CHAPTER 4
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The next morning I went with Donald to the morning lectures. When we returned, Mariota was not at the widow’s. “She went out,” Widow Tanner informed me. “She said she had to run an errand. She probably went to the market for something, perhaps more cloth.”
“Perhaps.” I thought little of it, and after dinner Donald and I returned to the schools and listened to the senior students at their disputations. Phillip Woode was participating this afternoon, his dispute to be judged by Master Clarkson. We had heard no more about Jonetta, but the undersheriff had not bothered Woode again. I had noticed nothing unusual about his behavior, and, since his conversation with Master Clarkson of a few days past, he seemed to spend the majority of his time at the college, concentrating on his studies. He seemed a nice enough man, and I hoped things would settle down.
The disputation took place in one of the lecture rooms. The topic to be debated was universals, more specifically, how one could know for certain that all right triangles inherently share the same qualities. The topic held little interest for me, and I imagined it held even less fascination for Donald and the majority of bejants gathered to listen in the hall. However, a few of the students listened intently as the master posed the question and the senior students responded.
As he began his response, I realized that Phillip’s self-assessment was correct. He was a poor debater, indeed. He stuttered and paused, seeming to forget his Latin. It was difficult to listen to him, and I felt embarrassed for the man. I felt sure he was not as stupid as he sounded, but I was glad it was not my place to judge the disputation. The logic was so convoluted it made little sense to me.
I tried to attend to what was being said.
“Do genera and species exist as substances in and of themselves,” Phillip’s opponent was saying, “with form and material substance, or are they mere concepts?”
“As a substance,” Phillip replied, “they might be either material or immaterial.”
“And which do you reason them to be? Are they intrinsically present in sensible objects, or do they exist apart from them?”
“I, I cannot say,” Phillip muttered, flushing red.
Not surprisingly, the master judged the other student the winner of the disputatio and the session drew to a close. The students exited the room, the younger ones jostling and elbowing each other as they rushed outside to play some kickball in the back yard. Donald went along with Anthony and Crispin, the bad blood of the day before apparently forgotten.
Phillip stood by himself in the corridor. “Come,” I said, “let me buy you some ale. No doubt you’re thirsty after all that talking.”
He made a wry face. “No doubt I’d prefer to drink to the point where I could forget I made such a fool of myself. I fear I will be returning home before much longer. Well, I guess I’ve no greater ambition than to try and teach letters to disobedient eight-year-olds at the parish school. But for now, my ambition is to get very, very drunk. Lead the way, and I will follow.”
Donald, Anthony and Crispin were in the midst of a heated game and paid little attention as I told them we were leaving. As Phillip and I left the hall, we passed Brother Eusebius, walking quickly in the other direction toward the road that led to the north beyond. He seemed preoccupied and did not greet us as we passed him and entered the town gates. A crowd of students was leaving the lecture halls on School Street; it seemed some lectures were just dismissing. “I know I could be a fine physician,” Phillip bemoaned as he bumped into a fair-haired youth wearing a blue tunic. “But I fear I will never get the chance, unless I can pass these disputations.”
“My wife comes from a family of physicians,” I offered. “She is quite knowledgeable. You could study with her some, perhaps. I can ask her.” I thought it might distract Mariota to have a student of her own.
We reached The Green Man and entered the tavern. Mistress Jakeson saw us and walked the other way, into the kitchens. In short order her husband came out and spoke to us, bringing us some wine.
“Have you had any word?” Phillip asked Master Jakeson.
“Nothing,” the tavern keeper replied. “It’s as if she’s been spirited away.”
I shuddered and took a gulp of wine to drive the unpleasant sensation away. The last time I had dealt with a vanished person, back the previous fall on Colonsay, it had not ended well. I prayed this would have a happier resolution, but feared, with each day that passed, that grew less likely.
