The Mark of a Murderer (37 page)

‘It is also unanswered,’ said Michael. ‘Why did you sell it?’

Polmorva turned his glower on the monk. ‘Because it did not work – the alidade sticks. I should have given it to Bartholomew,
who would not know the difference between a good instrument and a bad one, and who will never own such a fine thing unless
someone makes him a gift of one.’

‘Matthew was always better than you at astrological calculations,’ said Duraunt softly. ‘Do not accuse him of poor scholarship
in an area where he excelled.’

‘Why did you buy it in the first place?’ asked Michael, while Polmorva reddened at the reprimand. ‘Or do you make a point
of purchasing inferior goods with your unlimited wealth?’

The look Polmorva shot him was supremely venomous. ‘I have a liking for unusual objects – how many silver astrolabes have
you
ever seen? – and Dodenho asked a very reasonable price. Then Wormynghalle took a liking to it, and since it did not work
well enough to be useful, I sold it to him. At a handsome profit.’

‘How handsome?’ demanded the tanner, not liking the notion he had been fleeced.

‘And why did you buy a defective astrolabe?’ demanded Michael, rounding on him.

‘Because he thought owning one would make him appear erudite,’ said Eu with a superior sneer. ‘He buys anything he thinks
will raise him in the opinion of his peers.’

Wormynghalle came to his feet, his thick features flushed with rage. ‘What did you say?’

‘You heard,’ said Eu, leaning back in his chair and stretching his legs in front of him in an attitude that screamed disdain.
‘No amount of good cloth and expensive jewels can change the fact that you hail from a ditch. You
should
have claimed a kinship with that grubby scholar from King’s Hall, because even he would have improved your pedigree.’

‘You vain cockerel—’ began Wormynghalle, making towards Eu with a murderous expression on his face. Michael interposed his
substantial bulk between them and Wormynghalle almost lost his footing when he cannoned into him and bounced off again.

‘Now, now, gentlemen,’ said the monk. ‘I did not come to hear you quarrel. I want answers about this astrolabe. It belonged
to Polmorva, who sold it to Wormynghalle. Then what?’

‘It was stolen,’ said Wormynghalle sullenly. He clutched his sheep-head pendant so hard that his fingers were white, and Bartholomew
had the feeling he would dearly love to bludgeon Eu with it. It was heavy enough to do serious damage, and the physician made
a mental note to check it for bloodstains, if Eu was ever murdered. ‘And
I
know exactly who took it.’

‘Who?’ demanded Michael. ‘Eudo? Boltone?’

‘Bartholomew,’ said Wormynghalle, pointing an accusing finger at the physician. ‘I wanted to report him to the Chancellor,
but Duraunt persuaded me to overlook the matter, on the grounds that I can buy a better one in Oxford anyway.’

‘Of course it was him,’ said Polmorva, so Bartholomew knew exactly who had planted the seed of that particular accusation.
‘As I said, he will never earn enough to buy one for himself, so theft was his only recourse.’

‘I do not want us associated with any more disagreeable matters,’ explained Duraunt to Michael. ‘And if Matthew needed an
astrolabe, then I could not find it in my heart to take it from him.’

‘I did not steal it,’ objected Bartholomew, amazed Duraunt should think he had. A charge from Polmorva was one thing, but
to have his old teacher convinced of his guilt was another altogether.

‘You were the only one we saw looking at it,’ said Duraunt. ‘If it was not you, then who was it?’

‘It was him,’ snapped Wormynghalle. ‘He is poor and of course will covet such a lovely thing – especially knowing it had once
been the property of his rival.’

‘But I do not want an astrolabe,’ objected Bartholomew indignantly. ‘I have no time for calculating pointless horoscopes that
are of no use to man nor beast.’

‘Matthew!’ exclaimed Duraunt, shocked. ‘You are a physician: you cannot manage without the calculations that tell you how
and when to treat your patients. It would be grossly negligent.’

‘He probably relies on the Devil to tell him what to do,’ said Polmorva.

Bartholomew did not deign to reply, suspecting that anything he said would be twisted and given a sinister meaning. Suddenly
he wished Polmorva and the whole Oxford contingent would just go home, taking their petty disputes and unfounded accusations
with them. He was tired of them all, even Duraunt, and regretted agreeing to accompany Michael to Merton Hall.

