The Mark of a Murderer (35 page)

After a moment, the door rattled open and several Gonville Hall scholars bustled in. Bartholomew recognised their leader as
William of Lee, Rougham’s most senior student, who took his master’s classes when he was away.
Lee looked more like a wrestler than a physician, and would have done better as a surgeon, where brute force was useful for
setting bones and sawing off damaged limbs. When he saw the Michaelhouse lads, he swaggered towards them.

‘Now there will be trouble,’ muttered Michael uneasily.

‘Stop it, then,’ suggested Bartholomew, searching the shelves for the parchment he wanted. ‘You
are
the Senior Proctor.’

‘I will wait and see what happens. I do not want Lee to accuse me of heavy-handedness. He is quick to take offence, and if
he insults me, your boys will rally to my defence with their fists.’

He edged closer, taking care to keep himself well concealed behind the labyrinth of storage furniture that displayed Weasenham’s
wares. Bartholomew followed, not to help, but because the type of parchment he was hunting for had been moved since the last
time he had visited the shop.

‘I am surprised to see you here,’ said Lee tauntingly to Falmeresham. ‘I did not think you could afford decent supplies.’

‘You are right,’ replied Falmeresham pleasantly. ‘I do not come from a wealthy family, but Deynman is buying it for me, as
payment for the help I have given him with his studies this year.’

‘Then he is a fool,’ said Lee contemptuously. ‘Only an ass would waste money on such a stupid exercise.’

‘Stupid exercise?’ echoed Falmeresham innocently. He appealed to Lee’s cronies, who were ranged in a pugilistic line behind
him. ‘Take heed, gentlemen. Lee thinks helping friends is a “stupid exercise”. You should ask yourselves whether he is someone
worthy of your companionship.’

‘That is not what I meant,’ snapped Lee, irked by the
way his words had been twisted. ‘I meant he is squandering his gold by buying vellum for the likes of
you
. I heard you are a bastard.’

Michael stiffened, readying himself to intervene, while Wormynghalle tore herself away from the pens and listened to the burgeoning
argument with an expression of alarm. She started to edge towards the door, unwilling to be implicated in an incident that
might draw unwanted attention. Dodenho, however, was more interested in holding forth about quills, and Weasenham was too
intent on securing a sale to notice the quarrel brewing under his roof.

‘What
is
a waste of money,’ said Falmeresham lightly, ‘are lessons from Doctor Rougham.’

‘True,’ muttered Michael to himself. ‘But this is not a good time to mention it.’

Lee’s brows drew together. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean he is never here,’ replied Falmeresham, who had meant nothing of the kind and was obviously enjoying playing with
the slow-witted Lee. ‘He has been gone for more than two weeks – in the middle of term and when his students need him most.’

‘He is on leave,’ replied Lee. ‘We had a letter saying he has gone to visit his family.’

‘Then I hope he returns as good a teacher as when he left,’ said Falmeresham ambiguously.

Lee scratched his head as he considered the statement, and Falmeresham lost interest in baiting him. It was too easy; he preferred
someone who provided more of a challenge. He doffed his hat in an insulting manner, then turned back to the vellum. His friends
followed his lead, and were soon engaged in a good-natured debate that filled the room with ringing voices and boisterous
laughter. Lee did nothing for a moment, but then moved to the back of the shop, where he and his cronies began to discuss
whether Rougham would prefer his remedies book copied in brown or black ink.

Michael heaved a sigh of relief. ‘That was close! Lee was determined to fight, but Falmeresham was too clever for him.’

‘He
is
clever,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘And I doubt he will forget what Lee said to him today – no man likes being called illegitimate.
Those remarks will cost Gonville dearly in time.’

But Michael was not paying attention. He was leaning forward to eavesdrop on the discussion between Weasenham and the King’s
Hall men. Now the danger of a spat was over, Wormynghalle was back at the counter, fingering the glove in the hope that the
stationer would notice it and begin a few rumours about her masculine lechery. Weasenham and Dodenho had agreed a price, and
the stationer was regaling his customers with some post-sale gossip. The Michaelhouse students’ cheerful banter was enough
to mask any sound Michael might have made with his muttered asides, but was not sufficiently loud to drown out the words of
the chattering scholars. The situation was perfect for the monk to listen unobserved, and he intended to make the most of
it, keen to hear for himself whether the stationer was spreading lies about the Oxford murders.

