The Mark of a Murderer (10 page)

‘I am surprised Rougham has chosen now to leave for a family reunion,’ said Michael conversationally. ‘He is an ambitious
man, and I would have thought he would be here, showing off to important people. Still, he has a nasty habit of polishing
his teeth on his sleeve after formal dinners – presumably to improve the quality of his smile – so perhaps it is just as well
he is gone.’

‘Teeth polishing will not bother Islip,’ said Tulyet disapprovingly. ‘He does it himself. How is Clippesby, by the way? Still
ailing?’

‘I plan to visit him today,’ replied Bartholomew, ‘and hope to find him a little recovered.’

‘You had better find him more than “a little recovered”,’ said Michael testily. ‘I cannot imagine why you have so suddenly
decided he is unfit to teach. He has always been insane, and it has never bothered you before. I do not know how much longer
I can teach his classes – I know nothing of musical theory and I am not interested in learning. So, either declare him well
and reinstate him, or declare him irrecoverably mad, so we can hire someone in his place.’

‘Soon,’ promised Bartholomew. ‘Give him time. He has been gone only a few days.’

‘Since Ascension Day,’ said Michael, aggrieved. ‘
Ten
days. I know, because that was when Langelee so blithely ordered me to teach a subject I have never studied. Does he think
we are King’s Hall, with no standards?’

‘King’s Hall?’ asked Tulyet. ‘You criticise their teaching practices? I thought most of its scholars were men destined for
high ranks within the Church or the King’s Court.’

‘Quite,’ muttered Michael venomously. ‘I met one Fellow last week who knew no Latin. None at all! I was obliged to speak to
him in French, for God’s sake! And there are others who do not know the most rudimentary aspects of the Trivium. It must be
like teaching children!’

Tulyet bade them farewell when he reached his house. Even from the street, Bartholomew could hear the excited screeches of
his son Dickon as he played some boisterous – and probably violent – game with the Sheriff’s long-suffering servants, and
did not miss Tulyet’s grimace of anticipation as he knocked on the door to be allowed in. It could not be left open for people
to come and go as they pleased, because Dickon would be out in a trice, and his parents were afraid he would come to harm.
From what
Bartholomew had seen of Dickon’s developing personality over the past few months, he was not entirely sure it would be a tragedy.
Michael grinned as they walked on alone.

‘Poor Dick! That is the only child he will ever sire – within his marriage, at least – and the boy is a monster. How did it
happen, do you think? William believes the Devil slipped into his bedchamber and fathered the brat. Dickon is so unlike his
parents that I cannot help but think he may be right.’

An ear-shattering scream of delight followed them as Dickon greeted his father. Several people jumped in alarm, while those
who knew Dickon shook their heads in mute disgust. Bartholomew walked a little more quickly, in case the boy spotted him through
a window and demanded a visit, setting a pace that had Michael gasping for breath. They crossed the Great Bridge, where there
was no sign of anyone thinking of self-murder, and turned along Merton Lane. For the second time that day, Michael hammered
on the door. As before, it was answered by the pale-headed bailiff.

‘Now what? The body has been taken to the church, and everyone else is out.’

‘Good,’ said Michael, pushing his way inside. ‘That will make our task here all the easier. And I want a word with you anyway.
Where were you when Chesterfelde died?’

‘Why?’ asked Boltone, looking shifty. ‘What does that have to do with you?’

‘Just answer the question,’ snapped Michael.

‘I was asleep,’ replied Boltone. ‘It is common knowledge that Chesterfelde died between after the curfew bell at eight and
before dawn. I was asleep all that time, and so was Eudo.’

‘Eudo?’ asked Bartholomew. He sensed he should know the name, but his tired mind refused to yield the information.

‘Eudo of Helpryngham,’ said Boltone impatiently. ‘He rents the manor from Merton College – I told you about him earlier. He
and I sleep in the solar, while the scholars have the hall.’

‘Were the scholars alone last night?’ asked Michael. ‘Or did they entertain guests?’

‘They might have done,’ replied Boltone unhelpfully. ‘I went to bed immediately after the curfew, so I have no idea what they
did. I am a heavy sleeper. I snore, too, and Eudo always wraps a cloth around his ears to block my noise, so neither of us
heard what that miserable rabble were doing.’

‘What happened after you retired at eight?’

