It was late afternoon, the day's teaching was completed, and the students had been given their freedom. Orange rays slanted through the traceried windows making intricate patterns on the floor, although the eastern-facing altar end of the church was gloomy. Bartholomew picked up the candle so that he could see the body better, while Michael wedged himself into a semicircular niche that had been intended to hold a statue before the church-builders had run out of money.
Someone had been to considerable trouble to give Werbergh a modicum of dignity during his last hours above ground. His hair had been brushed and trimmed and his gown had been carefully cleaned. Bartholomew inspected the friar's hands and saw that they, too, had been meticulously washed and the nails scrubbed.
'Where was he found?' Bartholomew asked.
Michael regarded him in the dim light. 'Tell me what you discovered yesterday and I will tell you about Werbergh.'
Bartholomew dropped Werbergh's hand unceremoniously back on the table. 'I will be able to tell you little of any value if you do not provide me with the necessary details,' he said irritably. 'In which case, we are both wasting our time.'
Michael stood. 'I am sorry,' he said reluctantly. He gave a sudden grin, his small yellow teeth glinting in the candlelight. 'But it was worth a try.'
Bartholomew raised his eyebrows and returned his attention to Werbergh's body.
'He was found dead in the wood-shed in the yard of Godwinsson yesterday afternoon,' said Michael. 'Apparently, he had been looking for a piece of timber that he might be able to make into a portable writing table.
Huw, the Godwinsson steward, said he had been talking about the idea for some weeks. The shed is a precarious structure and collapsed on top of him while he was inside.'
Bartholomew thought of his own visit to the ramshackle shed in Godwinsson's back yard. It had definitely been unstable but he had not thought it might be dangerous, and certainly not dangerous enough to kill someone who went inside.
'When did you first see the body?'
'Lydgate sent word to the Chancellor as soon as it became clear that Werbergh was in the rubble. No one thought to look until he was missed some hours later.
Why do you ask?'
Bartholomew picked at the tallow that had melted on to the table. 'So, Werbergh has been dead for at least an entire day. I would expect the body to be suffer than it is, given the warm weather.'
Michael came to stand next to him as Bartholomew began a close inspection of the body. The physician ran his hands through Werbergh's hair, then held something he had retrieved between his thumb and forefinger.
Michael leaned forward to look but shook his head uncomprehendingly.
'It is a piece of dried river weed,' said Bartholomew, dropping it into Michael's outstretched palm. He forced his hands underneath the body while Michael looked increasingly mystified. Bartholomew explained.
'Feel here, Brother. The body is damp underneath.'
'It looks to me as though his friends may have washed his habit,' said Michael, indicating Werbergh's spotless robe. 'Perhaps they washed it in the river so it would be clean for his funeral. People do launder clothes there, you know, despite what you tell them about it.'
'Give me time,' said Bartholomew. 'I need to inspect the body without the robe. Can we do that? Will it give offence?'
'Oh, doubtless it will give offence,' said Michael airily, 'especially if you can show that our friar's death is not all it seems. Examine away, Matt, with the Senior Proctor's blessing, while the Senior Proctor himself will guard the door and deter prospective visitors. After all, there is no need to risk offending anyone if your findings are inconclusive.'
He ambled off to take up a station near the door, while Bartholomew began to remove Werbergh's robe.
The task was made difficult by the fact that the table was very narrow. Eventually though he completed his examination, put all back as he had found it and went to join Michael, slightly out of breath and hot from his exertions.
Michael was not at the door, but outside it, engaged in a furious altercation. Bartholomew shrank back into the shadows of the church as he recognised the belligerent tones of Thomas Lydgate, poor Werbergh's Principal.
Bartholomew had never heard him so angry, and, risking a glance out, saw the man's face was red with fury and his eyes were starting from his head. The physician in Bartholomew wanted to warn him to calm down before he had a fatal seizure, but he hung back, unwilling to become embroiled in the dispute.
'You have no right!' Lydgate was yelling. 'The man is dead! Can you not leave him in peace even for his last few hours above ground?'