‘But if you did not swipe it, then who did?’ demanded Wormynghalle.

‘I imagine it was someone here,’ replied Michael. ‘Polmorva told us he purchased it because it was unusual, and he is an astute
man, who would have tested the thing before parting with his gold.
Ergo
, he knew it was defective when he bought it, and so would not have sold it for that reason, as he has just claimed.’

‘What are you saying?’ demanded Polmorva, anger flashing in his eyes. Bartholomew saw something else, too. Alarm. Michael
was coming close to the truth.

Michael shrugged. ‘I was just thinking about one of the Sheriff’s cases, where a man sold a horse, and then stole it back
again to sell a second time. He was unable to resist the lure of a “handsome profit”, you see. But suffice to say that the
astrolabe was taken from Wormynghalle, and
ended up in the cache recovered from the cistern, along with other stolen property.’

‘The cistern?’ asked Abergavenny. ‘You mean the one that was emptied here? We have not been told about any cache. To whom
did it belong? Eudo, I suppose. That must be why he fled with Boltone.’

‘The astrolabe’s travels are very confusing,’ said Duraunt, while Polmorva scowled and Wormynghalle looked as though he was
not sure what to think. ‘It was originally Dodenho’s, but it went missing from King’s Hall before reappearing again. Dodenho
sold it to Polmorva, Polmorva passed it to Wormynghalle, then . . .’ he hesitated, not sure how to phrase the next part.

‘…then it was removed from Wormynghalle,’ said Michael smoothly, ‘and found its way to the cistern hoard, and it is now
in the care of Weasenham the stationer.’

‘Then Weasenham will restore it to its rightful owner,’ said Duraunt with a pleased smile. ‘And we need say no more about
the matter.’

‘That is me,’ said Wormynghalle, ‘although I am not sure I want a defective instrument. I will offer to sell it to him – for
a “handsome profit”.’ He glared at Polmorva.

Polmorva was outraged with Michael. ‘You have accused me of the vilest of crimes. Me! A one-time Chancellor of Oxford University
and a Fellow of Queen’s College! I demand an apology.’

While Polmorva was ranting, Bartholomew had been gazing out of the window, thinking about the astrolabe and wondering whether
its travels between various murder suspects were significant. He could see the cistern in the distance, surrounded by muck
from its recent dredging. As he stared, he became aware of something else, too. He frowned, and looked harder.

‘Spryngheuse,’ he said, interrupting Polmorva’s tirade. ‘When did he go out?’

‘Hours ago,’ replied Abergavenny. ‘He is probably praying for Chesterfelde. Why do you ask?’

Bartholomew pointed. ‘He is not in any church. He is there: I recognise his cloak.’

Duraunt joined him at the window, and his jaw dropped in horror. ‘But he is dangling from that tree – by the neck!’

‘Yes,’ agreed Bartholomew softly. ‘And he is almost certainly dead.’

Spryngheuse was indeed dead. When Bartholomew and Michael arrived in the garden, with the Oxford men behind them, it was obvious
that the Mertonian was beyond any earthly help. Duraunt insisted the body should be cut down and removed to a church as soon
as possible, and Polmorva and the merchants concurred in a rare consensus. They were furious that another of their number
had perished, and Bartholomew had very little time to examine the body
in situ
before the rope around its neck was untied and Spryngheuse was lowered to the ground.

‘I suppose he will be taken to that horrible All-Saints-next-the-Castle,’ said Duraunt, looking sadly at the body as it lay
in the damp grass. Bartholomew noticed his hands were shaking. ‘Like Okehamptone and Chesterfelde.’

‘It is outrageous,’ declared Polmorva. ‘When I return to Oxford, I shall complain to the highest authorities about our treatment
here. Your town does not even allow us a consecrated church from which to bury our dead.’

‘You hail from a city under interdict,’ said Michael insolently. ‘What do you expect?’

Polmorva ignored him. ‘It may be too late for Okehamptone, but I shall do better for Chesterfelde and Spryngheuse. I want
them buried deep in the ground – preferably hallowed – where they will be safe from physicians with macabre pastimes, and
not in some vault where they can be picked at.’