‘I heard nothing until the cockerel crowed before dawn. When I went to wake the Oxford men for their breakfast, there was
Chesterfelde with a knife in his back. It was my yell of horror that roused the others from their slumbers.’

‘They were all there?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Three surviving scholars and three merchants?’

‘Yes,’ replied Boltone. ‘But I cannot say whether they were all there the whole night. Sometimes they debate and argue, and
keep me awake, but I was exhausted yesterday, and I heard nothing.’

‘Argue?’ pounced Michael. ‘You mean they antagonise each other?’

Boltone shrugged. ‘Sometimes. Polmorva called Spryngheuse a sludge-brained pedant last week, and Chesterfelde responded by
referring to him as a slippery-tongued viper. But I am busy today: Duraunt accused me of being dishonest in my accounting,
so I have to prove him wrong. Do you want anything else, or can I go?’

‘Go,’ said Michael. ‘We only want to inspect the hall again.’

‘All right,’ said Boltone. ‘But do not touch any of the scholars’ belongings, or they will accuse me of doing it.’

Michael and Bartholomew climbed the stairs to the hall.
The room was much as it had been the last time they were there. Straw mattresses were stored on one side, ready to be used
again that night, and blankets were rolled on top of them. The trestle tables employed for meals had been stacked away, and
only the benches left out, so there would be somewhere to sit when the visitors returned. The window shutters had been thrown
open to allow the hall to air, and the fire Duraunt had enjoyed earlier had burned out – the day was warm and heating unnecessary,
even for chilly old men.

‘Right,’ said Michael, rubbing his hands. ‘Do you want to go through these saddlebags for stained clothes, or keep watch to
make sure no one catches us?’

‘You just told Boltone you would not touch anything.’

‘I lied,’ said Michael carelessly. ‘It comes from dealing with the likes of Abergavenny and Polmorva. Well? Hurry up and decide,
or they will be back before we have started.’

‘You do it,’ said Bartholomew distastefully. ‘I will make sure no one comes.’

While Michael rummaged through the visitors’ bags, Bartholomew sat on a windowsill and struggled to stay alert. The sun was
warm on his face, and he felt pleasantly relaxed. When Michael spoke, he started awake. For a moment, he did not know where
he was, and gazed around him, blinking stupidly.

‘I see my integrity is safe under your vigilant care,’ remarked Michael caustically. ‘You really do need a good night’s sleep,
Matt. Now I cannot even trust you to keep watch while I ransack people’s belongings. What would we have said if they had caught
us?’

‘That they are all suspects until you have Chesterfelde’s killer under lock and key,’ replied Bartholomew, rubbing his eyes
as he stood. ‘Duraunt will not object, but Polmorva will, which would be satisfying. Well? Did you find his clothes drenched
in gore?’

‘No,’ said Michael in disgust. ‘Not so much as a spot. There are a few drips on the floor where we found the body, but that
is not surprising. I found this in Duraunt’s bag, but it cannot have any relevance, given that no one has been poisoned.’
He handed Bartholomew a tiny phial.

The physician took it carefully, knowing that small pots often contained fairly powerful substances. This one was no exception,
and it released the pungent odour of concentrated poppy juice when he lifted it to his nose. He recoiled. ‘There is enough
soporific here to put half the University to sleep!’

Michael regarded it thoughtfully. ‘And it is partly empty, which means some of it has been used. Is there enough missing to
make half a dozen merchants and scholars doze through a murder?’

Bartholomew inspected the vial. ‘Yes, but Duraunt is not your culprit. He was appalled by the murder, and he is a kind, gentle
man.’

‘So you said earlier,’ said Michael. ‘But people change, and you have not seen him for years. Who knows what he might have
become in the interim?’

Bartholomew had a better explanation. ‘Polmorva is not beyond hiding something incriminating among another man’s possessions.
He did it to me once, and almost had me convicted of theft. I only just managed to hurl them out of the window, before my
chest was searched.’

‘Them?’

‘Those teeth – the ones he made for the Benedictines. He claimed they had been stolen and accused me of taking them. When
I went to my room, there they were, hidden under a book.’

‘How do you know it was he who put them there?’

‘The servants saw him. But this is getting us nowhere. Put the phial back where you found it, Brother. We can ask Polmorva
and Duraunt about it later.’

