The Mark of a Murderer (27 page)

‘In the dead of night?’ asked Michael uneasily. ‘People will wonder what you are up to.’

‘I have done it before – at your instigation, I might add. Besides, I am less likely to be seen now than if I go during daylight.
Churches are very public places.’

‘Not this one,’ said Michael soberly. ‘Chesterfelde is not in St Giles’s, because its vicar objected over this interdict business.
He lies in All-Saints-next-the-Castle.’

‘But that has no roof,’ said Bartholomew, startled. ‘And it has no priest and no parishioners, either – not since the plague
took them. Worse, it is sometimes used by folk who think God and His saints abandoned them during the pestilence – witches
and the Devil’s disciples.’

‘I know,’ said Michael grimly. ‘But St Giles’s vicar claimed there would be a display of divine fury if the corpse touched
hallowed ground before the issues regarding the interdict are resolved.’

Bartholomew was uncomfortable. ‘But that might take months. We shall have to ask the Archbishop for a decision, or Chesterfelde
may still be waiting for his grave this time next year.’

‘The Archbishop,’ said Michael gloomily, following him to the door. ‘He is due to arrive in five days, and I am still no closer
to catching this killer. My confidence was sadly misplaced, I fear.’

The town was silent in the hour before dawn, always a time of day the physician found unsettling. It was when he lost many
dying patients, and when everything seemed unreal – either because he had been up all night, or because he had been forced
awake earlier than his body was ready. That morning was no different, and he felt slightly light-headed as he walked.

Michael chattered next to him, trying to establish links between recent events. He said he understood why Clippesby might
have attacked Rougham, but saw no reason for him to have killed Chesterfelde and the man in the cistern. He determined that
when he next visited Clippesby, he would ask whether the Dominican knew Eudo and Boltone; he was sure they were involved in
the mystery, but uncertain as to how.

‘And we cannot forget Abergavenny and his associates,’ he added. ‘If Gonerby did indeed die from a bite, then there is a connection
there, too.’

Bartholomew was too tired to fit the facts into a logical pattern, and almost at the point where he did not care. He crossed
the deserted Great Bridge and began to stride up Castle Hill, Michael wheezing at his side. It was a steep incline for Cambridge,
topped by the brooding mass of the Norman
fortress. This was a formidable structure, with a stone tower standing atop a sizeable motte, and sturdy curtain walls that
defended its bailey. All Saints stood near its main gate. The church had once been impressive, and had served as castle chapel
before a purpose-built one had been raised inside. Then All Saints had been relegated to parish church for those who lived
in the nearby hovels. Poverty and dismal living conditions had conspired against these people when the plague had struck,
and most had died. With no congregation and no priest, the building had crumbled from neglect. Now, when people referred to
All Saints, most folk thought of the grander All-Saints-in-the-Jewry.

In the dark, it looked even more unprepossessing than it did during the day. The roof timbers were cracked and broken, giving
its top a jagged, uneven look. Ivy climbed up its walls and seemed the only thing keeping them standing, and the squat tower
with its broken battlements was a sinister and forbidding crag against the night sky. Bartholomew inched along the weed-encrusted
path that led to the west door, moving slowly so his feet did not catch in the matted undergrowth. Michael followed, swearing
when he stumbled and stung himself on nettles.

The physician pushed open a door that hung from broken hinges, and wondered what the Oxford men thought of being provided
with an abandoned chapel in which to lay their dead. It was disrespectful, and it occurred to him that one might be so affronted
on Chesterfelde’s behalf that he might attempt to avenge the insult. Duraunt would not, Bartholomew thought: he would believe
prayers would do Chesterfelde more good than fine surroundings, while Polmorva would do nothing that did not benefit him directly.
And the others? Bartholomew did not know them well enough to say. He took a deep breath as he stepped through the door and
into the black interior.

* * *

Water dripped in echoing plops, and the entire place stank of mould and rotting wood. The ivy that coated the outer walls
had made incursions inward, too, crawling through windows and those parts of the roof that were open to the elements. People
had been in to see what they could salvage, and most of the floor had been prised up and spirited away. Paint peeled from
the walls, although, when Michael lit a lamp, Bartholomew could still make out some of the images that had been lovingly executed
by some long-dead artist. St Paul was recognisable amid a host of faceless cherubs, while the Virgin Mary gazed from the mural
over the rood screen.

