The Mark of a Murderer (15 page)

‘Tell me, Master Bailiff,’ said Michael, smiling in a friendly fashion, ‘when did you last visit Oxford?’

‘I am obliged to present yearly accounts,’ said Boltone, looking furtive, ‘but I go there as rarely as possible. It smells,
and all the streets look the same. Why?’

‘Were you there in February?’ asked Bartholomew. He could think of no reason why a Cambridge steward should kill an Oxford
merchant, but that did not mean it had not happened.

‘No,’ said Boltone, a little too quickly. ‘I have not been since last October, and February was too cold for long journeys.
The roads were closed by snow then, anyway.’

‘They were,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘But not for the whole month.’

Boltone stood aside to allow them to enter. ‘Have you decided which of these Oxford men killed Chesterfelde? Was it a scholar
or a merchant? I do not know who I would prefer you to hang: I dislike that condescending Eu, but I hate the sly Polmorva.’

‘What makes you think it was one of those two?’ asked Michael.

‘Who else could it be?’ asked Boltone, his eyes wide with surprise that there should be other culprits. ‘Chesterfelde was
murdered in
their
room while
they
were present – sleeping or otherwise. You do not need one of your University degrees to assess that sort of evidence. And
Polmorva and Eu are the nastiest of the group, so they are the best suspects for this vile murder. It is obvious.’

Michael regarded him thoughtfully. ‘You think Abergavenny, Wormynghalle, Spryngheuse and Duraunt are innocent, do you?’

Boltone returned the appraising stare, then seemed to reconsider, apparently afraid the monk might be laying some sort of
trap that would see him in trouble. ‘Well, I suppose the killer
could
be one of them,’ he said after a long pause. ‘Except Duraunt, of course. He would never harm anyone.’

‘Is that so?’ asked Michael flatly. ‘Of course, Polmorva has
you
marked down as the assassin. He thinks you killed Chesterfelde by mistake, because you are desperate to do away with Duraunt
and prevent him from exposing your dishonesty.’

‘Polmorva is a fool,’ snapped Boltone. ‘If I did kill Duraunt, then what do you think would happen? That Merton will forget
these accusations and leave me alone? Of course not! They will send another man to look at my records, and then what would
I do? Kill him, too? And another, and another? Polmorva is deranged if he believes I would see murder as a way to clear my
name. Besides, I have nothing to hide – no reason to stab anyone.’

‘I see,’ said Michael. ‘Well, I would like to speak to Duraunt myself today. Do not bother to escort me; I can find my own
way. Go back to your accounting.’

Bartholomew followed Michael up the stairs into the hall. The three merchants sat there, talking in low voices that still
contrived to sound hostile. Wormynghalle presented a grotesque sight that day, in a fashionably close-fitting gipon made from
gold cloth that gave him the appearance of a shiny grub. His sheep’s head pendant and the rings on his fingers glinted in
the sunlight, and he looked exactly what he was: a man of humble origins who found himself rich, and who did not have the
taste to accommodate it decently. He played restlessly with a silver disc, and when Bartholomew looked more closely he saw
it was an astrolabe, although he could tell from the way the tanner handled the instrument that he did not know how to use
it. To him it was just a pretty object made of precious metal.

Eu, meanwhile, wore a gipon of dark green, with a discreet clasp on his cloak that carried his nutmeg motif. He carried himself
with a natural dignity, and Bartholomew wondered how the two merchants, diametrically opposed
in all respects, managed to stomach each other’s company. He supposed it was because Abergavenny was there, to keep the peace
and remind them that they had a common purpose. The Welshman seemed relieved to have company, and Bartholomew suspected he
was finding his role as arbitrator hard work.

‘Where are the scholars?’ asked Michael.

‘In the solar,’ replied Wormynghalle with an unpleasant sneer. ‘They claim they are afraid of boring us with their debates,
but the truth is that they prefer their own company.’

‘What they prefer is conversation that does not revolve around tanning,’ said Eu acidly. ‘And who can blame them? I do not
want to be regaled with the difference between dog and horse urine while I am at table, either.’

‘Better than one bristling with cleverly disguised aspersions,’ retorted Wormynghalle. ‘
You
were the one who offended them on Saturday with your sly tongue and ambiguous “compliments”.’

‘We should all moderate our conversation, and—’ began Abergavenny.

