The Mark of a Murderer (11 page)

Eudo’s handsome face creased into a scowl as he bound the afflicted limb himself. ‘You are no good. Doctor Rougham would have
ordered me to spend a week in bed and buy half an apothecary’s shop in poultices and purges, but he is away at the moment,
more is the pity. Still, it has saved me money, because I am not paying you for bad advice and a smear of pig oil.’

‘So, you can tell us nothing about Chesterfelde’s murder?’ asked Michael, seeing Bartholomew about to take issue. ‘You saw
and heard nothing?’

‘No,’ said Eudo proudly. ‘Not with nine jugs of ale inside me.’

‘You said seven or eight.’ Bartholomew pounced.

‘Did I?’ asked Eudo carelessly. ‘It was a lot. Probably nearer ten.’

‘I wish it had been twenty,’ muttered Bartholomew in an undertone. ‘That would have wiped the smile off your face this morning.’

Bartholomew and Michael left Merton Hall and began to walk towards their College. On the way they met Duraunt and Polmorva,
who said they had been visiting Duraunt’s fellow Austin Canons at nearby Barnwell Priory. Polmorva’s expression hardened when
Michael told him that he and his Corpse Examiner had re-inspected the place where Chesterfelde had died, and Bartholomew thought
he detected an uneasy flicker in his eye; he wondered whether he guessed they had searched his possessions and was afraid
of what might have been found. Duraunt contented himself with reciting a short prayer for Chesterfelde, then started to discuss
the next University Debate. Michael fretted impatiently as the old man gabbled on about his favourite topics for such occasions,
while Bartholomew listened with interest, recalling disputes on similar issues they had attended together in Oxford – an erudite,
careful teacher and his eager but inexpert student.

When they eventually parted, Michael went to search the University’s records for any scholars who had been granted leave of
absence to study in Oxford, and to peruse applications from Oxford students who wanted to visit Cambridge, while Bartholomew
walked to the hamlet of Stourbridge, outside the town. He wanted to see Clippesby, and assess whether there was any improvement
in his condition. As it was such a fine day, he strolled slowly, enjoying the sweet scent of ripening crops and the damp earthiness
of fertile soil. The sun lay golden and warm across the fields, occasionally cooled when fluffy white clouds drifted across
its bright face.

The hospital was a sprawling complex of buildings enclosed within a fence of woven hazel. It had originally been founded for
lepers, so their disease would not contaminate others, but now it accepted patients with a variety of ailments. It comprised
the Chapel of St Mary Magdalene, an ancient two-celled church with thick walls and tiny windows, and a number of huts with
thatched roofs, where the inmates lived. The community had its own well, fish-ponds, fields, orchards and livestock, and its
residents were seldom obliged to deal with the outside world.

The warden who cared for the eclectic collection of people who had been banished from ‘normal’ society was an amiable Austin
Canon called Paul. He tended his thirty or so patients with the help of a small staff of lay-brothers, and Bartholomew considered
the man little short of a saint. He was tall and sturdy, which was a useful attribute when dealing with the obstreperousness
of madness and the heavy lifting required for the bedridden, and his brown hair lay thickly around his untidy tonsure. He
was nearly always smiling, and it was not unusual for the compound to ring with his laughter.

There was no humour that day, however, because he was troubled. Michaelhouse’s Master of Music and Astronomy was afforded
a fair degree of freedom in the hospital, and had been helping to care for some of the sicker inmates. But Clippesby had a
habit of wandering away without telling anyone where he was going, and Bartholomew was disturbed to learn that he had vanished
several times since he had been enrolled at Stourbridge. Most worrying was the fact that he had been gone for part of the
previous night, when Chesterfelde had died.

‘I was with the ducks near the river, Matt,’ said Clippesby dreamily, when the physician asked him about it. He laughed merrily.
‘They will provide me with an alibi, should you require one.’

Bartholomew studied him intently, trying to ascertain whether the man was genuinely trying to be helpful, or was playing him
for a fool. He rubbed his hand through his hair when several moments of staring into Clippesby’s clear grey eyes told him
nothing at all.

‘You promised you would stay here,’ said Paul reproachfully. ‘Why did you break your word?’