‘Gonville students are the worst,’ Weasenham was saying. ‘They are not too bad when Rougham is here, because he uses his sharp
tongue to keep them in line, but now he is away, they are a menace.’

‘When will he return?’ asked Wormynghalle. She did not sound very interested in the answer and gave the impression she had
asked only to be polite.

‘No one knows.’ Weasenham’s voice dropped to a salacious whisper so that Michael had to strain to hear him. ‘They say he has
gone to enjoy himself with his lover.’

* * *

‘His lover?’ asked Dodenho, regarding Weasenham doubtfully. ‘I doubt he has one. No woman would want him near her, when there
are men like me to oblige.’

Michael scowled at Bartholomew when he started to laugh and almost gave away the fact that they were close by. ‘I want to
hear this,’ he hissed irritably.

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew, still amused. ‘You know it is rubbish – Rougham’s lover is a woman he pays every first Monday in
the month, and he is definitely not enjoying himself with her now. Weasenham is a vicious-tongued snoop, and his stories are
invariably lies.’

‘Rougham’s lover is no woman,’ said Weasenham, snagging Michael’s attention back again. Bartholomew peered through a gap in
the shelving and saw the stationer’s face was bright with malice, lips pressed firmly together in sanctimonious disapproval.

‘It is not Chancellor Tynkell, is it?’ asked Dodenho. ‘I have heard he is a woman, and that is why he never washes – he does
not want anyone to know what lies beneath his tabard.’

‘Do not be absurd,’ said Wormynghalle scornfully. ‘That story came from Bartholomew’s student – Deynman – and there are no
grounds to it, other than his own ludicrously twisted logic. Of course the Chancellor is not a woman.’ Her fierce words made
Dodenho take a step back in alarm.

‘You are getting away from my point,’ said Weasenham crossly. He was not interested in ancient rumours when he had new ones
to spread. ‘Rougham’s lover is someone you know: it is Hamecotes. Do not believe the tale that he is in Oxford collecting
books. It is not true.’

‘It
is
true!’ cried Wormynghalle, outraged by the aspersions cast on her room-mate. ‘I had a letter from him only this morning,
telling me he has secured a copy of
Regulae solvendi sophismata
. It comes from Merton College, and he says it is annotated with notes in Heytesbury’s
own hand
.’
She glared at Weasenham, waiting for him to be suitably impressed. Bartholomew certainly was, and wondered whether King’s
Hall would allow him to study it.

‘Besides,’ added Dodenho, equally affronted, ‘Hamecotes is not inclined towards men. He prefers women – and so does Rougham,
if Yolande de Blaston is to be believed.’

‘Yolande is a whore,’ said Weasenham nastily. ‘She will say anything once she is shown the glitter of silver. Doubtless Rougham
pays her to tell everyone he is a rampant and manly lover.’

Michael sniggered softly. ‘Poor Rougham! After all he has been through to keep his dalliance with Yolande a secret, here is
Weasenham telling people that it cannot be true because he is in love with Hamecotes!’

‘Why pick on Hamecotes?’ demanded Wormynghalle icily. ‘Because he is away, and therefore cannot defend himself against these
wicked fabrications?’

‘Wolf is away, too,’ said Weasenham, unperturbed by her ire. ‘Perhaps
he
is Rougham’s lover.’

‘Wolf has a pox, caught from dalliances with unclean women,’ confided Dodenho. ‘That is why he cannot be seen around the town
this term, and why he cannot be Rougham’s lover. I should know, because I shared his room before he took himself off to the
hospital at Stour . . .’ He stopped speaking and bit his lip, aware that he had said something he should not have done.

‘Now that is interesting,’ breathed Michael. ‘Here is something our friends at King’s Hall did not deign to mention before.’

‘You cannot blame them for that,’ Bartholomew whispered back. ‘Having Fellows with the pox is not something I would tell the
Senior Proctor, either.’

‘Well, it is a pack of lies anyway,’ said Michael. ‘Wolf is not at Stourbridge, or you would have told me so when
he first abandoned his duties. You have been there often enough recently, to visit Clippesby.’ He glanced sideways. ‘Right?’

‘Wolf is not there now,’ replied Bartholomew vaguely. He shook his head at Michael’s exasperation. ‘It is not my business
to discuss the ailments of other scholars, Brother. That would make me as bad as Weasenham, and besides, who will hire a physician
if he is the kind of man to spread embarrassing stories about his patients? It would not be ethical or proper.’

