The Lost Prophecies (30 page)

‘I found it hidden under Wittleseye’s bed,’ explained John quietly. ‘Wrapped in some old linen. Is it blood?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘I think so.’

‘So what?’ asked Michael, looking from one to the other. ‘Neuton was poisoned, not bludgeoned. And it cannot be connected to yesterday’s slaughter, because all those victims died from wounds inflicted by swords or daggers.’

‘Perhaps we just have not found the body yet,’ said John. He scowled, as if this was a personal affront. ‘I thought I had prevented mischief last night, but maybe I gloated too soon.’

‘The beadles claim a mouse could not have wandered about unseen last night,’ said Michael. ‘March was complaining bitterly about it, because he was obliged to work for once.’

John looked angry. ‘But we were looking for
groups
, not lone men. It is possible for a stealthy fellow to have slipped through my net. Damn! I thought I had done a decent job. I hope the earl does not hear about this – or Joan. She told me
she
is rather good at organizing military-style manoeuvres.’

‘She does have something of a reputation in that respect,’ agreed Michael. ‘But you are jumping to conclusions, man. There is nothing to say Wittleseye harmed anyone with that mallet.’

‘Then why was he so determined to keep us from searching his room?’ demanded John. ‘And why wrap the thing in rags and hide it under his bed?’

‘If you are so convinced of his guilt, then why did you not confront him with it?’ asked Michael. ‘Why wait until you were out here before showing us what you found?’

John sighed. ‘Because I wanted to
think
about it first. If I had launched into an interrogation ill-prepared, he would have fobbed me off with lies. I needed to gather my thoughts first. Was I wrong?’

‘No,’ said Michael, although the expression on his face said otherwise. ‘Take the mallet to the proctors’ office and put it somewhere safe. We may need it to challenge him later. Meanwhile, Matt and I will go to King’s Hall to ensure that everyone there is hale and hearty.’

The town was wary after the trouble of the previous day, and the streets were quieter than normal. Carts still clattered to and from the Market Square, and merchants still opened their shops for business, but the atmosphere was subdued and cautious, and there was none of the customary banter as folk went about their affairs. Some churches remained closed too, while all the colleges and hostels retained the extra guards on their gates. Without the usual crowds to hinder their progress along the High Street, it did not take Bartholomew and Michael long to reach King’s Hall.

They found it in a state of turmoil. Even from outside, they could hear folk running this way and that, and voices raised in anger and alarm. Michael’s first knock went unanswered, so he pounded the metal-studded gate until he was able to attract someone’s attention. He was astonished when it was Beadle March who opened the door.

‘What are you doing here?’ the monk demanded. ‘You are supposed to be at All Saints’.’

‘I have resigned,’ said March smugly. ‘I am tired of being treated like an ordinary beadle, when I am more intelligent than the rest of them put together. Besides, I overheard John de St Philibert tell you that
he
killed Hugh, and I do not want to work for proctors who condone murder.’

Michael glowered at him. ‘If you have aggravated the situation by telling tales, you will spend the next four weeks in gaol. But you have not answered my question: what are you doing
here
?’

March glowered back. ‘Vice-Warden Bardolf hired me, because he says I might prove useful.’

‘Then he is a fool,’ said Michael, regarding the ex-beadle with rank disdain. ‘However, there are more important issues than you at the moment, such as why is everyone in such a panic?’

‘Murder,’ replied William coldly, coming to greet them. He was wearing a military-style jerkin in place of his academic tabard and boiled-leather leggings. He carried a sword, and there was a mace tucked in his belt. His brothers were similarly armed, and so were many students.

Michael was alarmed. ‘I know you grieve for Hugh, but—’

‘Not Hugh,’ snapped William, rounding on him so furiously that the monk took an involuntary step backwards. ‘Although that was outrage enough. It is Roger.’

‘Roger is dead?’ asked Michael, shocked.

‘March found him at dawn,’ replied William angrily. ‘His body lies in our hall, although you will not need your Corpse Examiner to tell you he was unlawfully slain.’

‘Show me,’ ordered Michael, intending to keep him occupied until his temper had cooled, in the hope that he would have second thoughts about leading his troops in a frenzy of revenge.

‘With pleasure,’ snarled William. ‘We
want
the Senior Proctor to see what Peterhouse did.’