'Like your students have done, you mean?' asked Michael innocently. 'The ones you told me would keep a vigil over him until tomorrow?'
Lydgate's immediate reply was lost in his outraged spluttering, and Bartholomew smiled to himself, uncharitably gratified to see this unpleasant man lost for words.
'If I hear that you have let that witless physician near him, I will complain in the strongest possible terms to the Chancellor and the Bishop.' Lydgate managed to grate his words out and Bartholomew imagined his huge hands clenching and unclenching in his fury. 'I will see you both dismissed from the University!'
'Why should you object so strongly to Doctor Bartholomew examining your student's body, Master Lydgate?' asked Michael sweetly. 'You have no reason to fear such an examination, surely?'
Once again came the sounds of near-speechless anger.
'There are rumours that he is not himself,' Lydgate managed eventually. 'I would not wish his feebleminded ramblings to throw any kind of slur on my hostel!'
'Can a slur be thrown, or should it be cast?' Michael mused. Bartholomew smiled again, knowing that Michael was deliberately antagonising Lydgate. 'But regardless of grammatical niceties, Master Lydgate, I can assure you that my colleague is no more witless than you are.'
Bartholomew grimaced, while Lydgate appeared to be uncertain whether Michael was insulting him or not. He broke off the conversation abruptly and pushed past Michael towards the door. Bartholomew edged behind one of the smooth, round pillars and waited until Lydgate had stormed through the church to the altar before slipping out to join Michael. Michael took his arm and hurried him to a little-used alley so that no one would see them emerge from the churchyard.
'So, you think I am as witless as Lydgate, do you?' said Bartholomew, casting a reproachful glance at the fat Benedictine.
'Do not be ridiculous, Matt,' Michael replied. 'Lydgate is a paragon of wit compared to you.' He roared with laughter, while Bartholomew frowned, wondering whedier there was anyone left in Cambridge who was not intimately acquainted with the alignment of his stars — even Lydgate seemed to know all about them. Michael saw his expression and his laughter died away.
'Witless or not, I would sooner trust your judgement than that of any other man I know,' he said with sudden seriousness. 'Even that of the Bishop. And as for your stars, I have far more reason to trust your judgement in matters of physic than Gray. If you say you are well, why should I doubt you?'
Bartholomew smiled reluctantly. Michael continued.
'So I am inclined also to believe you over the matter of the identities of our attackers, despite my reservations the day before yesterday when you gave me answers that I thought conflicted with what you had said earlier. What you say makes no sense, but that is no reason to assume you were mistaken. We will just have to do more serious thinking.'
Bartholomew was more relieved than he would have thought possible. Some of his irritability began to dissipate and he found himself better able to concentrate on Werbergh.
'So,' said Michael cheerily, 'tell me what your witless mind has seen that the genius of Lydgate has sought to hide.'
'The evidence is crystal clear,' began Bartholomew. 'I judge, from the leakiness and swelling of the body, that.
Werbergh has been dead not since yesterday morning, but a day or two earlier. He probably died on Friday night or Saturday
morning. At some point, he was immersed in water, although he did not die from drowning. His robe is still damp, the skin is slightly bloated which is consistent with his body being in water after death, and in the hair on one arm I found more river weed. Although there are marks on the body that are consistent with the shed collapsing on him, the fatal wound was a blow to the; back of the head — like Joanna, Kenzie, and possibly the skeleton of the child.'
Michael's face was grave. 'You believe Werbergh was murdered then?'
'Well, it was certainly not suicide.'
'Could the wound have been caused by the falling shed? 'It could,' said Bartholomew, 'but in this case it was-not.
There is no doubt that the shed collapsed, or more: likely was arranged to fall, on Werbergh: there are wounds; where slivers of wood can be found, but they were inflicted ' some time after he died. The injury to the back of his head was caused by something smooth and hard — the pommel of a sword perhaps, or some other metal object — and has no traces of wood in it. Had that wound been caused by the falling shed, I think it would have contained splinters, given the fact that the timber was so rotten.'
Michael scratched at his cheek with dirty fingernails, his face thoughtful. 'Well, this explains all too clearly why Lydgate did not want you to examine Werbergh.
