The Mark of a Murderer (29 page)

‘Warden Duraunt,’ he said pleasantly. ‘All alone this morning?’

The elderly master smiled. ‘Polmorva is attending a lecture at the Dominican Friary. He is a dedicated scholar,
and always seizes any opportunity to hear other academics speak.’

‘He will not find much to stimulate his intellect among the Dominicans,’ said Michael, voicing what every Cambridge man knew
for a fact. ‘What about the merchants?’

‘Eu is in Grantchester, to see whether the lord of the manor might buy his spices; Wormynghalle went with him, because Eu
is a good businessman and our tanner is hoping to learn the secret of his success; and Abergavenny followed them, to make
sure they do not argue and kill each other along the way. I find their constant squabbles a sore trial, Brother.’

‘You do seem tired,’ said Michael.

‘Did you sleep poorly?’ ‘I always sleep poorly – it is one of the burdens of old age. When it becomes too bad, I leave my
bed and visit a church, just to sit in a quiet, peaceful place. Last night, for example, I went to St Giles’s at two o’clock.
Polmorva escorted me, then returned to collect me just after dawn. Spryngheuse usually obliges but he has grown jittery since
Chesterfelde died, and is reluctant to go out. He says he sees his Black Monk everywhere, but of course no such person exists.
He invented the fellow, to take the blame for the riots, and has become so unstable that he now believes the lie.’

While he spoke, Michael watched him lighting candles, trying to assess whether he was strong enough to brandish a spade. He
did not think Duraunt would harm Bartholomew, but he might have wanted Spryngheuse out of the way for reasons the monk had
yet to fathom. But his examination was inconclusive, and in the end he had no idea whether Duraunt’s weariness came from attempting
to kill someone with a hefty tool or from a genuinely restless night.

‘We saw Spryngheuse on the Great Bridge on Sunday,’
he said. ‘I am sure he intended to throw himself over the edge.’

Duraunt did not seem surprised. ‘I thought he would feel better, once away from the city where he is accused of bringing about
a massacre, but first Okehamptone died, then Chesterfelde, and he is becoming increasingly distraught.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘I sent him to the stationer’s shop, just to get him into the fresh air. Now Boltone has absconded, I am obliged to make sense
of the accounts he left behind, and I need more ink.’

‘Tell me about Polmorva. Why did he really agree to accompany you to Cambridge?’

‘Because he dislikes being in a city under interdict, like any Christian soul. It is a pity Matthew will not accept his offer
of a truce. I had hoped they would have forgotten their differences after all these years, but Polmorva tells me Matthew rejects
all his friendly advances.’

‘Polmorva is a liar,’ said Michael bluntly. ‘I am reliably informed that he witnessed the murder of Gonerby, and
that
is the real reason why he is here.’

‘No!’ exclaimed Duraunt. ‘I do not believe you!’

‘I am also told that he only pretended to be drunk the night Chesterfelde died,’ Michael went on. ‘
He
might be the one who cut the man’s wrist and allowed him to bleed to death.’

Duraunt considered, then shook his head. ‘He would have been covered in blood, and he was not. Perhaps he did deceive us about
the amount he drank, but I am sure there is an innocent explanation for that.’

‘And you?’ asked Michael. ‘What is your explanation for the amount
you
drank? No, do not look indignant. You may be able to divert Matt with your reproach, but not me. You were seen at the Cardinal’s
Cap the night after
Chesterfelde died. You were also intoxicated on the night of his murder. And then there is the poppy juice.’

‘My habits are none of your affair,’ said Duraunt sharply. ‘I admit I like a cup of wine, and we all enjoyed several the night
Chesterfelde was killed. Perhaps I did imbibe too much, but who does not, on occasion? And the night after, I needed wine
to restore my spirits – I was distressed about Chesterfelde, and about the fact that Matthew insists on quarrelling with Polmorva.
Polmorva is destined for great things, and Matthew should acknowledge his talents.’

‘You mean Matt should grovel to him? You do not know him very well if you think he would demean himself to such a man.’

‘I do not know him at all,’ countered Duraunt. ‘He has changed – and not for the better.’