‘Follow me,’ said March, clearly enjoying himself. ‘I will lead the way.’

Roger’s body had been placed on a table behind the servants’ screen. He was covered by a blanket, which Bartholomew peeled away at a nod from William. Roger’s unattractive face was pale and waxy in death, the eyes half-open. There was a dark stain behind his head, and when March helped him turn the body Bartholomew saw that the back of Roger’s skull had been stoved in.

‘Where did you find him, March?’ asked Michael, watching the physician assess the body for other wounds.

‘All Saints’ churchyard.’ March tried to keep his face sombre, but he was too pleased with all the attention to succeed. ‘John de St Philibert made me patrol the High Street, and I discovered Roger when I went to rest on a tombstone for a while. I immediately came here, to bring the news to—’

‘It did not occur to you to report the incident to
me
first?’ asked Michael, fighting down his anger. The news could have been broken more gently by a proctor, and the potential for violent revenge considerably reduced.

‘No,’ replied March insolently. ‘I thought his kin had a right to know before you.’

Michael shot him a disgusted look, then addressed William. ‘Why was Roger out in the first place? I asked you all to stay in.’

‘He wanted to be near the book,’ replied William. His temper was only just under control. ‘He was afraid it might be stolen, and was eager to help Shirford protect it.’

‘Did he go alone?’ asked Michael.

‘Yes. I offered to accompany him, but he said he could look after himself. I thought he was right.’ William sounded bitter as well as angry.

‘Well?’ asked Michael, as Bartholomew completed his examination. ‘What can you tell me?’

‘He died from a blow to the back of the head, delivered by something heavy and blunt. The wound is too well defined to have been made by a stone, and not well defined enough to have been made by a sword. It was caused by some other implement.’

‘Such as a mallet,’ said Michael flatly, seeing where the physician was going.

‘A mallet would be a likely contender,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘And there is something else.’

‘Yes,’ said William tightly. ‘The killer was not content with just bludgeoning poor Roger. He insisted on mocking us too.’

Bartholomew turned Roger’s face to one side so it caught the light. The left cheek was untouched, but the right one had a bloody mark carved into it. It was the letter P.

‘What does that mean?’ asked Michael, gazing at it in bewilderment.

‘It stands for Peterhouse, of course,’ replied March. ‘What else could it be?’

Michael was deeply uneasy as he left King’s Hall and followed William to All Saints’, Bartholomew in tow. He had managed to persuade the vice-warden to refrain from tackling Peterhouse until the proctors had inspected the scene of the crime and spoken to witnesses, although agreement was given reluctantly, and he was not sure William could be trusted to keep his word. The man was mad with grief and fury, and it would take very little for him to gather his troops and head off for a confrontation with the foundation he had grown to hate.

‘It seems so unlikely,’ said Michael to Bartholomew as they walked. He spoke in a low voice, so William would not hear. ‘Why would Peterhouse advertise what they had done?’

‘Peterhouse?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘You mean Wittleseye. He is the one with the bloody mallet under his bed.’

‘Not necessarily. Perhaps one of his students did it – killed Roger, cut the mark into his victim’s face, then realized it was stupid, so hid the hammer in Wittleseye’s room because he did not know how else to extricate himself from his predicament.’

‘It is possible, I suppose,’ conceded Bartholomew, although with scant conviction. ‘Do you think Roger killed Neuton and was dispatched in revenge? I would not have thought Roger was the type to poison someone, but then I would not have said he was the type to discuss prophecies with Shirford either.’

‘I am not comfortable with March’s abrupt defection to King’s Hall,’ said Michael, voicing another concern. ‘I would not put any low deed past him – poisoning, bludgeoning, planting murder weapons on innocent parties, assaulting proctors. And not carving letters on a dead man’s face either.’

‘Can he write?’

‘Yes, unusually for a beadle. But speculation is taking us nowhere: we need solid proof.’ Michael called out to William, who was walking a few steps ahead of them. ‘After yesterday’s brawl, everyone from King’s Hall went home. Did Roger leave the college at any point, other than to go to All Saints’ and guard the book?’

William turned to face him. ‘No. Some of our lads escaped in the night, to be caught by John de St Philibert. But my brothers and I held a wake for Hugh. It started immediately after you left and did not finish until morning Mass. Roger was the only one to leave, which he did about an hour before dawn – to watch over the book, as I said.’

