Study of Murder, The (Five Star Mystery Series)

by McDuffie, Susan

  “There’s no one who can vouch for you?” I fancied Delacey hesitated a fraction before he answered.

  “I saw the other fellows at the evening meal. But no one after the meal, not until Berwyk arrived early the next morning and we found Clarkson’s body.” He turned his head again to scrutinize me while we walked. “They’ve already arrested Ivo. It was you yourself who called the authorities. Why are you still pursuing this matter? Don’t you believe he did it?”

  “I have doubts. He had reason to kill the man, well enough, and the opportunity. But he insists he is innocent.”

  Delacey laughed harshly. “So would any man with sense.”

  “I’m not convinced. And I’d not like an innocent man to hang for a murder he did not commit. Especially not if it was I that put him in prison.”

  We had reached School Street by now and Delacey’s lecture hall. “That is fair enough,” he answered me. “But I must go. I regret I know nothing to help you.”

  “And no one can vouch for you?” I asked again, like a stubborn dog gnawing at the same scrap of bone.

  Delacey hesitated.

  “No one?” I repeated.

  “No one,” he replied, suddenly decisive. “Make what you want of it, Muirteach.”

  Delacey abruptly turned toward the lecture hall, leaving me standing on School Street. A younger student dressed in the robes of an undergraduate had been hovering on the street. I saw him approach Master Delacey as he entered the lecture hall. The two spoke briefly, then Delacey passed through the door, leaving the youth outside. I wondered who the boy was. He looked somewhat familiar, perhaps another student I’d seen about the town or the colleges. Perhaps Delacey tutored him. While I wondered, the lad disappeared into the crowd.

  Despite the undercurrents in the city, the taverns and alehouses in the area of the schools seemed well visited. I passed a drunken group of students, dressed in rich finery, walking three abreast down High Street while some shopkeepers glowered disapprovingly. I walked more speedily, hoping to pass the group and put some distance between us. Of a sudden an upper window opened and, with no warning cry, a pot of filth was dumped into the roadway directly in the oncoming students’ path, drenching one with a disagreeable mixture of piss and some solid matter.

  “Did you see that?” the victim demanded as he attempted to shake the shit from his gown. “That was deliberately done!” He gestured angrily and shouted, “Show yourself, you!”

  The shutter above them slammed shut.

  “They can’t ill-treat you that way,” his friend said.

  “No, I’ll not stand for it,” the youth declared, fingering his sword. “They’ll answer to me for this.”

  “They’ll answer to us all,” his friend added with some swagger.

  The shopkeepers lining the street meanwhile had heard the uproar and many had come to stand outside their stalls, hands crossed, glaring at the students, while other clerks had spilled onto the street from the taverns.

  “Who lives above?” demanded one of the original three. “For they meant to sully my friend, dumping filth out from above with no warning cry.”

  “’Tis no more than such as you deserve. Debauching young maids,” a voice muttered from the crowd.

  “’Tis my house and no doubt my good wife emptying out some filth. And it landed right on target,” joked a cordwainer, a brawny man.

  “Aye, like attracts like,” the pie-seller added.

  The other merchants laughed with him and the young student purpled with rage. The undersheriff and his men were nowhere to be seen, and I found myself fervently wishing I was anywhere but where I was. I saw one of the merchants reach for his knife and another fondle his cudgel, while the rich student made to draw his sword.

  A loose stone clattered on the pavement and for a timeless second the two sides faced each other. Then another stone flew and the moment was broken, the groups flying at each other’s throats. Cries went up, “A riot, havoc!” and more students came rushing from the area of the schools while merchants and apprentices spilled out of the shops, armed with staves and knives. I heard housewives slamming shutters closed above stairs as I tried, unsuccessfully, to dodge the blow of a staff.

  It wasn’t my quarrel. I ran, and took the first turn I came upon, a small alleyway between two shops. Thankfully, the hit had not been a hard one and no one thought to pursue me. I made my way through some back gardens and over toward Northgate. From here, the noise of the melee was somewhat lessened and I caught a glimpse of Grymbaud’s men rounding the corner onto High Street toward the fracas. I left the town and academics to their fun and gratefully headed back to the suburbs, hoping the city walls could contain the mayhem.