Sensing they would not agree, and not wanting an argument that would serve no purpose, Michael took his leave of Duraunt.
He strode out of the University Church and headed for the Dominican Friary, where he was not surprised to learn that Polmorva
was not there or that no lecture was scheduled for that morning. He was retracing his steps to the High Street, when he saw
the object of his enquiries trying to slip past on the other side of the road, Spryngheuse in tow. Smiling grimly, he waddled
towards them and managed to snag a corner of Polmorva’s sleeve before he could escape. He was not so lucky with Spryngheuse,
who declared he was terrified of all Benedictines, and fled without another word.

‘Brother Michael,’ said Polmorva, not pleased to be waylaid by physical force. ‘Have you identified Chesterfelde’s killer
yet?’

‘Where were you last night? You took Duraunt to St Giles’s Church, and collected him before dawn. Where were you the rest
of the time?’

‘Asleep, of course. I am no ancient, who needs prayers
to make me drowse, and I went to bed after escorting him to the chapel. Everyone else was already dozing, so I doubt they
will remember me coming in. You will have to take my word for it.’

Michael changed the subject. ‘The day after Okehamptone died, you told me that you were the sole beneficiary of his will,
but only if he died of natural causes. If his life ended by violent means, his property would revert to the Church, to fund
masses for his soul.’

‘He did not own much,’ said Polmorva. ‘And I am already wealthy, so I shall probably donate his paltry leavings to my College
– some impoverished student might cherish his cloak, two battered saddlebags and a handful of
exemplar pecia
. Now, if he had owned land, I might have been interested, but he did not.’

‘What about Gonerby?’ asked Michael, unsure whether to believe him. He was finding Polmorva almost impossible to read. ‘I
have it on good authority that you saw what happened to him.’

‘Is that so?’ said Polmorva coldly. He tried to walk away, but Michael grabbed his arm.

‘Tell me the truth, because if you lie to me I will send word to Oxford’s Mayor that you watched a townsman murdered, and
declined to step forward and do your civic duty.’

Polmorva sighed, to indicate he was bored with the discussion and that Michael’s threats were more tiresome than worrying.
‘I took refuge in a chapel when the riots began, and I happened to look out of a window to see Gonerby walking along. He was
strutting confidently, arrogantly, as if he imagined no one would dare lay a finger on him. Someone did, and he died for his
lack of humility.’

‘How was he killed?’

‘It was difficult to tell – I was some distance away and
the killer had his back to me – but the merchants say there were teeth marks in his throat.’

‘Did you recognise the murderer?’ asked Michael.

‘Of course not. All I can tell you is that he was a scholar, and he wore a hooded cloak that hid his face. There was nothing
distinctive about him. However, I can tell you that he moved towards Gonerby with a definite sense of purpose.’

‘Really?’ mused Michael. ‘Then he knew his victim. This was not a random stalking during civil unrest, when everyone was free
to do as he pleased, but a deliberate assassination.’

‘I do not speculate on such matters, Brother. That sort of thing is for proctors.’

Despite his determination to remain calm, Michael found the man’s manner intensely aggravating. ‘I shall be watching you very
carefully, Polmorva, and if I find you played even the smallest role in bringing about these deaths – Gonerby’s, Okehamptone’s
or Chesterfelde’s – I will see you hang.’

Polmorva laughed derisively. ‘Do not threaten me, monk. I am no undergraduate to be cowed by hollow words. If you want to
charge me with a crime, then you had better ensure you have a very strong case, because if you do not I shall bring my own
against you for defaming my good name. And, by the time I have finished, you and your pathetic little College will be ruined.’

When teaching was over for the day, Bartholomew went to visit a patient on the High Street. He was on his way home again when
he met Paxtone and John Wormynghalle, walking back to King’s Hall together after attending an afternoon of lectures on logic
at Peterhouse. Paxtone, always hospitable, invited Bartholomew to his chambers, and Bartholomew accepted, thinking it would
be a pleasant way to pass the time before a statutory Fellows’ meeting at Michaelhouse that evening. As they crossed the yard,
they saw Dodenho, rubbing his chin as if deep in thought.

‘Look at him!’ said Norton, who was watching. ‘He is waiting for Warden Powys to come home, and has been strutting around
in that affected manner for the best part of an hour. He is not thinking up new theories; he just wants to impress Powys,
in the hope that
he
will be one chosen to sit next to the Archbishop of Canterbury next Monday night.’