‘I am surprised you remember,’ snarled Eu to the tanner. ‘You drank so much wine that you were asleep most of the evening.’

‘You were drunk when Chesterfelde died?’ pounced Michael. ‘And the night ended in insults?’

‘No,’ said Abergavenny hastily. ‘Wormynghalle provided a casket of claret for us all to share, but no one was insensible and
no discourtesies were exchanged – just one or two harmless jests . . .’

‘Then why do you occupy separate rooms now?’ asked Bartholomew, knowing what happened when wine and poppy juice were combined,
and thinking that he and Michael now had the answer to at least one part of the mystery. If the men at Merton Hall had swallowed
such a
mixture, they would probably not have stirred from their slumbers if the King of France had mounted an armed invasion; a body
placed carefully among them would almost certainly have passed unnoticed.

‘Because we are
trying
to be good guests,’ said Abergavenny with a strained smile. ‘The scholars enjoy long, pedantic debates and I do not see why
these should be curtailed by our presence. It was my suggestion that they adjourn to the solar during the day for their erudite
discussions. Duraunt was kind enough to allow us to stay here, so the least we can do is stay out of his way.’

‘Why did he invite you?’ asked Michael. ‘You seem odd bedfellows.’

‘Because we are rich,’ replied Wormynghalle smugly. ‘We are all in a position to make handsome benefactions to his College
when we return to Oxford, and wealthy merchants are always being courted by scholars – like whores after men with full purses.’

Abergavenny winced at Wormynghalle’s coarse analogy, while Eu shook his head. Bartholomew watched them closely, and thought
about what Michael and Tulyet had said. The Sheriff distrusted the laconic, noble-born Eu, because he had met his kind before,
while alarm bells had jangled in Bartholomew’s own mind over Wormynghalle, because he was aggressive, overconfident and brutal.
But it had been the diplomatic, reasonable Abergavenny that Michael had elected as the villain, on the grounds that the Welshman’s
congeniality was good cover for evil intent.

‘It suits us to stay at Merton Hall,’ said Abergavenny, again calming troubled waters. ‘The best taverns are inside your town
gates – where we have no desire to be.’

‘Why not?’ asked Michael.

Eu sighed impatiently. ‘Why do you think? We have just left a city ravaged by scholars, and we do not want to be trapped inside
another. We are safer here on the outskirts.’

‘That is why I bought claret on Saturday,’ explained Wormynghalle. He glared at Eu, implying that the spicer’s failure to
do likewise indicated he was cheap. ‘
I
wanted to thank Duraunt for his hospitality. He declined to accept coins, no doubt hoping for a larger donation when we return,
but he is fond of wine, and I felt I should do something pleasant for him while we are here.’

‘Never mind this,’ said Eu. Bartholomew saw the tanner’s barb had hit its mark. ‘Have you come to give us Gonerby’s killer,
so we can go home?’

‘It is him!’ said Wormynghalle, pointing at Bartholomew. ‘He is our culprit.’

‘How in God’s name have you deduced that?’ asked Michael, startled.

‘It is obvious. He knows Oxford, because he was an Oxford scholar himself. Polmorva told me. He must have visited our city
in February, perhaps to meet old acquaintances, killed Gonerby and fled home again.’

‘Why would I do that?’ asked Bartholomew, not bothering to hide his contempt for the man. ‘I have never met Gonerby.’

‘So you say,’ countered Wormynghalle. ‘But, for all we know, you may have been enemies for years. Polmorva said you were a
Merton man two decades ago, and Gonerby was living in the city then. Perhaps you ordered some parchment from him, and were
dissatisfied with the result. There could be all manner of reasons why you did not like each other.’

‘Did Gonerby supply parchment that was of inferior quality, then?’ asked Michael.

Abergavenny intervened, as usual. ‘Of course not. His parchment was excellent, and few scholars had cause for complaint. But
I do not think this physician is our man, Wormynghalle.’

‘He is a suitable suspect, though,’ said Eu. He looked
Bartholomew up and down appraisingly. ‘He looks poor, so no one will miss him. We will take him with us when we leave.’

‘You will not,’ said Michael, ‘because he is not your culprit. He gave the University Lecture on St Scholastica’s Day, and
more than five hundred people – scholars
and
townsmen – will vouch he was here, in Cambridge, not off stabbing merchants in Oxford.’