‘I was needed elsewhere, Brother,’ said Clippesby with a serene smile. ‘You have duties towards your charges, so you will
understand these obligations. Besides, I do not like being shut up all night. There are too many interesting things happening
elsewhere.’

‘What sort of things?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily.

‘Things
you
would not understand. Why do you want to know?’

‘A man was killed in Merton Hall last night. You should not wander around the town, Clippesby. People know you are unwell,
and we do not want them to accuse you of a crime because they cannot find the real culprit and need a scapegoat. I brought
you here for your own safety.’

‘So you say,’ replied Clippesby acidly. He did not like Stourbridge. ‘But that is the second death at Merton Hall. A fellow
called Okehamptone perished there a week or two ago. I was visiting some geese at the time, and they were very unhappy that
he died so suddenly after arriving in their town.’

‘Were they,’ said Bartholomew. The Dominican’s nocturnal wanderings meant he was often a witness to criminal activities, and
he had provided Michael with valuable clues in the past. The difficulty, however, lay in deciding what was true and what was
fancy.

‘They were,’ asserted Clippesby. ‘Tell Michael not to forget Okehamptone. It will please the geese to know they have a Senior
Proctor who takes all deaths seriously. Can you see that lark, Matt? High in the clouds? I have just
heard her say she saw you leaving Matilde’s house at dawn again this morning. You
must
be more discreet when you visit her, my friend, or you will tarnish her good name.’

‘Matilde the courtesan?’ asked Paul, regarding Bartholomew askance. ‘You visit her during the night? This lark is right,
man! You should show some discretion. Leave while it is still dark, not once the sun has started to rise.’

‘I will bear it in mind,’ said Bartholomew shortly. ‘Although the lark should mind her own damned business, and keep her gossip
to herself.’

He spent the rest of the day with his ailing colleague, but even after several hours still had no idea whether the Dominican
was improving. It was frustrating, and he walked home helpless and angry, wishing there were not so many ailments that his
medical training could not cure. He was light-headed from tiredness, but when he flopped on to his bed at Michaelhouse, intending
to doze until it was time to meet Matilde, sleep would not come. Images of Clippesby, Polmorva and Duraunt rattled around
his mind, along with Chesterfelde and the knife embedded in his back. He sensed he was about to embark on an investigation
where nothing would be what it seemed, and that would take all his wits to solve. The unsettling part was that he did not
think his wits were up to the task.

The following morning heralded another glorious day, clear and blue. Michael told Bartholomew that he had been reviewing the
evidence surrounding Chesterfelde’s death and had eliminated none of the suspects from his enquiries. He had visited the King’s
Head tavern and ascertained that Eudo had indeed consumed copious quantities of ale on the night in question, but pointed
out that being drunk did not preclude anyone from committing murder. He also distrusted Boltone, and thought Polmorva might
well be right to accuse him of the crime on the basis of mistaken identity in the dark. But he distrusted Polmorva more, and
considered him exactly the kind of man to kill and confuse the evidence by thrusting knives into dead men’s backs. The result
was a wealth of suspects.

‘But not Duraunt,’ said Bartholomew as they walked up the High Street, Michael to ask yet more questions of his potential
culprits, and Bartholomew to answer a summons from Sheriff Tulyet. Tulyet’s son had stabbed himself with one of his toy arrows,
and his anxious parents wanted to ensure the injury was not serious. Bartholomew regarded the prospect of a session with Dickon
without enthusiasm, sensing the nagging ache behind his eyes that had been plaguing him all night was likely to become worse
once Dickon’s enraged screeches had soared around it.

‘Duraunt seems kindly,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘But do not forget that phial we found in his bag – and the fact that we suspect
everyone was fed a soporific before Chesterfelde was killed.’

‘It probably belongs to Polmorva,’ insisted Bartholomew doggedly. ‘Besides, the merchants or the scholar we have not yet
met – Spryngheuse – might have killed Chesterfelde.’

‘That is why I want to question Duraunt about the poppy juice and why I want to meet Spryngheuse – so I can at least try to
eliminate some of them from my investigation. I will keep you company while you tend Dickon, and then you can help me. I would
like you to watch Polmorva and assess his reaction when we produce that vial.’ He gave Bartholomew a sidelong glance. ‘And
I assure you that you have the better half of the bargain: a few moments with Dickon is far more dangerous than an entire
week with murderers from Oxford.’