Bartholomew took the lamp and made his way to the chancel, where he supposed the body of Chesterfelde had been taken. Even
in a derelict church, this was the most sacred part, and it had not suffered as badly from looters as had the nave. It still
possessed some of its flagstones, and it was on these that the water dripped, sending mournful echoes along the aisles. The
altar had been left, too. It was oddly clean, and Bartholomew recalled events from several years before, when he had witnessed
acts of witchcraft around it. He supposed the place was still used for devilish purposes, because it was apparent that someone
visited regularly – the chancel was relatively free of the debris that littered the nave and there was evidence that candles
had been lit. But then, perhaps someone loved All Saints, and performed small acts of devotion to ensure it retained some
of its dignity.

Chesterfelde lay on what looked to be a door resting atop a pair of trestles. He was covered by a grey woollen blanket, and
a piece of sacking moulded into a cushion near his feet suggested someone had been kneeling there. Since Duraunt was the only
priest in the party from Oxford, Bartholomew supposed the crude hassock was to protect his ancient knees.

The body was much as Bartholomew remembered from his examination three days before, although someone had wiped its face and
brushed its hair. He had assessed it meticulously the first time, and knew he would learn nothing new by repeating the process.
All he wanted to do that morning was study the wrist and see whether he could identify teeth marks.

He peeled back the cover and pushed up Chesterfelde’s sleeves. The body’s right arm was unmarked, although there were patches
of hardened skin around the thumb that were familiar to a physician used to treating scholars. They were writing calluses,
caused by the constant chafing of a pen. Then Bartholomew inspected the left wrist. The wound was still there, ragged and
open, but it was now washed free of blood.

‘If Chesterfelde died near the cistern – and the stains there suggest he did – then someone cleaned him up before taking him
to the hall,’ he said. ‘The only reason for anyone to do such a thing is to mislead those examining the body. I cannot begin
to imagine why: it does not matter whether Chesterfelde died from a slash to his arm or a stab in his back. It is murder,
regardless.’

‘Are you certain the wrist wound killed him? Is it possible he injured himself, but managed to stem the bleeding, and died
from some other means? Poison, maybe? Or suffocation?’

‘It is possible, but this wound unattended would certainly have brought about his death. Look. You can see the severed blood
vessels.’

Michael made a disgusted sound at the back of his throat. ‘A simple yes or no would have sufficed, Matt. But what made the
injury? Can you tell whether it was teeth?’

‘It is ragged,’ said Bartholomew, inspecting the gash carefully. ‘And longer than it is deep.’

‘Meaning?’ asked Michael impatiently, uninterested in
the mechanics of the damage and wanting only to know what it implied for his investigation.

‘Meaning it is a slashing wound, not a stabbing one.’

Michael considered. ‘Well, you do not
stab
with your teeth – unless you have long fangs like Warden Powys of King’s Hall. You are more likely to slash with them.’

‘But not in this case, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, straightening up. ‘I see no evidence that teeth were used, just some blunt
old knife that was in sad need of sharpening.’

‘Clippesby did not do it, then?’ asked Michael, relieved. ‘So, we are back to our original suspects – Eudo and Boltone, and
the Oxford men: Polmorva, Spryngheuse, Duraunt and the merchants.’

‘Not Duraunt,’ pressed Bartholomew doggedly. ‘But do not leave Dodenho of King’s Hall off your list. He knew Chesterfelde,
and he lied about it. And there is that curious business about his silver astrolabe, which was stolen, then found, then appeared
at Merton Hall in the tanner’s hands.’

‘I have not forgotten Dodenho,’ said Michael. ‘Nor his conveniently missing colleagues, Hamecotes and Wolf. Nor Norton, either,
who also admits to knowing Oxford.’

‘It is a pity Okehamptone is buried,’ said Bartholomew, replacing the sheet over Chesterfelde, and glad that particular task
was over. He recalled what Clippesby had said about the scribe’s death: that the geese knew more about it than Michael. Was
the man spouting nonsense in his deranged state, or was he playing some complex game in which only he knew the rules? ‘I would
be happier if we knew for certain Clippesby had nothing to do with that, either.’

