“Had you lain with a man?”
Avice bent her head back to her kettle and did not answer.
“You must tell me. Who were you with? Was it one of the students?”
The lass shook her head no.
“Well, then, who was it?”
“He made me do it,” she finally whispered.
“Who did?”
“He said he’d have us turned out if I did not. That my da would lose his place here, and I as well. That we’d be beggars at the gate.”
I did not like the sound of this but I had to keep questioning her. “Who was this, Avice? You must tell me.”
Finally, the lass turned to me. “It was Master Clarkson, him that was killed.”
There was a fine motive for murder, if ever I’d heard one. For if a daughter of mine had been so shamefully used, I would have torn the man limb from limb.
“When did it start?”
“A few months ago, after he was elected master and moved into that room. He would call me to bring coal or wood to build up the fire, and then he would bar the door. At first he would just touch me. He said I was growing into a fine big girl. And then . . .” The girl could not finish, but still kept scrubbing at the cauldron. I feared she would fill it with her tears.
“And then what?”
“Master Clarkson said he wouldn’t hurt me, but it did hurt, what he did. At least the first time.”
It was as if now that the girl had started to speak, she could not stop. I listened while Avice continued.
“But he said I must be quiet and not cry out, and he would give me a silver penny. Then the other times it did not hurt so much, but still I did not like it. He had rotten teeth and his breath stank. But after a time I got more used to it. I did not want us to lose our place. And the master gave me a penny every time. I saved the pennies.”
“And your father knew of this?”
“Not at first. But when he accused me last week, I told him.”
“So he knew it was Clarkson?”
Avice nodded mutely. “I told him what the master had said. That he’d make beggars of us if I told anyone, and I begged my da to say nothing. I don’t want to be a beggar.”
“No, you won’t be a beggar.”
“No,” Avice agreed, “I won’t. For I’ve saved my pennies.”
I said nothing for a time, wishing the world a different place. What future would there be for a lass got with child whose father was a murderer? No matter how justifiable the act might have been. Still, certain things had to be done.
“Where is your da this morning?” I asked as Avice finally finished cleaning the cauldron.
“Out in the garden.”
I went to speak with Ivo first, before I summoned the coroner and Grymbaud. For it did seem as though the killer of Master Clarkson had been found. And as I walked to the vegetable garden in the backland I found I wished that I had been the one to murder Master Clarkson.
I found the old man bent double over his cabbage plants.
“Ivo,” I said gently, “I’ve just been speaking with your daughter.
“Aye.”
“Ivo, I know the lass is with child. And I know who the father is. And who his murderer must be.”
Ivo looked up at me and I could see his face pale behind the grime of the garden that covered it. “I wish it were me. When I saw my child, with the belly of her beginning to swell—she’s but a child, and a good girl. I went to his room that night, after the gates were locked, to speak to him. To tell him it weren’t right, what he had done to my lass. I wish I had killed him, may the saints forgive me. But the man was already dead.”
“You found him dead?”
“Aye.”
“But you said nothing, raised no alarm?”
The old man shook his head obstinately. “No. It was a better end than he deserved. I kicked his body, to make sure he did not live. Then I left him there. And went to the chapel and said a prayer of thanksgiving that he’d bother my lass no more. Then the next morning, when I came to light the fires, I raised the hue and cry.”
“You know I will have to tell this to Undersheriff Grymbaud. And it is likely he’ll arrest you for murder. You could hang. You’d best tell the truth. Did you kill him?”
“I’ve already told you I did not. But no man what has a daughter would blame me if I had.”
With a heavy heart I left Balliol and walked into town to Oxford Castle to find the undersheriff. The castle looked as though it had seen finer days, but the stone walls still stood, and it looked strong enough. Grymbaud was sitting at a table in his small office, drinking some morning ale and speaking with his deputies. He offered me some ale but I declined. I had not the heart for it.
I told him what I had discovered.
