Study of Murder, The (Five Star Mystery Series)

by McDuffie, Susan

  “Here. Or should you choose to seek them out, they attend the extraordinary lectures on School Street. Justin wears a green hood and Vortigen a brown one. They are often together and frequent an ale-house at the end of Catte Street. The Red Cockerel, it is called. You’ll find them there now, I’d expect. Lectures are ended for the day now and they’ve yet to return here.”

  I nodded and said I would seek them out. Torvilda might lie to protect her lover but the lads might not if I could find them before they were warned.

  “What of that lad you saw earlier?” asked Master Berwyk. “Was that Donald, your charge?”

  “No,” I replied shortly. “I mistook the lad for someone, that was all.”

  Master Berwyk nodded and although he seemed curious I did not enlighten him. I had no idea how to handle that problem. Mariota and I had never seriously been at odds but this situation did not seem as though it would easily be reconciled. Perhaps, I thought desperately, a kitten might charm Mariota out of her black mood, although I doubted it. She could try out remedies on it, if nothing else.

  “So your tabby has kittens?” I asked, changing the subject abruptly.

  “Torvilda’s cat. She has six of them and is a proud mother.”

  We rose and looked at the litter, nursing happily. They were still young, squirming as they jostled for position at their mother’s teats. Most were striped brown and black, like the mother.

  “What will Mistress Bonefey do with the kittens?”

  Master Berwyk shrugged. “It’s her affair. She might sell them. The mother’s a fine mouser.”

  “I might take one. Would you ask her for me?”

  “Indeed.”

  “And I should speak to Mistress Bonefey as well, before I leave.”

  “For certain. You might mention the kitten to her yourself.”

  Master Berwyk called to Torvilda, who came in and stood by the hearth, wringing her apron in her hands from nervousness. But she answered my questions readily enough, confirming that Master Berwyk had been with her two evenings ago, when Master Clarkson had been killed. Although truthfully I had not thought she would say otherwise.

  I finished my ale and took my leave. The sun was lower in the sky and I walked briskly up High Street, despite my bad leg, which was beginning to ache. I turned east toward Catte Street, hoping to find young Justin and Vortigen in the ale-house. All the taverns were busy at this time of the day, crowded with students. I found The Red Cockerel, a dilapidated ale-house at the corner of the street. Although in poor repair, it was a large building and seemed to do a good business. I entered and ordered a beaker of ale while my eyes adjusted to the dim light and I scanned the room for Justin and Vortigen.

  A babble of voices speaking in what I took to be Cornish led me to a table by the sidewall, under a high, unshuttered window. Light filtered in and through a haze of dust-motes I saw a number of young students, boys really, not much older than Donald. They were speaking busily in a language that had no relation to English or Latin, but they appeared to be playing some kind of drinking game. As I watched, the boys chanted “Vortigen, Vortigen,” while a boy in a brown hood raised the leather mug to his lips and drained it as the voices continued. The lad threw the mug back down on the table and then looked up at me as I approached.

  “Such prowess deserves another tankard,” I said in Latin, for Cornish was far beyond me. “Might I buy you and your friends another round of drinks?”

  “And why would you do that?” another lad demanded, somewhat suspiciously.

  “I have my reasons.” All of the boys glared at me. “Chief among them is that I am seeking Justin Penwarred and Vortigen Penwryth. Might they be among your party?”

  “Why are you searching for them?” a tall lad in a threadbare green hood asked. I felt quite sure he was Justin.

  “I am seeking information.” A tavern maid came by and I ordered a round of more ale for the boys.

  “And who are you?”

  “My name is Muirteach MacPhee. I am from Scotland, but am helping the coroner and Undersheriff Grymbaud with certain matters. There has been a murder; a master at Balliol Hall was found slain.”

  The ale arrived, and the boys stopped glaring and began drinking. The atmosphere became a bit less hostile.

  “We had heard of that,” replied the lad in the green. “But what has that to do with us?”

  “You are Master Justin, are you not?”

  “Indeed. But what can you want with me?”