  CHAPTER 11

  * * *

  I arrived back at the Widow Tanner’s as the sun set, casting a red glow over everything. I fancied it looked like blood. I was glad to enter our lodgings and leave the ugly light behind. Rufous, the widow’s little dog, yapped at me as I crossed the threshold and I bent to give it a pat. It licked my fingers and as I caressed the warm fur I wished again for my own dog. I wanted only to relax and shut the outer world away for a bit. However, the sound of a discordant lute playing from Donald’s chamber made me suspect that would not be my fate. My head throbbed as I climbed the stairs to our rooms.

  I entered our chamber. Mariota sat at the desk, reading some medical text. She looked up and saw me. “Muirteach, you look a fright! What has happened?”

  “There was a riot in town.”

  “Your head—mo chridhe, let me get a compress. It is bleeding and swelling like a goose egg. Does it ache?” Mariota stepped outside our chamber and called for Avice to bring a basin of water and some cloths.

  Perhaps that blow had not been as glancing as I thought. I explained what had happened while Mariota busied herself gathering materials for a compress and Avice watched, wide-eyed. Rufous had followed Avice into our chamber and milled around excitedly until Mariota petted the dog and he settled down.

  Avice seemed a bit dazed; perhaps the blood on my head made her think of her poor father. I realized as I looked at her that I did indeed have a splitting ache in my head. Just then Donald, Crispin and Anthony burst into the room and Rufous began to bark again. I was thankful to see that Donald had left his lute in his chamber.

  “We heard you speak of a riot. Through the walls,” Donald said. I wondered briefly what else Donald could hear that way, not that Mariota and I had been particularly loving of late. “What happened?” my charge demanded, sounding for a moment like his father.

  “There was a riot. Near School Street. Some dame dumped her chamber pot out on a student and I had the misfortune to be caught up in it.”

  “Are they still fighting?” asked Crispin.

  “We should go and see—what if they need help? Do you have a sword, Donald? Go and get it,” said Anthony.

  “You’ll do no such thing,” I said. “Grymbaud and his men were coming just as I left. He’s no doubt put a stop to it now. You’ll all three of you stay here, out of harm’s way.”

  “Aye,” said Mariota with some vehemence, as she wound a bandage around my head. “Do you want me to have to nurse the three of you after you’ve gotten your heads bashed in?”

  “If I’d been there, with my sword, I’d have spitted the man who cudgeled you,” Donald swore, surprising me with this declaration. “I’d have run the bastard through.”

  “I’m home safe enough now. But thank you,” I offered, saying another private prayer of thanksgiving that my charge had not been caught up in the mess. I was supposed to be watching over him, after all.

  I noticed Crispin eyeing Avice in a speculative manner and was glad when Mariota quickly dismissed the lass. Rufous followed her down the stairs.

  “That wench is the cause of all this trouble,” Crispin declared.

  “Indeed not,” Mariota retorted. Her voice rose as she spoke. “What kind of a churl are you? What happened to her is not her fault; it’s Clarkson
who should be blamed for it and he’s no doubt paying for it even now, wherever he’s gone to. Avice is a mere child. It’s the men who are causing these problems in the town. Now out of here, all of you. Muirteach needs to rest and from the way you’re speaking I’ve no wish to be near you.”

  I did not know if Crispin was chastened by her words or not but at least the boys left our room. After a few moments the sound of Donald’s lute and voices raised in a drinking song filtered through the walls. I groaned.

  “It is bad, is it not?” Mariota murmured. “They are abysmally out of tune. Here, I’ll give you something to help you rest.”

  I drank the mixture she brought me, leaned back against the bolster and closed my eyes with relief. When I opened them a few minutes later Mariota was sitting at her desk again, reading. It had grown dark and she’d lit a candle. I watched her for a long time through half-closed eyes, until the boys stopped singing.

