They have nowhere to go, and by the look of her, I believe the mother is not well.’
‘Money,’ I said. ‘They needed money. William was now the head of the family and he would feel responsible for them.’
Jordain nodded. ‘His mother had written to him, explaining what had happened, and he wrote back, about a month ago, telling her not to worry, he would find a way to send her money.’
‘So,’ Walter ventured, ‘he agreed to make this copy of the book, to raise money for his family.’
‘It would seem so. Though who is behind it, and how they knew William needed money, we are no nearer to discovering.’
‘Poor lad,’ Margaret said softly. ‘Why did he not come to one of us? We could have helped, at least a little. Nicholas could have given him work.’
‘Even the university might have helped,’ Jordain said bleakly. ‘There are funds which can be advanced to students, even though they may need to be paid back in the end. He would have been qualified to teach, come the autumn, and earned his fees. Only a few months to wait. I failed him. He did not feel he could confide in me.’
‘Perhaps he was too proud,’ I said. ‘The young can be sensitive and secret in their pride, particularly boys who must take on the care of their families. You should not blame yourself.’
But he would do so.
‘So,’ Margaret said, ‘we can perhaps understand why William undertook work which was certainly somewhat underhand, and perhaps criminal, but we are no nearer finding these men who killed him, and almost certainly also attacked Nicholas.’
‘Nor do we know what has become of the book,’ I said.
‘If we find the men, we may find the book.’ Jordain did not sound hopeful.
‘Aye.’ I could not keep the doubt out of my own voice. ‘Somehow I feel that would be too simple. And in any case, we must find the men first. Two men, about my height, nearing fifty. One with red hair, one with a broken nose. There are probably dozens such in Oxford.’
‘One thing we have not done,’ Jordain said, ‘is to question the lad from St Edmund’s. Were they the same two men that he saw?’
‘If not,’ I said gloomily, ‘then it all becomes a great deal more confused.’
There was little more we could do that night. In the morning, before coming to the shop, Walter would call at St Edmund’s Hall and leave a message for Peter de Wallingford, asking him to come and see me as soon as he might. Jordain had promised to call on William’s mother again at the Cross Inn, and would wait there until I joined them.
I gave a sudden groan. ‘I have just remembered. I told Philip Olney that I would take the bestiary from the Widow Preston for him to examine tomorrow. I am in no mood to haggle with him over the price.’
‘He still believes himself too grand to come to the shop?’ Jordain asked.
‘Either that or he does not like to leave his books unguarded so long. I think sometimes he is not quite sane where they are concerned.’
‘Little good it has done him,’ Margaret said grimly, ‘if the most valuable has been stolen from under his nose.’
‘Very true.’ I sighed. ‘I suppose I must go to Merton, but I shall wait until after dinner, which will leave me time to come to Mistress Farringdon in the morning. And, Margaret,’ I turned to her, ‘we must find some way to return Hugh Harvey’s garments to him.’
‘I will see to it,’ she said.
With these matters settled, Jordain and Walter set off home, and I made my way to my bed chamber. I hardly had time to exchange my clothes for a nightshirt before I crawled with relief into my bed. I was still mumbling a prayer of thanksgiving for having escaped worse injury than a blow to the head when I fell asleep.
In the morning my head was less sore, and I persuaded Margaret to relieve me of the bandage, for I had no wish to be seen in either Merton or the Cross Inn looking like a casualty from a battlefield. Besides that, it had occurred to me that my assailant might have struck out blindly in the dim light of the old mill as the storm gathered. He might not even be aware of my identity. Walking about Oxford with a heavily bandaged head, I would draw attention to myself. I preferred the man not to have an opportunity to improve on his previous day’s work.
Margaret made a face when I asked to be free of the bandaging.
‘You bled a good deal,’ she objected.
‘Aye, but it was mostly from my ear. The blow to my head mainly caused bruising, not bleeding. ’Tis fortunate I have a thick skull.’
‘That you do have,’ she said grimly, unwinding the bandage, but for all her scolding doing it gently.
‘I shall wear my academic cap with the flaps down,’ I said. ‘That will hide my bloodied ear. Have you thought how we may return the miller’s clothes?’