‘Okehamptone died of natural causes,’ said Michael, surprised by the comment. ‘Paxtone confirmed it – said there was no doubt
at all. He even signed a document to
that effect, at Polmorva’s request, because Polmorva was Okehamptone’s designated heir.’

Bartholomew stared at him. ‘But Paxtone did not examine the body: he accepted the explanations of the dead man’s companions,
and he said a few prayers, but that is all. And now you say Polmorva had a strong motive for murdering him? He will inherit
all Okehamptone owned?’

Michael’s eyes were huge in the gloom. ‘Are you saying Okehamptone’s death might be suspicious, too?’

‘I have no idea, but I doubt you will ever get permission to find out. People do not like disturbing the dead once they have
been buried. Damn Weasenham’s toothache! If he had not summoned me, I would have been able to examine Okehamptone in the first
place.’

Michael scratched his chin. ‘Damn indeed. I should have known to look more carefully at a death in which a man like Polmorva
was involved. Let us not forget that business about how much wine was swallowed on the night of Chesterfelde’s death, either.
Spryngheuse said Polmorva drank very little. Perhaps he waited until the others were suitably insensible, and then used the
opportunity to rid himself of Chesterfelde, buoyed up by his success with Okehamptone.’

‘But why?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Even Polmorva would not kill without a motive.’

‘Who knows what disagreements they might have had in the past? He has not seen you for twenty years, but his enmity towards
you has grown no less intense. For all we know, Okehamptone and Chesterfelde were his rivals, too. We do not know his motive,
but that does not mean he does not have one.’

Bartholomew was disgusted. ‘So, if Polmorva did kill Okehamptone, then he has got away with it. We will never know whether
he killed Chesterfelde, either, because no one will tell us the truth.’

‘Not so. There are questions I have yet to ask about Chesterfelde – particularly of Eudo and Boltone. I have sent the reliable
and determined Beadle Meadowman to hunt for them, so it is only a matter of time before they are caught. I have not given
up on Chesterfelde, believe me. And if Polmorva killed Okehamptone, then he is out of luck, too.’

‘What do you mean?’

Michael’s eyes gleamed in the darkness. ‘Okehamptone is not buried. I told you earlier that there is a theological query about
whether men from a city under interdict can be buried in hallowed ground – that is why Chesterfelde lies here in the chancel.
The same is true for Okehamptone. His body is temporarily consigned to the vault, right under our feet. All you have to do
is open a coffin.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘There is a big difference between looking at Chesterfelde here, and burrowing in crypts after
corpses that have been interred for two weeks. I will not do it.’

‘You must,’ said Michael. ‘You are my Corpse Examiner and that is what you are paid to do. I cannot do it myself – I would
not know what to look for. Besides, do you
want
Polmorva to evade a charge of murder in your own town? Here is your chance to strike back at the man, and show him he cannot
go a-killing wherever he pleases.’

He had a point: Bartholomew
was
reluctant to see Polmorva commit murder and enjoy what he inherited. There had been times in the past when he had suspected
his sly adversary of ridding himself of men he considered a nuisance, although he had never managed to obtain proof. Okehamptone
offered a chance to investigate one death properly, and Michael was right to urge him to seize it. He followed the monk to
where a stout door marked the entrance to the undercroft, and watched him struggle
with the bars and bolts that were designed to keep dogs and wild animals at bay.

When the monk eventually prised it open, Bartholomew saw it led to a flight of damp, slime-covered steps that descended into
a sinister blackness. Taking the lamp, he climbed down them, bracing one hand on the wall when his feet skidded on the uneven
surfaces. As he went deeper, an unpleasant smell assailed him. It was a combination of the recently dead, the mould that pervaded
every stone and scrap of wood in the abandoned building, and the rankness of a place that had been derelict for too many years.

When he reached the last step, he raised the lamp and looked around. The vault was a simple affair: a single chamber that
was about the length of the chancel. Its ceiling was low, and thickly ribbed to shore up the weight of the building above.
A number of stone tombs were placed at intervals along the walls, some adorned with metal crosses that were green and crusted
with age. Several had collapsed, leaving hefty slabs lying at odd angles and rubble littering the beaten earth floor. Niches
cut into the wall held coffins, all crumbling and fragile, indicating that they had lain undisturbed for years. One was not,
however, and was fashioned from bright new wood.