  “It is a simple matter. You lodge with Mistress Bonefey, do you not? On Pennyfarthing Street?”

  “Yes, myself as well as Vortigen here.”

  “And you know Master Berwyk, who visits Mistress Bonefey from time to time?”

  “He is her lover,” Vortigen snickered and made a suggestive gesture. I longed to give the boy a smack, but figured that would not help me on my errand.

  “But he seems a kind man,” Justin put in. “He helped me with some points of grammar.”

  “So you do study?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Well, was Master Berwyk there at your landlady’s two nights back?”

  “Indeed he was. We got back just at dusk—the Vespers bells were ringing at Saint Frideswyde’s—and he and Mistress Bonefey were there in the solar.”

  “How late did he stay?”

  “He helped me with my grammar, and that was quite late—Mistress Bonefey had lit the candles. I think he stayed the night, for he was there in the morning when we left for the early lecture before Prime.”

  “Well enough,” I said. “Thank you. And you might ask Master Berwyk if you have need of a tutor. It is possible he would take you on, as he has need of funds.”

  I left the lads finishing their ale and trudged slowly back up the High Street to the Northgate, dreading the thought of seeing my wife.

  I had not quite reached Northgate when a voice hailed me. Turning, I saw the stout form of the undersheriff walking quickly up through the crowds of High Street toward me. “Muirteach!”

  I greeted him as he drew closer.

  “It is a lucky chance, running into you like this,” he said.

  I was not feeling quite so fortunate, as I had little to tell the man, but I nodded pleasantly.

  “What have you learned so far?” the undersheriff inquired.

  “I am sure Master Clarkson was murdered by one of the fellows,” I replied, “unless a stranger scaled the walls and departed the same way. The gatekeeper swears the last person he let in was Phillip Woode, and I was with that man earlier in the evening. He had argued with Master Clarkson a time or two, but I doubt that Woode has murder in him.”

  Grymbaud shook his head and did not seem convinced. I continued.

  “Master Berwyk also has a motive; Master Clarkson had borrowed a book of his, an expensive text, and then Clarkson pledged it to the bookseller to get funds for the college. But there are folk who avow that Berwyk was with his mistress that night, although Delacey lied to me about that. He claims Berwyk spent the night in their chamber at the college. Master Delacey had wanted to be elected the master of the college as well, and lost the election to Clarkson, so there could be jealousy on that score. But nothing clearly points to the guilty party as of yet.”

  “Hmmm,” the undersheriff muttered, and picked at a mole on his chin. He had shaved within the last few days but showed a fair growth of dark stubble on his jaw for all of that. “Phillip Woode again. He seems to be involved in all these matters—for did he not have an interest in that tavern wench? The girl that’s gone missing?”

  “Aye, Jonetta.”

  “Yes, Jonetta.”

  Then I thought of what Brother Eusebius had said, of seeing Jonetta with a chapman, and told the constable. He frowned slightly as he heard my news. “Did he say what the peddler looked like?”

  I tried to remember Eusebius’s exact words. “Tall, well favored, dark haired, with a northern accent. Wearing a russet jerkin. It was several nights ago that
he saw them, a night or two before the lass went missing.”

  “There are several chapmen around the town who might meet that description. It could be Walter of York, although I don’t believe I’ve seen him in town for a bit. The man could be a good ways from town by now, with the girl as well.” He shook his head. “Well, I’ll have my men seek them out. I don’t think Master Jakeson will be overjoyed to hear this news.”

  “Well, having a daughter run off with a peddler may be scandal, but at least the lass is still living.”

  “Let us pray that she is,” Grymbaud returned darkly, and turned to go. “Keep at it, Muirteach,” he encouraged me. “Those academics are a nest of vipers. Arrogant and prideful, they are.” Grymbaud spat in the gutter, then continued. “Any of them might have done the deed, and have no scruples about lying to you. They hold their intellectual accomplishments far above the laws of God. And those young ones, always carousing and wenching—and claiming to be immune to the rules of the burgh, holding that they are in clerical orders.” He snorted and spat again. “Fine clerks they are, indeed.”