‘We women rise before dawn, not like you slug-abed men. I have already spoken to Mary Coomber at the dairy. This is her day for walking out to Yardley’s for eggs. She has already taken the bundle of clothes and will leave them with Thomas. He will see that Mistress Harvey has them. If she has not been to the farm in the next few days, he will send his boy to the King’s Mill with them. It is all settled.’
Relieved that one matter was at least in hand, I went to open the shop. Walter arrived, having already left my message at St Edmund’s Hall, and indeed close on his heels Peter de Wallingford hurried in, somewhat breathless.
‘I have a lecture at six, Master Elyot, but I was given a message that you needed to see me quickly.’
‘This will not take long,’ I said. ‘Master Brinkylsworth and I thought you might be able to describe more fully the men you saw with William after you attended Master Wycliffe’s lecture. Can you cast your mind back, and tell me what you saw?’
‘I will try my best.’ He closed his eyes, the better to concentrate. ‘They were quite old, older than you.’
To a lad of this age, a man of five and twenty is old.
‘Can you place their ages more specifically?’
‘Well,’ he opened his eyes, and smiled with the easy confidence of youth. ‘My father is eight and forty, and I suppose they would be about the same age. Still had their hair. Though one – the dark one – had some grey in it.’
‘So one was dark.’ Not very helpful, but a start. ‘And the other?’
‘Oh, the other was as red as a squirrel. With a small beard.’
This was more promising, although Dafydd had not mentioned a beard.
‘A beard?’
‘Aye, just one of those small pointed ones. Not a full beard. I was not close enough to see clearly, but I think he had the scars of the pox. Perhaps he grew the beard to hide some of them.’
The scars accorded with Dafydd’s description. ‘What manner of men were they? Rich? Poor? Well-dressed?’
‘I think I told you I thought they might be from London. It was their clothes made me think that. They were not university men, you could never imagine that. But I did not think they were Oxford townsmen. They were – different.’
He shrugged.
‘This may be important, Peter. Try to remember why you thought they were different.’
‘Well, they wore long robes, for one thing. No one in Oxford wears a long robe the
se days, except merchants and officials, or some for special occasions. Everyone is too poor and works too hard. But their robes were not of the best cloth. I have an uncle who is a member of the Drapers’ Livery in London, and I do know a little about cloth. These robes were showy from a distance, but poor quality when you looked close.’
That fitted with Dafydd’s impression of men who worked the fairs, passing off shoddy goods for fine quality.
Peter’s hand was on the latch of the door. ‘I must go. The lecture will be starting.’
‘One more thing.’ I did not want to prompt him, so I chose my words carefully. ‘Was there anything else notable about these men, apart from their robes, showy but shoddy, and one man’s red hair?’
He was halfway through the door, but he turned with a grin. ‘Aye, reckon the foxy head was the cleverer. He had a keen eye. The other man, bigger, with dark hair, I’d say he was a fighter. Sometime in the past his nose had been broken.’
He was gone before I had even let out my breath. They must be the same men, even though Dafydd had not mentioned a small beard. I had not seen enough of my assailant to notice whether he had such a beard. But nevertheless, I was certain now. We were not hunting for four men, but for two. The men Peter had seen with William and the men who had purchased the parchment were the same. And I was sure my assailant was the red head. If Peter’s assessment was correct, that the dark-haired man was a fighter, perhaps he was the one who wielded a long, thin knife.
None of this made clear why these men should have wanted to kill William. If they were employing him – either for themselves or for someone else – why would they kill him? They needed him alive, at least until the task was complete. Something had clearly gone awry with their scheme, whatever it was.
I set off up the High Street, turning the matter over in my mind. Someone had commissioned a copy of the Irish book, for it was clear that these two ruffians were not acting on their own. The more I thought on it, the more I felt Dafydd’s suggestion was wrong. Men like this would not gamble so much expense on a chance sale at a fair. They would only have undertaken the scheme if there was already a customer in mind, ergo, as our logic masters would say, there must be a man of some wealth behind it all, a man with a desperate desire for such a book.