“That is a sad story,” said Grymbaud, “but I’m thinking this old man is our murderer.”
“Will he hang?” I asked.
“Perhaps. But I doubt a jury of townsfolk would convict him. There’s no love lost between the town and the colleges. Ivo’s a poor servant and in view of what you’ve told me of his daughter, the killing might be justifiable.”
I sighed with relief, but Grymbaud’s next words did not reassure.
“Still, no one likes servants who murder their masters, however provoked. And as it involves a college master, it could go to the chancellor’s court—that is the university court. Although Ivo is but a servant, not a clerk. Perhaps the county sheriff will have jurisdiction. But when the students and clergy of the colleges get wind of this, they’ll be like to hang him. And then we’ll have more riot and bloodshed on our hands. I’d best bring him in to gaol. To the castle gaol, as it is murder. Town offenses are sent to the Boccardo,” he explained to me. “If nothing else, the arrest will keep the old man safe until the assizes. I’ll see to it.” The undersheriff turned to give orders to one of his men, who downed the last of his ale and headed out the door. “Are you coming?” Grymbaud asked me as he stood up and reached for his sword.
I had to, although my soul felt as heavy as lead. I accompanied the undersheriff and his man to the college, where we found Ivo still working among his cabbages. He did not struggle as two burly deputies restrained his hands, still dirty from the garden. His stooped figure looked pathetic, old and tired, held between the guards, but Ivo showed stolid dignity as he repeated to Grymbaud that it was not he who had killed Clarkson. Meanwhile, a crowd of angry students milled around, and as we left the grounds of Balliol and headed through the Northgate back to the castle the crowd grew in size, their noise and shouts rumbling like thunder. A few rocks were hurled but the undersheriff and his men ignored them, elbowing their way through the crowd until, at the last, we reached the castle gate and pushed our way through to it. Grymbaud set guards at the gate, for the crowd was loud, agitated and angry. He gave orders for Ivo to be taken to a cell below and the old man was hustled away by two more guards.
“He’ll not be mistreated?” I asked. “He insists he did not do it.”
“A confession would be a good thing,” Grymbaud returned laconically. “Still, he’s but an old man, and sore provoked. No, he’ll not be mistreated. But if you don’t think him the murderer, you’d best find who killed that cursed pervert. And fast. For I’ve no wish for bloody riots in the town, nor for the chancellors of that damned university to be breathing hot on my neck for the old man’s hanging. And they will do that, never doubt it.”
CHAPTER 9
* * *
I had to wait awhile in the castle before the crowd dispersed. The undersheriff offered me a cup of ale, which I drank without thinking, trying to ease the discomfort I felt with what had just passed. Ivo had reason enough to kill Clarkson, and had access to the master’s room. He might well have killed the man. I would have, if the lass had been my daughter. But somehow I felt he was innocent.
The wrongness of it irritated like a blister from a shoe that cramped too tightly. Ivo, although tall, was bent and stiff with age, and I wonder
ed if the old man possessed the strength to slay Clarkson. Although anger could have given his blow added power, and Clarkson had been caught unawares, from behind. The thought of Ivo’s old stooped body in fetters in a dungeon made me profoundly uncomfortable, and yet I did not see what else I could have done.
I finished my ale and got up to leave the castle. The students and rest of the crowd had disappeared. As I left and made my way through the remaining stragglers I wondered about Mariota and hoped she had had the wit to return to the widow’s after the lecture and miss the melee.
So if Ivo was not the guilty party, who was? Phillip Woode? Berwyk? Delacey? I made my way back to Balliol and was thankful to see Mariota, dressed appropriately in women’s garb, approaching the college gate from Canditch.
“I am glad to see you, wife,” I said, hoping I sounded appropriately severe. “That was a near riot—do you see now why you must not go abroad in that way?”
“I was fine, Muirteach, naught happened to me. I had just returned after the lecture and heard what happened. The poor lass! So they’ve arrested her father—Muirteach, do you really think he did it? What happened?”