‘No,’ said Michael, slipping the bottle into his scrip. ‘I do not want a potentially toxic substance in the hands of my suspects.
I shall keep it, and we will know to whom it belongs when its disappearance is reported.’

‘That is dangerous,’ warned Bartholomew uncomfortably. ‘Boltone knows you have been here. It will not look good for the Senior
Proctor to be on the wrong end of a charge of theft.’

‘I shall deny it,’ said Michael. He walked towards the solar. ‘Since we are here, we may as well be thorough. We should see
whether Boltone and Eudo own stained clothes, too.’

The solar was far less tidy than the hall, and was strewn with bedding and discarded clothes. Filthy shirts sat in a pile
in one corner, where they were evidently picked through to be worn again on subsequent occasions, while boots and shoes lay
where they had been cast off. Two smelly dogs lounged in a shaft of sunlight from the open window, and watched with uninterest
as Michael began to sift through the mess. Bartholomew remained by the door, standing so he would not fall asleep again.

‘There is nothing here, either,’ said Michael. He wiped his hands on his habit in distaste. ‘Eudo and Boltone live like pigs!
I am not surprised Duraunt declined to wrest the solar away from them.’

‘Someone is coming!’ said Bartholomew urgently, hearing footsteps on the stairs. ‘Come into the hall and pretend to inspect
the blood where the body was found.’

Michael had only just reached the place and leaned down to look where Bartholomew was pointing before the door was flung open.
The man who stood there was tall, and Bartholomew supposed he was handsome, although there was something in his arrogant demeanour
that was highly unattractive. His dark brown hair was long and wavy, and his blue eyes were surrounded by dark lashes, giving
him the appearance of a foreigner, although his clothes were solidly English, with none of the cosmopolitan fripperies flaunted
by many men of substance.

‘Who are you?’ he demanded, hands on hips as he regarded the scholars imperiously. ‘And what are you doing here?’

Michael straightened, irked by the man’s manner. ‘Senior Proctor, investigating the murder of Roger de Chesterfelde.’

‘He smiled a lot,’ said the man, making it sound sinister. ‘And he cited a good deal of Latin – not that those stupid merchants
could understand him. Unlike me. I attended the King’s School when I was a boy, and
I
can read.’ He drew himself up to his full height and looked as if he expected them to be impressed.

‘I imagine reading will be helpful to the man who rents this manor,’ said Michael evenly. He had surmised that the man was
Merton’s tenant, Eudo of Helpryngham.

‘Actually, no,’ replied Eudo. ‘If there is any reading to be done, Boltone does it. I prefer to be outside, with the sun on
my face and fresh air in my lungs.’

‘I am not surprised,’ said Michael, casting a significant glance at the squalor of the solar. ‘What do you know about Chesterfelde’s
death?’

‘Nothing,’ replied Eudo. ‘I was at the King’s Head last night, and then I came here. I was drunk and heard nothing at all
– not even Boltone’s infernal snoring. I probably downed seven or eight jugs of ale.’ He looked as if he was fishing for compliments,
in the same way that Bartholomew’s younger undergraduates bragged about the amounts of wine they could consume without being
sick. But Eudo was in his thirties, and should have grown out of such foolishness.

‘You have hurt yourself,’ said Bartholomew, pointing to a crude bandage that adorned Eudo’s left arm. ‘What happened?’

‘I probably fell over when I was staggering home last night. You are a physician, are you not? Tend it for me. It is very
sore.’

Without waiting for Bartholomew’s consent, Eudo unravelled the dressing to reveal an injury on the inside of his forearm that
was no more than a scratch. It was slight enough to have been caused by brambles or even a cat, and the reams of material
enveloping it were far in excess of what was needed. Despite its superficial nature, Eudo grimaced and sucked in his breath
when Bartholomew examined it.

‘You do not need to keep it wrapped,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I will smear it with salve, but the best thing would be to leave
it open to the air. It will heal more quickly.’

‘It is a serious injury,’ declared Eudo, watching Bartholomew apply a balm of woundwort and hog’s grease. ‘Besides, I told
Boltone I was too sick to work, and he will think I am malingering if he sees me without a bandage. Put it on again.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew, replacing the salve in his bag. ‘It will not heal if you keep it covered. Besides, you
are
malingering if you claim it is stopping you from working.’