  I wondered somewhat at these bitter words, but did not question Grymbaud further. No doubt he had had trouble often enough in the past keeping the peace between the townsfolk and the students. Instead, I took my leave and slowly continued my trek toward the Widow Tanner’s. My leg hurt me the whole way.

  CHAPTER 8

  * * *

  When I arrived at the Widow Tanner’s I found that Donald was not there, and neither was my wife. The shadows were lengthening and Widow Tanner nervously said that Donald had gone out in the afternoon with Crispin and Mariota had left shortly after. I was happy to hear she had dressed in her own garb.

  “She said something about going into town, to the shops. They are just closing now, so doubtless she will return shortly. Come, the soup is ready. Come and eat now. You look done in, sir.”

  “She had better return quickly,” I observed darkly, and then sat down to supper. Mariota could eat when she returned. I was not waiting on her. And if truth were told, I did feel somewhat better after I had eaten the bean soup, sausages and cabbage the widow had prepared. The soup smelled tantalizingly of some sort of herbs. The ache in my leg receded somewhat and my mood improved along with it. I was just beginning my second bowlful when the door opened and Mariota entered. She hesitated on the threshold when she saw me, then lifted her chin defiantly, walked into the room and took a seat at the table.

  “And where have you been?” I asked, not liking the tone in my own voice but speaking anyway.

  “I went into town, Muirteach. To the shops. I needed wax tablets. But something happened on the way back that you should know about.”

  “And what is that?”

  “Well, on the way back I saw that little maid from the college. Whose father is the gatekeeper.”

  “Avice?”

  “Yes, that is her name. She was leaving the grocer’s stall, carrying a basket full of plums. She could scarce lift it. She is a tiny maid.”

  Widow Tanner brought Mariota a trencher and Mariota helped herself to some soup and took a spoonful. “This is delicious. Tarragon?”

  “Aye,” returned the widow. “And a bit of leeks and parsley, and rue.” The widow prudently left us alone at the table and Mariota continued.

  “Well, she recognized me from the college, the day the master was murdered, and we got to talking. I helped her carry her basket. She’s but a child still.”

  “Yes?” I wondered where all this was leading, and still felt angry with my wife, who showed no sign of deferring to my wishes.

  “Muirteach, I think she is with child herself.”

  “What?”

  “As we walked we got to talking. The poor lass has no mother, she died some years ago.”

  “Aye, Ivo told me as much. Of plague.”

  “But Avice complained to me of feeling queasy, and then when she heard I was a healer she told me more. She must have felt she could confide in a stranger, as I know no one to gossip with. She’s not had her courses in some three months. Muirteach, the girl is pregnant.”

  “And by who, I wonder?” I mused, thinking of the bitter tears I had seen Avice crying on the day Clarkson was murdered. But she had protested she had not known the man well. “Could it have been Master Clarkson?”

  “She did not say. She took it hard enough when I suggested she might be with child. I had to stay with her some time before she calmed down. That is why I am so late.”

  “And does her father know of it?”

  “She has not told him, but she fears perhaps he does. She’s just beginning to show and he might have noticed. She says he’s been questioning her lately, suspicious of where she’s been.”

  “He told me his daughter was a good girl.”

  “And so she is. The poor thing knows next to nothing—she is so young. Someone took cruel advantage of the lass, and now she’ll pay the price. While the lout will no doubt deny it all.”

  “Well, I’ll speak with her again tomorrow. Although doubtless it was one of the lads there, and no bearing on Clarkson’s murder at all.”

  Just then we heard a noise from the front of the house, and a crash, and Donald’s voice, swearing. I groaned. Mariota looked at me and grinned. For a brief instant, we were in harmony. Then she frowned a little bit and the moment vanished.

  “I’ll go see what it is,” she offered. “Although doubtless it is the ale he’s had to drink that’s making all that racket.”

  I nodded shortly and left her to it, closed my eyes while I leaned back against the wall, and thought longingly for a moment of my home in Islay and the few happy months we had spent there, before the Lord of the Isles had sent us on this accursed trip. I missed my dog. At least he adored me without reservation.