I told her of my conversation with Avice and her father and of Grymbaud’s arrest of the old man.
“Och, the poor lass. She’ll wind up on the street, a beggar, as she feared. Or probably worse. I wonder if the widow needs a serving maid—for I do not see how she can remain at the college once the story comes out.”
We entered the college gate, open and untended now that Ivo was gone. We asked for Avice at the kitchens but were told she had vanished. Things were deceptively quiet, as most of the fellows had gone to the afternoon lectures in town. In the back garden, by their hut, Mariota found Avice sobbing into the grimy straw pallet that served as her mattress. Not surprisingly, we discovered that Delacey had turned her out, saying the college could not harbor a whore and the daughter of the murderer of the master of the college.
“But I am sure he would not have done it. That night he just got up to answer the gate,” she sobbed. “His back was paining him awful that night. He could not have slain Master Clarkson. But they will hang him and I will have no place to go.”
“You have no other relations?” Mariota inquired.
“No. Da came from Brackley as a boy, but we never went there. And then we heard they were all dead, when the plague came through. It was always just me, and Ma when she were alive, and Da. They’ll hang him,” she repeated. “Why did you have to tell?” Avice looked at me accusingly. “Oh, what will become of me now?”
“Your father will be safer in the gaol than out here, with bands of students accusing him of killing the master. Those youths are angry—they might well slay him before he comes to trial. And he has not been found guilty as yet. Perhaps the jury will acquit him.”
“But when will that be? And what’s to become of me,” Avice sobbed again. “Where am I to go?”
I thought of Mistress Bonefey. Perhaps if Widow Tanner would not take the girl, Mistress Bonefey might be prevailed to.
“You can come with us,” said Mariota. “Gather your things together. We will find a place for you.”
As we left the college and walked down Canditch toward Widow Tanner’s, someone threw a clod of mud, which caught the lass square on the cheek. I turned but saw no one.
When we arrived at the widow’s, Mariota took Avice to explain the situation to our landlady. I wondered how successful my wife would be, but she and Widow Tanner seemed on fine terms, so I hoped something could be done for the lass. Meanwhile, I went to our rooms and saw the door to Donald’s chamber open. A murmur of voices came from inside. I poked my head in and saw Anthony and Crispin, as well as Donald, sitting on the bed drinking from a flask of wine. When they saw me, they burst into excited questions all at once.
“Is it true the old gardener killed Master Clarkson?”
“I heard they’ll hang him tomorrow!”
“And that Avice was the master’s whore?”
“They said they found a bloodied knife in his cottage—that he had stabbed the master with it.”
“No, Crispin, that cannot be true,” Donald interjected, “for I myself saw the body. There were no stab wounds on it.”
I tried to quiet them down and told them what had happened, that Ivo had been taken to gaol in the castle and was awaiting trial. “And Avice has lost her position. She’s here now, in hopes the Widow Tanner needs a serving maid.”
At this Crispin looked suggestively at Anthony and my arms ached with the desire to give them both a clout. “No, none of that,” I added. “The poor lass may well have lost her father. Master Clarkson abused the girl, and she is but a child. She was not his willing whore. And if I hear a one of you speaking of her with disrespect, I’ll knock your brains out. Do not think I will not do it.”
I must have made some impression on the boys, for apart from a scowl on Donald’s face and some raised eyebrows that I chose to ignore, they settled down.
“So you have solved the murder,” crowed Donald after a minute. “I knew you would. Wasn’t I telling you both about the murders Muirteach has solved for my father in the Isles?”
“I am not altogether convinced that Ivo murdered Master Clarkson,” I admitted to them. “Although he certainly had cause.”
“Well then, who?” asked Donald, and I had to admit I did not know.
I left the boys and encountered Mariota in the hall outside our chamber. “Widow Tanner has agreed to take the lass, for a time,” Mariota told me, much to my relief. “At least until her father’s case is tried.”