Weasenham’s eyes gleamed with interest at Dodenho’s slip, while Wormynghalle regarded her colleague in disbelief at his indiscretion.
Weasenham was not so rash as to press Dodenho for details while she stood glowering, so he changed the subject back to Hamecotes.

‘I asked those Oxford men about Hamecotes and his alleged visits to the Other Place,’ he said snidely. ‘And they said no self-respecting
college would sell scripts to a rival university. Then Polmorva told me that Hamecotes must be using book-buying as an excuse
to enjoy his lover with no questions asked. So I put two and two together and . . .’ He raised his hands, palms upwards in
a shrug, to indicate there was only one conclusion.

‘And made five,’ said Wormynghalle in disgust.

‘Hamecotes and Rougham are
not
lovers,’ said Dodenho, rallying too late to his colleague’s defence. ‘No self-respecting scholar would choose Rougham as
a paramour.’

‘Because he could have you instead?’ asked Wormynghalle archly.

‘Quite,’ said Dodenho comfortably, thus telling anyone listening that he considered himself an excellent choice as a lover
for people of either sex.

Wormynghalle grimaced in distaste at the conversation, and her expression echoed Bartholomew’s own opinion. The physician
started to move away, wanting to leave them
to their nasty speculations. What he heard next stopped him dead in his tracks.

‘Rougham is not the only scholar to have a secret lover,’ said Dodenho, trying to make amends for his lack of loyalty by attacking
someone else. ‘Bartholomew of Michaelhouse is seeing Matilde, who lives in the Jewry. He is quite flagrant about it.’

Michael’s expression hardened, and Bartholomew held his breath, wondering whether Weasenham would be able to resist the opportunity
to tell what he knew. If he did, then he was certain Michael would act on his promise to ruin him.

‘I know nothing of that,’ said the stationer stiffly, after a transparent battle between desire and self-preservation. Michael
grinned in satisfaction, while Bartholomew was simply relieved that he and Matilde were no longer a target for the man’s spiteful
tattle. ‘They are honourable people, and I do not see him flouting University rules.’

‘How dare you malign Bartholomew!’ snarled Wormynghalle, so white-faced with rage that Dodenho jumped in alarm. ‘He is a
good man.’

Michael’s eyebrows shot up and he began to cackle. ‘You have an admirer – Wormynghalle has taken a fancy to you. You should
take care you are never alone with the man, or Weasenham will be spreading rumours that half the Fellows in the University
are in love with each other.’

Bartholomew said nothing, but was touched that Wormynghalle had come to his defence. After a few moments, she busied herself
with selecting pens, while the stationer wrapped the ones Dodenho had already chosen. Dodenho looked around, then lowered
his voice conspiratorially, although it was still loud enough to be audible to the eavesdroppers. ‘Have you heard the news
from the Castle?’

‘Tulyet dredged Merton Hall’s cistern,’ said Wormynghalle
flatly, attempting to stall yet more idle chatter by showing she already knew the tale. ‘Looking for a corpse. But he never
found one, and there are rumours that it was never there in the first place.’

‘I do not mean that,’ said Dodenho, and Bartholomew saw him fixing the stationer with very beady eyes. Weasenham shifted uncomfortably.
‘But I think
you
know what I am talking about, Master Stationer.’

‘But
I
do not,’ muttered Michael, peeved. ‘I hope they do not go all obtuse on us.’

‘I have no idea what you mean,’ said Weasenham, slapping a wrapped pen on to the table to indicate that the sale – and the
discussion – was over.

Dodenho had other ideas. He leaned forward and placed his hand over pen and the fingers that held it, making sure he had Weasenham’s
full attention. Wormynghalle looked from one to the other in confusion, while the stationer was visibly alarmed by the grip
that pinned him to the bench.

‘When Tulyet saw there was no body in the well, he abandoned his search,’ whispered Dodenho. ‘But a small crowd had gathered
to watch the proceedings, and some folk lingered, disgruntled because they were deprived of the spectacle of a bloated corpse.
One hovered longer than most, and eventually approached the cistern and had a poke around for himself.’

‘You were watching me!’ exclaimed Weasenham accusingly. ‘Where were you?’

‘Nearby,’ replied Dodenho vaguely. ‘I am not a man for obvious gawking, but I have no objection to witnessing such events
from a discreet distance.’