  The next morning Anthony and Crispin burst in while we were sitting at the widow’s table breaking our fast on small ale and her good bread. Widow Tanner was a fine cook.

  “They’ve cancelled all the lectures!” Crispin announced.

  “Because of the riots,” Anthony added. “Although Grymbaud’s men stopped the fight last afternoon before it amounted to much.”

  Avice brought the lads some glasses of ale and I thought I saw her smile shyly at Anthony, who flushed. Then she glared at me and scuttled away to the kitchen. I drank more of my ale, wishing it were something stronger.

  “A free day,” Donald exclaimed. “No boring lectures to attend. Let’s go get some wine in town.”

  “You are not to go into town,” I said, wondering if the chancellor had been wise to cancel classes. Students in the taverns would be worse than students in lectures.

  Widow Tanner bustled in with some more bread. “What is it they are wanting? Wine? They can get it from the vintner up the road, just past the tannery. Master Gibbes. It’s the last house before the Benedictines’ College. The boys will not need to go into town and can keep well away from any troubles.”

  “Thank you. Perhaps I’ll go with them. Would you like some claret for the house?”

  “No need, sir, but thank you for the thought.” With that Widow Tanner returned to the kitchen.

  If the lads were buying wine, I thought, I might as well buy some also. Although whisky would have been more to my taste. My wife would not mind me. I was tired of playing nursemaid to a young lordling with no sense, obnoxious companions and an ill-tuned lute, and even more wearied at the thought of poor Ivo in gaol while his daughter looked at me like I was the devil himself for sending her father to prison. It might be a good day to get very drunk.

  The sun shone benignly over a blue sky as the three lads and I made our way to Master Gibbes’s. The vintner’s wife happily sold us a small jug of claret, her first sale of the morning I surmised, and we started back to Widow Tanner’s. It seemed the boys intended to spend the day in Donald’s chambers again. At least that way it would be easier to keep an eye on them.

  Anthony was carrying the jug. Donald felt it beneath his dignity to do so and Crispin, who more and more minded me of a stoat, had managed not to be involved. Suddenly I saw Anthony stumble as he kicked a stone in the road. He recovered himself but then set the jug down.

  “What is it?” I asked, stopping. Donald and Crispin were far ahead and seemed not to have noticed Anthony’s fall. “Are you all right? Is the jug too heavy for you?”

  “No, I’m managing it well enough. It’s just this—look.”

  Anthony picked up something that glimmered. “It was under the stone. It’s pretty.”

  It was a pewter medal on a broken chain, similar to a pilgrim’s badge, but with a bail so it could be worn around the neck. The design was a curious one, of the pious pelican feeding her young.

  “It is indeed. Well, you are the finder so that means it is yours. What will you do with it?”

  “I’m not sure,” Anthony muttered and thrust it into his pouch. He picked up the jug and we followed Donald and Crispin back to the widow’s.

  Later, after the noon meal, we heard noisy uproar from the city walls, and the sound of excited running in Canditch. Then I heard the front door slam. The boys had disappeared before I could stop them. I swore and looked in Donald’s room. It was empty, as was the wine jug on the floor, and Donald’s sword was gone. I swore again and started out after them. All I needed was for the son of the Lord of the Isles to get himself killed in an Oxford riot.

  There was a crowd of students headed into the town and I followed them, looking for the three boys as I rushed along, jostled by others. The crowd grew thicker at the intersection of Northgate and High streets and reached its height at a small chapel on a corner. The chapel, surrounded by townsfolk, seemed to be afire; smoke was drifting out of the thatch on the roof. I saw the undersheriff and some of his men pushing townsfolk back from the door. A chain of men had formed with water buckets, ineffectually trying to put out the fire.

  “What’s happening?” I asked a student next to me, as we were both elbowed aside by some burly graduate students.

  “A fight started. There were some university men that ran inside, but some townsfolk trapped them in there and set fire to the roof.”

  “Who was in the chapel?” I looked frantically through the crowd for my charge while my heart pounded rapidly.

  “Some Balliol men, I heard.”

  “Are they out?”