“And she knows of her condition?”
“Aye, Muirteach. The woman has a kind heart. And no children of her own. So perhaps the lass will fare well here.”
I hoped so. Despite all the happenings of the morning, it was yet but mid-day and Widow Tanner called us all for dinner. Anthony, Crispin and Donald emerged from Donald’s room and our landlady gave permission for the boys to stay and eat. It was not long before all three were spooning stew onto their trenchers and eating with abandon. I thought perhaps Anthony and Crispin stayed to get a glance at Avice, but she remained hidden in the kitchens. So now she is a seductress, a woman of mystery, I thought to myself cynically, remembering the girl’s scared rabbity face.
“Did you attend lectures this morning?” I asked Donald.
“Yes, until we heard the uproar in the streets.”
“And whose lecture?”
“Brother Eusebius,” contributed Crispin, in between mouthfuls of bread and stew.
“I am tired of grammar,” Anthony declared, reaching for another piece of bread. “And he makes it dull.”
“I cannot imagine anyone making it of interest,” Donald said. “It is dull as dry bones.”
Not for the first time I wondered at the Lord of the Isles’ ambition to have a scholar for a son. The man wasted his money and my time here.
“And what of Jonetta?” asked Donald. “Have they found aught of her? Perhaps Ivo killed her too.”
Crispin snorted.
“It is thought she ran away with a chapman,” I said. “Actually, it was Brother Eusebius himself who saw them together, a few nights before she went missing. Doubtless she is enjoying the wandering life with her chapman even now.”
“And breaking her mother’s and father’s hearts as well,” Mariota put in tartly. “I wonder who wrote that strange manuscript you found?” she asked after a moment, to change the subject. “Have you uncovered any more of that mysterious writing?”
“A few more pages,” Donald admitted. “But there are no more pictures of those women.”
“I know,” Crispin added, disappointed. “I have soaked many of the parchments, and looked thoroughly, but there are no more women.”
“There are some that look like zodiac wheels, and some of plants,” said Anthony.
“Perhaps you could recognize them, Mariota,” Donald added as he finished the last of his stew. “If it is an herbal
indeed. After all, you are a Beaton. Her father,” he explained to the other boys, “is a famous physician.”
“Aye, perhaps we could learn enough from that to translate some of the words. For it’s in no language that I recognize. Go and get them, Donald.”
Widow Tanner had come in to clear the table and Donald returned from his chamber a few minutes later with a pile of parchments. We spread them out on the table and puzzled over the sheets for a time, but none of us could make any sense of the strange script or the faint illustrations.
“The plants are like none I recognize,” Mariota admitted, confounded. “See, this one could be mandrake, but the leaves are not right. Still, I suppose it could be an herbal.”
“Do you think it is in cipher?” I asked.
“But why?”
“Perhaps it is an alchemical manual,” Anthony suggested. His voice cracked a bit with youthful excitement. “Perhaps it is the receipt for the Philosopher’s Stone that can change things to gold.”
“If we could decipher it we would be rich!” Crispin added.
“And no doubt they’d want to keep such information secret and write it in cipher,” Mariota said. “But these pictures do not seem alchemical in nature. It is puzzling. Muirteach, perhaps you can decipher it.”
“There are strange characters here, neither Latin nor any other language I recognize.”
“Master Berwyk spoke in a disputation once of Friar Bacon,” Anthony put in suddenly. “They called him Doctor Mirabilis—the wonderful doctor. He worked here in Oxford long ago and wrote of ciphers in one of his texts.”
I was amazed that Anthony remembered anything he had heard, but Master Berwyk was popular with the students and an interesting speaker.
“Show it to him, or the other masters at the college,” Mariota suggested. “You are friendly with Master Berwyk, are you not, Muirteach? Doesn’t he study natural philosophy?” How Mariota had discovered that, I did not know. “It would be very interesting to hear what he might say about it.”
Study of Murder, The (Five Star Mystery Series) Page 10