‘Am I to understand from this discussion that you have learned nothing about Gonerby’s killer?’ asked Wormynghalle, sounding
disgusted.

‘Give me time,’ said Michael coldly. ‘I have other matters to attend, besides looking into the murders of men I do not know
in cities I have never visited. But I have spoken to a number of Cambridge students who were in Oxford during February, and
some Oxford scholars who are here now. I have several promising lines of enquiry.’

Bartholomew knew for a fact he did not, but said nothing to contradict him. He did not like the merchants and their assumption
that money made them important, and he resented Wormynghalle’s accusations. He did not know whether he would prefer Chesterfelde’s
killer to be Polmorva or the tanner, and began to hope they were in cahoots, and had done it together. Then he realised he
was allowing his dislike to interfere with his reason, and tried to control his growing antipathy.

Michael turned to Wormynghalle. ‘We met a relative of yours this morning.’

Wormynghalle was aghast. ‘It was not my wife, was it? She is heavy with child, so I hope you are mistaken. I would not like
to think of her travelling so far when she is about to provide me with a son.’

‘A scholar named John Wormynghalle,’ said Michael. ‘Of King’s Hall.’

‘Oh, him,’ said Wormynghalle uninterestedly. He gave
the astrolabe a vigorous shake. Something rattled, and Bartholomew saw that his fiddling had broken it. ‘He is no kin of mine.
He came sniffing around as soon as I arrived, doubtless hoping we were related, so I would be obliged to donate money for
his education. We talked for an hour, but could find no common kin, and he left disappointed. Did he tell you we were from
the same stock? Cheeky beggar!’

‘I came to speak to Duraunt,’ said Michael, suddenly heading for the door that led to the solar. His abrupt departure had
the effect he intended: the merchants were puzzled and uneasy, suspecting he knew more than he had told them about Gonerby’s
murder and the repercussions it might have on the men who had decided to avenge it. ‘I will keep you informed of my progress.’

Bartholomew caught Michael’s arm before he reached the solar door and spoke in a low voice as the merchants began a carping
argument among themselves, debating what the monk might have learned that he declined to share with them. ‘Why did you ask
Wormynghalle the tanner about Wormynghalle the scholar? He told us this low fellow is not his kin, and we have no reason to
disbelieve him. There was no reason to check his story.’

‘His, no,’ agreed Michael. ‘But I did not like the way the tanner accused you of murder, just because he has been listening
to Polmorva. I wanted to see if I could catch him out in a lie – to see whether he would deny meeting young Wormynghalle on
the grounds that he will not want to be associated with anyone at Cambridge. But he was more honest than I imagined he would
be.’

Bartholomew considered. There was definitely something unsavoury about the tanner, and it went further than his coarse manners
and penchant for wild accusations. ‘I told you the first time we spoke to him that I had a bad feeling about the fellow.’

‘
You
have not met him before, have you?’ asked Michael, pausing to look hard at Bartholomew. ‘In Oxford, when you were a student?’

‘No. I would have told you.’

‘Would you? You keep a lot from me these days, and I do not know what to think.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You slip out every night to meet Matilde, but you refuse to tell me why your relationship has taken this sudden and unexpected
step. You do not usually hide secrets from me.’

‘Just because I decline to share details about Matilde does not make me a liar,’ said Bartholomew, faintly irritated. ‘You
should know me better than that.’

Michael did not reply. He knocked on the solar door, but did not wait for an answer before pushing inside. Duraunt sat near
the hearth, a book on his knees, while Polmorva diced with a man who wore a distinctive grey-fringed cloak. The man’s jaw
dropped in horror when he recognised the visitors, while Michael regarded him thoughtfully and Bartholomew’s mind whirled
with questions.

‘So,’ said the monk amiably to the man who had been contemplating suicide on the Great Bridge the previous morning. ‘We meet
again, sir.’

‘You know each other?’ asked Duraunt, surprised.

‘No,’ replied the man quickly. His eyes held a mute appeal for Michael’s silence. ‘Not really.’

Duraunt closed his book and indicated that the visitors were to sit with him on the stools that were clustered around the
hearth. Bartholomew obliged, but Michael remained standing.

‘Who are you?’ the monk asked of the stranger.