  “I think so. The undersheriff and his men came and put a stop to it. They’re bastards.” The student spat. “All these townsfolk are. Stupid fools.”

  I caught a glimpse of Donald on the other side of the crowd and some of the tightness in my chest began to ease. I headed toward him. The crowd began to disperse, urged on by Grymbaud and his assistants, although more men were pressed into the water chain. Mostly townsfolk, but I saw a few students as well. The smoke decreased, and I saw Anthony’s red head in the line.

  I spied Phillip Woode, Master Delacey and Brother Eusebius, looking somewhat dazed, outside the chapel as I went over and spoke to Donald. “You are well?”

  Donald shrugged. “I was in no danger, Muirteach. You’re worse than a nursemaid.”

  I ignored his last comment. Grymbaud saw me and motioned me toward him.

  “Stay here,” I told Donald. “I’ll return directly.”

  Donald ignored me and followed me over to the undersheriff.

  “I’m glad to see you, Muirteach. This is a bad thing.”

  “It looks as though the fire is under control. And it seems no one was seriously hurt.”

  “Aye, I’ve arrested the cordwainer for arson. We’ve witnesses that saw him set the roof afire.”

  “What of the other men involved? Jakeson, and the rest of them?”

  “It’ll do no good to have half the town arrested. I’ve let them go for now.”

  “So all’s well.”

  The undersheriff looked grave and I got the feeling all was not as well as it seemed. “Come inside, Muirteach.”

  A brawny guard stood at the front of the chapel. He let us pass but kept Donald outside, to my relief. I followed Grymbaud in. The chapel was dark and smelled of a thick smoke that stung my eyes and caught in my throat.

  “What is it?” I managed to ask the undersheriff as he walked toward the interior of the chapel. I felt a sinking feeling in my guts as I followed the man.

  “Here.”

  I looked and as my eyes adjusted to the smoky dimness saw a form lying behind the rood screen. I followed the undersheriff closer and recognized the bulk as a body, wearing the dark robes of a college master.

  “Who is it?”

  Grymbaud rolled the body over. My throat clenched as I saw the white face of Master Berwyk.

  “What happened?”

  “He looks to have been stabbed. Here, on the backside, is a wound.” Even in the dimness, I could see the spreading stickiness of blood on Berwyk’s garments.


  “Is he alive?”

  Grymbaud shrugged, but just then we heard a groan.

  “He’s alive—barely.”

  “Let me send for my wife. She’s a physician, with experience in wounds and such matters.”

  Grymbaud had no objection. He agreed it might be better than calling a physician from the college, and even sent an armed guard with the message to the Widow Tanner’s to escort Mariota back. While I waited for her I spoke with the undersheriff as we tried to make Berwyk a bit more comfortable. He had lost a great deal of blood and was not conscious. I prayed that Mariota would arrive soon.

  “Do you think he was attacked outside, and ran in here for safety? Who was with him?”

  From what Grymbaud had been able to learn, Berwyk, along with some other masters, had been walking down High Street when several townsfolk accosted the university men. There was an altercation, and the men had run in here for safety. “So probably he was stabbed outside the church and ran in here for sanctuary.”

  “Who were the townsfolk involved?”

  “We’ve already arrested the cordwainer for arson, and the mercer seems to have been in it. Also a bookseller. That tavern keeper was present as well, the same one whose daughter ran off.”

  “Jakeson.”

  “Aye, he’s the one.”

  “Have they found the knife?”

  Grymbaud shook his head no, and I watched his lips tighten.

  “What of the other clerks in the church with him? Did they see anything?”

  “We’ve yet to speak with them. There was a great deal of confusion.”

  “Who were they?”

  “That tall blonde master.”

  “That would be Eusebius.”

  The undersheriff nodded. “Aye. And Phillip Woode, and one other. The short little arrogant bastard.”

  “Delacey?”

  “Aye, that’s the one.”

  “Well, they must know something of it, then. Why were they in town?”

  “It seems they had come to check on something at one of the lecture halls, to see if it was safe. They heard a rumor it had been set afire.”