‘Powys will not select him,’ said Paxtone with considerable finality. ‘He will spout some of his ideas on theology, and Islip
might recognise them as his own. Dodenho will steal from anyone.’

‘I need an astrolabe,’ declared Dodenho, as he approached the gathering. ‘I have several complex equations in my mind, but
I cannot calculate them without an astrolabe. The world is suffering as long as I am deprived.’

‘You claimed your own was stolen – and then it was not stolen,’ said Norton. ‘I heard it was last seen in the hands of one
of those Oxford merchants. You should beware, Dodenho – you do not want people associating you with
their
crimes.’

‘What crimes?’ asked Dodenho in alarm.

‘Murder,’ replied Norton. ‘They have been asking in the taverns about scholars who kill, and I understand
you
were in Oxford when the St Scholastica’s Day riots took place.’

‘Were you?’ asked Bartholomew, startled.

Dodenho waved a dismissive hand, but his eyes could not conceal his unease. ‘Only briefly, and I saw nothing of the fighting.
Now, if you will excuse me.’

He scurried away, and he did not resume his scholastic pose, despite the fact that Warden Powys entered the College at that
point. He merely shot across the yard like
a child caught misbehaving and entered his room, where he slammed the door behind him.

‘Well,’ said Norton, amused. ‘There is an odd thing! But I cannot stand here all day. I must see a man about a dog in the
King’s Head – a hunting dog.’

Bartholomew and Wormynghalle followed Paxtone to his chamber, but they had done no more than pour wine when a servant arrived
with a summons for Paxtone; there had been an accident with an oven at the Mortimer bakery, he said, making graphic gestures
with his hands to indicate that flames were involved. Bartholomew offered to go with him, but Paxtone assured him no help
was needed and that it would not be long before he had discharged his duties. A less charitable mind might have thought Paxtone
did not want another physician to watch how he treated burns, but Bartholomew was tired and had no desire to assist with someone
else’s patients anyway. Wormynghalle was more than happy to keep him company, and was hauling a copy of Grosseteste’s
De veritate
from the shelf almost before Paxtone was out of the door.

‘Now,’ said the young scholar, plunging without preamble into the debate he had proposed the day before. ‘Grosseteste maintains
that certain aspects of geometry are useful in representing “cause and effect whether in matter or the senses”. Without representation
by geometric angles, lines and figures, it would be impossible to know why natural effects are as they are.’

‘
Per contra
abstraction is possible, of course,’ expanded Bartholomew, ‘giving us mathematical objects, and these may have accidents
– that is, properties of a substance that are not part of its essential nature – of another sort, namely ones of mathematical
character. Grosseteste abstracted magnitude from matter-in-motion, so accidents can be assigned to . . .’

He trailed off when Wormynghalle, eager to listen,
leaned forward in his chair and knocked over a goblet of wine, which splattered over Paxtone’s best rug.

‘Damn! Damn! Damn!’ Wormynghalle cried irritably. ‘This will stain unless it is soaked immediately, and he is fond of the
thing.’

He hurried to fetch water, but the spilled claret made the floor slick and he skidded. Bartholomew jumped forward, managing
to save him from a nasty tumble by a well-placed arm across his chest. The physician’s jaw dropped in shock, while Wormynghalle
struggled from his grip and took several steps away, breathing heavily. The scholars regarded each other uneasily for some
time before Bartholomew spoke.

‘It is all right,’ he said. ‘I will not tell anyone, although I imagine it is only a matter of time before someone else finds
out. You cannot live in a communal place like this without someone prying into your affairs and discovering incriminating
facts.’

Wormynghalle’s eyes filled with tears. ‘There is nothing incriminating to find. Believe me, I am only too aware of what will
happen if my colleagues discover I am a woman, and have taken steps to guard against every eventuality – except slipping on
wine and being caught by a physician. I confess, that is something I did not anticipate.’

‘What you are doing is dangerous,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You may cut your hair and wear loose clothes, but there are other things
that will give you away. The latrines, for a start.’

Wormynghalle waved her hand at one corner of the room. ‘Like Paxtone, I paid extra for quarters with a private garderobe and
I never visit the public ones. I have lived here for two months now, and no one but you has the slightest inkling that I am
not all I seem.’