Few would know these signs, or think to look for them, if the death appeared to be an accident.'
'Do you think Lydgate killed him?' asked Bartholomew.
'His actions are certainly not those of an innocent man.'
'They most assuredly are not,' agreed Michael. 'But if we try to report our findings to the Chancellor now, Lydgate will claim you are incompetent to judge because of your unfavourable stars.' He resumed scratching his cheek again. 'So, we will keep this knowledge to ourselves.
And thinking he has managed to fool us might lead the killer — whether it is Lydgate or someone else — into making a mistake. I spoke to the Godwinsson scholars yesterday and all had alibis for the alleged time of Werbergh's death, but now we need to know what they were all doing on Friday night, not Sunday.'
'Kenzie first and now Werbergh,' said Bartholomew. 'I wonder where those Scottish lads were on Friday night.
Perhaps they grew tired of waiting for justice and took it into their own hands to avenge Kenzie's death.'
True,' said Michael, nodding slowly as he ran through the possibilities in his mind. 'Since Master Lydgate seems to have an aversion to you, I will go alone to chat informally to the scholars of Godwinsson, to see if I can find out what was afoot on Friday night. Meanwhile, how would you like to visit David's to see how our Scottish friends are?'
Bartholomew shrugged assent. Michael rubbed his hands together and then clapped Bartholomew on the back. 'We will outwit whoever is responsible for these crimes, my friend, you and I together.'
Despite the cooler weather of the last two days, David's Hostel was stifling. The shutters were thrown open but the narrow windows at the front of the house allowed little air to circulate: the large windows at the back allowed the sun to pour in but faced the wrong direction to catch the breeze. Bartholomew imagined that the decrepit building, although unhealthily hot in the summer, would j be bitterly cold in the winter.
Meadowman, the David's steward, showed Bartholomew into the large room that served as the hostel's hall, while Fyvie hurried away to fetch the Principal. Davy Grahame and Ruthven were seated at the table with a large tome in front of them, while the older Grahame played lilting melodies on a small pipe in a corner with one or two other students.} Through the window, Bartholomew could see the brother of the student who had been ill. He was stripped to the waist and was splashing around happily with a brush and a bucket of water. From the envious eyes of some of the others, Bartholomew could see that cleaning the yard and escaping from academic studies was regarded more as a privilege than a chore. Ivo the scullion clattered about noisily in the kitchen as usual, and Meadowman went back to polishing the hostel pewter.
Robert of Stirling, the brother of the student cleaning the yard, rose when he saw Bartholomew and began fumbling in the scrip tied around his waist. Shyly he offered Bartholomew a silver coin, muttering that it was for the medicine he had been given. Bartholomew, who could not recall whether he had been paid or not, waved the money away with a shake of his head. The student pocketed his coin again hurriedly, giving Bartholomew a quick grin.
'Have you found Jamie's murderer yet?' he asked, the smile fading.
Bartholomew was aware that, although no one had moved, everyone in the room was listening for his answer.
'Not yet,' he said. What more could he say? They were really no further forward than they had been when he and Michael had first imparted the news of Kenzie's death to his friends several days before. And now there was a second death, similar to the first.
He looked up as Father Andrew entered. The friar's benign face was slightly splattered with ink, and his hands were black with it. He noticed Bartholomew's gaze and smiled apologetically.
'I am having problems with a new batch of quills,' he explained in his soft, lilting voice. 'I am a theologian, Doctor, and I am afraid such practical matters as cutting quills elude me.'
Bartholomew returned his smile, and Andrew perched on a stool next to him, clasping his stained hands together.
'Ivo!' he called to the noisy scullion. 'We have visitors, boy! Meadowman, can you not give Ivo a task he might complete more quietly?' He turned to Bartholomew.
'David's is severely limited in whom it can afford for servants,' he said in a low voice, so he would not be overheard and hurt Ivo's feelings. 'Meadowman is efficient enough but our scullions must be supervised constantly.