We finished our wine, and then drank some more. Eventually, we thought to head back toward Balliol, before the gates were shut entirely. I left Phillip banging at the gates of Balliol Hall. It seemed the gatekeeper had locked them early. I hastened back to the widow’s. I thought of Mariota and wondered if she would be angry.
But when I arrived back at our lodgings, Mariota seemed in the best of moods. She was poring over a text by candlelight, humming a little tune. Donald had returned a bit earlier and, miracle of all miracles, seemed to be actually studying as well.
At least he was leafing through a book and making a few marks on his tablets. He slammed the book closed when he saw me, though.
“And where were you?” he interrogated me.
“Phillip Woode and I went to an ale-house. Who won the ball game?”
Donald shrugged his shoulders. “I did, of course.”
“Of course.” I turned to Mariota. “What are you reading?”
“This treatise on urine. It’s fascinating. Muirteach, were you knowing that the smell of the urine of someone with the honey disease is sweet?”
There were times I wondered why I had married a physician. “No, mo chridhe, I was not knowing that.”
“Well, it is true. And that someone whose humors are choleric will give off great quantities of urine. While the phlegmatic types tend to retain it.”
“Is that so? It is late, white love. Come to bed.”
“I will in a bit, I just want to read a little more.”
Donald retreated to his room and fairly soon after that I heard some snoring. And it was not long after that, that I was snoring myself while Mariota read by candlelight.
The next morning, early, I awoke to a pounding at the door. I heard the sound of excited voices, and then Widow Tanner knocked at our chamber. I opened the door and saw her, clad only in her shift with a mantle thrown over it, her gray hair straggling down over her shoulders. Behind her I was surprised to see Anthony and Crispin, now seeming to be the best of friends with Donald.
“You must come quickly,” the widow said.
“What is it? What has happened?” I asked, throwing on my tunic and brat, as my heart began to pound more quickly and the last vestiges of sleep left me.
“It is Master Clarkson. He’s dead. Murdered in his chamber last night.”
“His head was bashed in,” Anthony added with gruesome detail. “There’ll be no lectures or disputations today. And Donald was telling us yesterday how you solved murders for his father. Master Delacey sent for you. Come, we must make haste.”
The sun was just rising when we got to the old Balliol Hall. Inside, scholars milled around, the young boys talking excitedly while senior students spoke in lower murmurs. I passed by Phillip Woode, speaking with Brother Eusebius, and made my way up two flights of narrow stairs to Master Clarkson’s chamber.
Before I reached the doorway I smelled the coppery scent of fresh blood. I forced myself to step over the threshold and reluctantly looked around. The chamber was not large and I did not have to search for long. Master Clarkson lay sprawled on the floor, face down, presumably as he had fallen. The murderer had bashed the back of Clarkson’s head to a pulp.
I felt my stomach roil and prayed I would not vomit then and there. I took a few breaths to steady myself while I observed. Masters Delacey and Berwyk stood in the room, staring at the corpse in silence. A large and heavy pewter candlestick, the base of which was covered in blood and brains, lay on the wooden floor. Some blood seep
ed down from the corpse’s head and pooled beneath it. My stomach heaved again.
“We haven’t moved him,” Master Delacey stated.
“Shouldn’t you send for Grymbaud? Or the coroner?” I asked.
“No, no, not until we know more. It is a matter for the hall at this point,” Master Delacey responded hastily. I looked away from the gruesome body and watched the two men. Delacey’s complexion was not so red now, his face ashen as he surveyed the corpse. I wondered what Delacey intended to do with the body, but Master Berwyk interrupted.
“Julian, it is foul murder. We must send for the coroner. And the chancellor of the university.”
Reluctantly, Delacey agreed and a messenger was sent to rouse the men, leaving Master Berwyk and myself with the unpleasant duty of guarding the corpse. I swallowed bile and tried to control my responses while I faced Master Berwyk.
I had not met Master Berwyk before. He had a quiet and calm manner in spite of the dismay he must surely have been feeling to see his colleague lying there dead.