  In a few moments Mariota returned with Donald, who seemed flushed and agitated. He stumbled a little as he crossed the room to the benches by the trestle table.

  “And how have you been keeping yourself?” I asked him sarcastically in Gaelic. “Hard at your studies, were you?”

  Donald’s chin thrust forward a fraction, despite his drunken state. “I was with Anthony and Crispin. Surely it’s not wrong for me to have friends.”

  “Well, let us hope they are able to remain as students here. For to do that, some study is required.”

  “Och, Muirteach, let the lad be,” Mariota interjected. “Let’s not quarrel more this evening.”

  Donald meanwhile had taken one look at the bowl of bean soup the Widow Tanner set before him and turned somewhat pale. “I am not hungry,” he muttered. He got up and rushed from the room and I guessed he was going to be sick in the privacy of his own chamber. I found I was not sorry about it.

  Widow Tanner returned to the room and looked momentarily confused at Donald’s disappearance.

  “He said he was not feeling well,” I said to her. “He’s retired to his chamber.”

  “He’s drunk,” our landlady retorted bluntly. “Do you think I’ve never rented to students before?” She picked up his bowl and returned to the kitchen, leaving Mariota and myself in awkward silence.

  “I meant what I just said,” Mariota ventured as the silence grew longer. “Let us not quarrel any more tonight.”

  “And have you come to your senses?” I asked her belligerently.

  “About the lectures?”

  I nodded.

  “Muirteach, I must go—can’t you understand that? Och, it is hopeless,” she said after a moment when I obstinately remained silent. With that, my wife got up and left me alone at the widow’s fine table. I glared at the tapestry hanging on the wall—a fine rendition of Penelope weaving as she waited for Odysseus to return. It was a shame all women were not so biddable. I thought of going back into town to a tavern, but it was late and I was exhausted. So after a few moments I left the table and my now cold bowl of soup and joined my wife in our chamber.

  I heard the drone of Donald’s snoring through the wall separating our
rooms. Mariota had already stripped to her shift and was lying in bed, her back turned to me and her eyes shut tight. She’d left a candle burning on the small table, for it was now quite dark. I wondered if she was truly asleep, but did not try to rouse her. Instead, I also removed my outer garments and washed my face in the basin of water that stood next to the candle. I put out the light and joined my wife in bed, turned my face to the opposite wall and lay there stiffly, but found I did not sleep.

  I awoke the next morning to find the spot in bed next to me empty. The day was just breaking and there was enough light in the room for me to see that Mariota was already up and dressed, in her boy’s garb of blue hooded tunic and hose. She turned and spoke to me when she saw my open eyes. “Muirteach, I’m off. I’ll be back after the lectures today.”

  “Mo chridhe, wait,” I murmured, but she was already gone.

  The sleepiness of a moment before lost to me, I rose, dressed and made my way to Balliol, where I went looking for Avice. I found her near the kitchen outbuilding behind the halls, scrubbing at a large cauldron. It seemed the cook used the lass as a bit of a drudge. Avice’s eyes were red, and she gave me a frightened glance.

  “Hello, Avice. I was wanting to speak with you.”

  “I’ve work to do,” she responded, bending her head industriously to her scrubbing.

  “It won’t take long. But it is important.”

  She raised her head and put the rag down for a moment. “But I must clean this. Cook is needing it, to prepare the meal.” She picked up the rag again and continued rubbing at the kettle.

  “Avice, my wife told me she spoke with you yesterday.”

  Avice did not reply but I could see tears trickling down her cheek while she scrubbed. I felt like a fool, but continued anyway. “She told me that you are with child.”

  Avice nodded, crying harder now.

  “Does anyone know?”

  “My da, he guessed it,” she said in a whisper.

  “When?”

  She looked at me a moment. “I’m not sure, exact-like. But he accused me a week or so ago. He said I must be with child, that my belly was swollen. I did not think it possible. At least I hoped not.”