But enough of our problems. What can we do for you, Doctor?' A smile crinkled his light blue eyes as he saw Ruthven and Davy Grahame return to their reading and he nodded approvingly at their diligence. 'I am afraid Master Radbeche is out at the moment but I will help you if I can.'
'I am afraid we are making little headway in this business concerning James Kenzie,' said Bartholomew.
'I really came to ask if there was anything else you might have heard, or remembered, since the last time we met that might help.'
The smile left Andrew's eyes and his face became sad.
'Poor Jamie,' he said softly. 'He would never have made a good scholar but he was a decent lad: truthful and kind. It was a terrible thing that he died such a death.
His parents will be devastated.' He shook himself. 'But my eulogies will not help you catch his killer. In truth, I have thought of little else during these last few days, but I have been unable to come up with the merest shred of information that could be of use to you. I did not know he had a secret lover, and I certainly did not know it was Dominica Lydgate, or I would have dissuaded him immediately.'
'Why?' asked Bartholomew. 'Did you not like her?'
Andrew shook his head vehemently. 'You misunderstand,' he said. 'I have never met her. But I can see no future in a relationship between a poor student and the daughter of a wealthy principal. I would have dissuaded him for his own ultimate happiness. It is not for nothing the University has strict rules about women!'
'Who do you think might have killed Jamie?' Bartholomew asked.
Andrew spread his hands. 'I wish I knew. As it is, I do not even know why. You asked his friends about a ring Jamie was supposed to have had. Perhaps he was killed for that, if his killer assumed it was of value. I cannot imagine what he was doing near the Ditch at Valance Marie, but maybe that is not a safe place to be of an evening. Perhaps a group of apprentices were looking for trouble and killed him for simple mischief.'
'Do you think it possible that he may have been killed by students from another hostel?' asked Bartholomew. 'For example the friars with whom he argued the day before he died?'
Andrew spread his inky hands again. 'It is possible, I suppose, but it seems an extreme reaction on the part of the friars. Students of different hostels are always quarrelling with eac
h other, but such altercations seldom result in murder — at least, not cold-blooded, premeditated slaying; we all know they kill each other in the heat of the moment.'
Although they were pretending to be doing other things, Bartholomew knew that the students were listening intently.
'Do you think the friars killed Jamie?' he asked Stuart Grahame.
Stuart Grahame looked up and flushed red at the sudden attention. 'I did to begin with,' he said, 'but not now. The friars would have been more likely to have killed me or Fyvie, since we were the ones who reacted the most strongly to their insults. Jamie did not antagonise them enough so that they would want to kill him.'
And how much would that be? Bartholomew wondered.
He watched the others carefully but could see nothing in the wide, guileless eyes of Davy Grahame that suggested guilt, while Ruthven nodded wisely at Stuart Grahame's words, so that Bartholomew suspected that Grahame was merely repeating Ruthven's own logic. Fyvie, however, stared moodily at the rushes and his face revealed nothing.
'And what do you think, Fyvie?' asked Bartholomew, watching him intently.
Fyvie said nothing for a few moments, and then stood.
He loomed over Bartholomew, who would have felt threatened had Father Andrew not been present. He slowly pointed a finger at the physician.
'I have no reason to dismiss anyone from my list of suspects,' he said. 'Perhaps StuartGrahame is rightabout the friars and perhaps he is not. But who else had a reason to kill him?'
Who indeed? thought Bartholomew. If Werbergh had been telling the truth about Kenzie appearing at the church to ask if the friars had stolen his ring, then Edred might well have been presented with the perfect opportunity to follow and kill him. His motive might simply have been that he did not want the Scot to be alive to accuse him of theft. The more Bartholomew considered it, the more the evidence seemed to stack against Edred.
They all jumped as water hit one of the window shutters with a crash, splattering in over the sill and spraying Ruthven and Davy Grahame. The two students ducked away, grinning at each other as they shook droplets from their hair and wiped their faces with their sleeves. From the yard, there was a gale of laughter and a moment later the smirking face of the student who had been working there appeared. His mischievous delight vanished when he saw David's had a visitor.
A Bone of Contention Page 25