“It is a shocking and foul thing—unthinkable,” he murmured to me. “I scarce know what to say.”
I did not know what to say either. After a few more words we fell into an uncomfortable silence while I wondered if Berwyk had murdered Clarkson. Berwyk’s nose looked as though it had once been broken, despite his seemingly gentle demeanor, and he was tall and strong.
It was not too long before Chancellor deWylton and the town coroner, Thomas Houkyn, arrived accompanied by Grymbaud. The officials looked at the body and, most perceptively, agreed it was murder. Houkyn left to assemble a jury and the chancellor conferred with Masters Delacey and Berwyk outside the chamber, but Grymbaud remained behind and spoke with me a moment. “Muirteach, these university men won’t look kindly on outsiders investigating here. The man was killed, and by one of their own, I’d warrant.”
“He is most certainly dead,” I observed.
“Aye, and the college gates locked up, so no one could enter nor yet leave. It’s a bad business, and those university men will close ranks tighter than a choirboy’s bum when it comes to the coroner or myself investigating. I’m but the undersheriff, for all that the High Sheriff is seldom here. He spends time with the rich and mighty in London town, and leaves the rough work to me.”
I said nothing, and Grymbaud continued. “And to add to that, we’ve still seen no sign of that girl, Jonetta. I’ve no doubt she’s run away with some tinker, but her father still insists that cannot be. The end of it all is that I need an extra man, someone neutral, with no close ties to the town or the university. Will you look into things here for me? I’ll speak with the chancellor and make it right with him. You’ve some connection with the university so he’ll likely approve it. This nasty case falls under his jurisdiction; town justice counts for nothing with these scholars.” I think the man would have spat on the floor, except he remembered where he was and the dead body that lay a few feet distant. “The inquest will be called for tomorrow, I’d think.”
“What of the coroner? Won’t I be poaching on his jurisdiction?” I protested. I did not want this charge. I did not know the ways of this land, their laws or customs. It was not my affair.
“I’ll speak with him as well. Houkyn and deWylton are like two tomcats fighting, there’s been bad blood between them for years. Houkyn will know he won’t get too far investigating things at the college. He’s a practical man; he’ll agree to it.” Sensing my hesitation, Grymbaud continued. “I need your help. It was a foul slaying, and the bastards are like to go free of it. Look there.”
I followed his gaze, to the bloodied corpse of Master Clarkson still lying ignominiously on the floor. Clarkson had seemed a good enough man, and yet he lay murdered. So I in turn agreed, despite my misgivings, and Grymbaud left after speaking with the masters and the chancellor.
Master Delacey strode over to where I was standing, followed by Master Berwyk and Chancellor deWylton. “So, he’s made you his lackey.”
“You sent for me first,” I said mildly. “I’ve some experience in these matters.”
“Well enough, you can have the mess and welcome to it,” Delacey muttered brusquely, and stalked away. My hands clenched as I watched him leave the room.
Chancellor de Wylton, a lean man with a saturnine complexion and a growth of unshaven beard on his chin, spoke, breaking the somewhat unpleasant silence left in Delacey’s wake. “Grymbaud says you’ve solved mysteries before.”
“Aye, I have,” I replied. “For my lord back in the Isles in the north.”
“Perhaps that is to the good. You’ll see the situation with fresh eyes and not have too many preconceptions of the scholars here. Yes, it will be well for you to look into this.”
Good for everyone but myself, I thought, but did not voice that. And it had been a grievous murder. It would be good to bring the killer to justice.
“Who found the master?” I asked.
“Ivo, the gardener and gatekeeper, came in to light the fire, as he does everyday. It was he that found him,” Master Berwyk replied. “Then he raised the cry.”
I had seen Ivo out in the back garden, the day before as I waited for Donald.
“Send for him, let me speak with him,” I said, “and send for my wife. She is at our lodgings, at the Widow Tanner’s. Leave everything in the chamber as it is for now.”