‘And when did March come to tell you what he had found?’

‘Shortly after sunrise. Roger must have been killed not long after he left us, because his corpse was cooling. I have been in enough battles to know about that sort of thing.’

They arrived at All Saints’, but Shirford had heard what had happened to Roger and was loath to answer the door. He yielded only when Michael threatened to set fire to it. The priest’s face was pale, and he looked as though he had been crying. Whether the tears were for Roger or for his own unenviable predicament was impossible to say.

‘The book has precipitated some evil deeds,’ he said miserably. ‘Poor Roger! He was a sullen devil at times, but he had a good heart. He brought me food every evening.’

‘Even yesterday?’ asked Michael. He glared at William when Shirford nodded. ‘You said Roger did not leave Hugh’s wake until an hour before dawn.’

William shrugged. ‘I forgot about the earlier excursion. But he was gone less than an hour.’

‘An hour?’ Michael was not amused. ‘That is a long time for delivering victuals.’

‘He was not with me that long,’ said Shirford, before catching William’s eye and falling silent.

‘Perhaps I misremembered the length of his absence,’ hedged William. But he saw he was not going to fool the Senior Proctor and gave an impatient sigh. ‘All right. Roger left the wake before sunset to take Shirford his supper. But I decided not to tell you about it, because I knew what you would think – that he used the time to go and kill Neuton.’

‘He had a motive,’ said Michael coldly. ‘And now we learn he had an opportunity.’

‘If you think that, then you are a greater fool than you look,’ snapped William. ‘Roger would never stoop to poison, not when he had a dagger in his belt.’

‘He might follow orders, though,’ argued Michael. ‘Such as to deliver something to a kitchen while cooks were out. I imagine he was excellent at fulfilling that sort of duty.’

Shirford smiled, keen to say something positive about the man who had been kind to him. ‘Oh, he was very good at errands. He ran them for me all the time – fetching books from the library, ensuring I had clean clothes, buying fuel for my lamp . . .’ He trailed off when he became aware that he was the subject of another furious glare from William.

Bartholomew stepped forward when he saw the vice-warden beginning to lose his temper. ‘Michael will find out what happened to Roger,’ he said soothingly. ‘He knows what he is doing.’

‘But I will not succeed unless people are honest with me,’ added Michael. ‘How can I solve any murder when no one tells me the truth?’

‘I have not lied,’ snapped William. ‘I just neglected to mention something.’

Michael grimaced but declined to argue. He turned to Shirford. ‘Roger’s body was found in the churchyard, right outside. You must have heard something.’

Shirford’s expression was apologetic. ‘Unfortunately, I did not. After you left, all was calm until your Junior Proctor caught those Peterhouse lads trying to break in. And then all was quiet again until March found Roger’s corpse.’

‘So,’ summarized Michael, ‘Roger brought you your supper around the time when Neuton was poisoned. Then he returned to King’s Hall and joined the wake with his brothers. Shortly before dawn, he left the party because he was worried about the book.’

‘Why are you wasting time here?’ barked William, his patience finally breaking. ‘Peterhouse killed Roger. The culprit might even be Wittleseye himself. He claims he is no warrior, but warriors do not sneak up behind someone and batter out his brains.’

‘Shattered bones,’ murmured Michael, so only Bartholomew could hear. ‘Roger’s bones are shattered, and the King’s house is certainly mourning – far more so than the occupants of the rock, when murder spoiled their most sacred place. Now all we need do is wait for the traitor’s face to blaze. Whatever that means.’

‘Judging by the speed at which these events are coming true, I do not think we need wait for long,’ whispered Bartholomew. ‘Indeed, I think the traitor might be standing right here in front of us.’

‘William? Yes, I see why you settled on him as your prime suspect. He is mine too.’

‘Not William,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Shirford.’

Michael was startled by the physician’s choice but knew better than to dismiss his opinion out of hand, no matter how outlandish it sounded when phrased so tersely. They escorted William home to King’s Hall, where they left a whole pack of beadles to ensure that he could not escape to wreak havoc. William was furious to find himself effectively imprisoned in his own college, but the monk tartly informed him that he could spend the day in the proctors’ gaol if he would prefer. March came to stand next to the seething vice-warden and began whispering in his ear.