‘What about our teaching?’ asked Bartholomew with arched eyebrows. ‘It is Monday, and we have lectures all day. I paid Falmeresham
to read
De criticis diebus
aloud for an hour while I tend Dickon, but he cannot do it all morning.’

‘He can,’ said Michael. Bartholomew saw a crafty look in the monk’s eye. ‘I anticipated we might be assisting each other,
so I slipped him a little extra. Galen’s
De criticis diebus
is a lengthy work, and Falmeresham has promised to keep your students enthralled with it until noon – or at least, occupied
so they do not wander around the hall and make a nuisance of themselves. I cannot imagine anyone being interested in a medical
view of diet. Food is not for the cold analysis of science.’

‘What about Clippesby’s astronomers? Galen’s thoughts on vegetables are not relevant to
their
studies, and they are my responsibility now he is indisposed.’

‘You have only yourself to blame for that,’ said Michael haughtily. ‘You went to see him yesterday; you should have pronounced
him fit and brought him home. But, as it happens, you can set your mind at rest over the
astronomers, too. Young Rob Deynman has agreed to supervise them while they calculate every movable feast in the ecclesiastical
year for the next decade.’

‘Deynman?’ spluttered Bartholomew in appalled disbelief. ‘
Deynman?
He can barely calculate the time of day when he hears the dinner bell ring! He is not capable of helping other students.’

‘He is not going to teach them,’ said Michael, unmoved by his objections. ‘He will just make sure they do not make too much
noise or escape early. And at least he can read, which is more than can be said for the scholars of
some
Colleges.’

He glanced meaningfully to the other side of the street, where Thomas Paxtone, the Master of Medicine from King’s Hall, was
passing the time of day with Bartholomew’s sister. Paxtone was a rosy-cheeked, smiling man from a village near Huntingdon
and, unlike the other two physicians in the town – Lynton of Peterhouse and Rougham of Gonville Hall – he was willing to tend
the poor, as well as those who could afford to pay for his services. His charity meant that some of the burden was lifted
from Bartholomew, who was grateful.

‘Mistress Edith is telling me that she and her husband are about to embark on a journey,’ said Paxtone, nodding a friendly
greeting as Bartholomew and Michael approached. ‘The weather is fine, so they will leave for London today.’

Edith kissed her brother, her face flushed with excitement at the prospect of an adventure. ‘Oswald is packing the last of
our belongings and the horses are saddled. It is a week earlier than we anticipated, but our son will not mind.’

‘He might,’ warned Bartholomew, suspecting his nephew would be appalled by the unannounced arrival of his parents. Richard
was a lawyer, and youth and a high
income had combined to render him wild. Bartholomew trusted he would outgrow his dissolute lifestyle in time, but the lad
had not shown any indication of encroaching sobriety so far. He hoped Edith would not find her beloved son entwined in the
arms of a prostitute, or drunk and insensible – or both – because it would hurt her.

Edith waved away his concerns with the happy optimism he had always envied, then became serious and pulled him to one side,
so Michael and Paxtone could not hear. The two scholars immediately began a rather strained discussion about whether the Archbishop
should spend more time at King’s Hall, which was one of the University’s richest foundations, or Michaelhouse, which had a
reputation for academic excellence. The decision would depend on whether the University wanted Islip impressed by Cambridge’s
scholarship or its capacity for lavish entertainment.

‘You know I am fond of Matilde,’ Edith whispered to her brother, ‘and I think she would make you a good wife. But your nightly
visits are damaging her reputation and yours.’

‘You know about them, too?’ asked Bartholomew, mortified.

‘She nodded soberly. ‘But I do not want my parting words to be nagging ones, so I shall say no more. Just this: be careful
and trust no one – especially sweet old men from your past.’

Bartholomew stared at her. ‘You mean Master Duraunt? Why? What has he done to make you wary of him?’

Edith lowered her voice further still. ‘I was in the apothecary’s shop when he bought a good deal of poppy juice. Now, there
is nothing wrong with that, but when the apothecary questioned the high potency of the dosage, Duraunt said
you
had recommended that strength to him the previous evening. I happen to know you did not,
because you were with Matilde all that night. He lied, Matt.’