“But we must lay out the body,” said Brother Eusebius, who had appeared in the doorway while we were speaking. “It is unseemly.”
“Let my wife examine it first. She is a physician, in our country. There may be signs that will point us to the killer.”
“But women are not allowed in the lodgings,” Eusebius protested, “and women cannot be physicians. The whole idea is preposterous.”
“Her father is a noted healer,” I retorted. “And she herself has some skill. Now, are you wanting me to help you solve this murder, or not?” There is nothing so dithering as academics.
“Perhaps, in this case, an exception can be made,” Chancellor deWylton suggested.
Berwyk nodded. “Crispin, run back to Widow Tanner’s and get the mistress. Bid her make all haste.”
While I waited for Mariota to arrive, I looked around the room. A pile of disarranged parchments lay on a wooden table, along with several books. A horn inkwell and a quantity of quills sat on the table as well. A few more books were piled up on the floor. Not surprising, for a studious master.
A chest, unlocked, stood against one wall. I opened it and saw a few tunics, braies, and two changes of linen; again, nothing unexpected. A pitcher and bowl for washing stood on another small table, and the narrow bed stood under a wooden crucifix on the wall.
I stepped around the body to examine the books. Aristotle’s Priora Analytica, Posteriora Analytica, and Sophistica Elenchi, along with Aquinas’s Summa theologica. The parchments all seemed to be parts of some writing Clarkson had been working on; at least all were in the same hand, and seemed to deal with theological questions.
The door to the chamber opened and Phillip Woode stuck his head in. “Sir, we’ve fetched Ivo to see you.”
I looked at the bloody corpse. “Perhaps we could use another room. Is there anything suitable?”
“I think the small room downstairs that they use for disputations would be free. Come this way.”
Donald, who had followed me to the college, still loitered outside the chamber door, craning his neck to see inside. I motioned to the lad. “Donald, you stay in front of this door. Let no one in until Mariota arrives. Then send for me.”
Donald nodded, and I followed Phillip and Ivo down one flight of stairs to a smaller room off the main hall. There was a table inside, along with two stools and a bench. “This will suffice.”
“I will send for some ale,” Phillip volunteered, and he left us to our business.
Old Ivo was tall but broad-shouldered, somewhat stooped over, with long graying hair that hung down around his cheeks. His clouded green eyes looked troub
led.
“It is a wicked thing,” he said without waiting to be asked. I agreed that indeed it was.
“How long have you served here?”
He blinked, as if surprised by my question. “A good long time, since I was but a lad. And my wife too, rest her soul, we served here together. She cooked for the scholars, before the plague took her, the second plague, that were some thirteen years ago.”
“Where do you bide?”
“I have a small cottage at the end of the backlands. I sleep there, and my daughter as well.”
“You have a daughter?”
“Aye, my little Avice. Although near a grown girl she is now. She works here. In the kitchens,” he volunteered.
“And it is your custom to light the fires for the masters.”
Ivo nodded. “Aye. For Master Clarkson, and Masters Delacey and Berwyk. They all four have braziers in their rooms. Brother Eusebius, though, he does not often use his. He seems not to feel the cold.”
“So you went in to light Clarkson’s brazier this morning?”
Ivo nodded again. “I carried some coals from the kitchens. I knocked on the door like I do every morn, but there weren’t no answer. So I knocked again, louder.”
“And when was this?”
“Early, well before Prime. It was still dark, but the moon was setting.”
“And you saw no one leaving the grounds? And heard nothing unusual last night?”
Ivo shook his head no. “I locked the gate up tight last night, after dark, just as the moon were rising. No one could have gotten in.”
“So what happened? When you knocked?”
“I pushed the door open; I was thinking that the master might have fallen asleep at his desk. He sometimes stays up late, working. The door weren’t locked, it were easy to open.”
Study of Murder, The (Five Star Mystery Series) Page 5