‘I will arrange for them to be buried in St Clement’s,’ volunteered Michael. ‘Merton Hall is not in its parish, but the priest
has plenty of room in his churchyard.’

‘That surprises me,’ said Polmorva unpleasantly. ‘I would have thought it would be stuffed full, given how many folk die in
this sordid little settlement.’

‘The only people who have died recently are from Oxford,’ said Michael acidly, irritated that his offer should be treated
with contempt. ‘But I cannot stand here all day when Spryngheuse lies without a coffin. I shall fetch one, and Matt will stay
with the body until I return.’

‘Thank you,’ said Duraunt gratefully. ‘I will wait with him.’

‘There is no need for that,’ said Michael briskly. ‘Go inside. It looks as though it might rain.’

‘He wants you out of the way, so Bartholomew can examine Spryngheuse alone,’ said Polmorva astutely. ‘Do not let him. We do
not want another of our colleagues defiled by his pawing hands.’

‘There will be no defiling here,’ vowed Duraunt, and Bartholomew was surprised by the glint of determination in his eyes.
‘Not on Merton land.’

‘Then do not leave Spryngheuse alone for an instant,’ advised Polmorva. ‘Besides, I have heard that the man who “discovers”
a corpse is very often the man who has taken its life, and it was Bartholomew who first saw Spryngheuse. He probably killed
him to strike at us.’

‘I have no reason to kill Spryngheuse,’ objected Bartholomew, becoming tired of the stream of accusations. ‘I barely knew
him.’

‘He lent you his best cloak,’ snapped Polmorva. ‘Perhaps you thought that murdering him was the surest way to make sure you
can keep it.’

‘Do not be ridiculous,’ retorted Bartholomew impatiently. ‘I have already returned it to him. And what makes
you think his death is murder, anyway? How do you know he did not kill himself?’

‘Did he?’ asked Duraunt, concerned. ‘If that is the case, then he cannot be laid in hallowed soil, nor can he have the benefit
of a requiem mass.’

‘He did not kill himself,’ declared Polmorva. ‘On the contrary, he was so determined to live that he spent the last few days
telling everyone how frightened he was that someone might try to dispatch him. A man intent on suicide would not have cared.’

‘He was horrified when he learned Bartholomew was attacked while wearing his cloak,’ said Abergavenny thoughtfully. ‘He was
certain it was his Black Monk, coming to snatch
his
soul.’

‘And he insisted on staying indoors, where he thought he would be safe,’ added Eu. ‘I wonder what induced him to go out today.’

‘I heard Duraunt telling him he would benefit from fresh air,’ said Wormynghalle, a sly and spiteful expression on his coarse
features. ‘He must have taken the advice to heart.’

Duraunt was shocked. ‘I did nothing of the kind! Do not try to blame me for this death.’

‘I thought it was
you
who suggested he go,’ said Polmorva to the tanner, stirring already troubled waters, so that it was not long before everyone
was shouting. Polmorva stepped back and folded his arms, and Bartholomew tried to assess what he was thinking. Was it simple
satisfaction, because he had provoked another quarrel? Or was there a more sinister reason for his games – such as using the
others’ anger to divert attention from himself?

Then Bartholomew studied Duraunt, who was suspiciously vocal in his denials that he had recommended a walk to Spryngheuse.
Did that signify a guilty conscience, or was he merely appalled that anyone should think he
was responsible for the scholar’s death? Bartholomew was deeply troubled by the notion that his old master might be involved
in something untoward, but found the man difficult to defend when he thought about the poppy juice and what his sister had
overheard in the apothecary’s shop. Were Michael and Langelee right when they pointed out that men changed over the years?
Bartholomew had the sickening sense that Duraunt might have turned into something he no longer recognised, just as Duraunt
had claimed Bartholomew himself had grown unfamiliar.

The merchants were equally impossible to read. Wormynghalle was red-faced with indignation that he should be associated with
any wrongdoing, while Eu was loftily careless about what anyone thought, stating he had had nothing to do with the misfortunes
that had befallen his travelling companions, and that was that. Abergavenny tried to placate them all, but it was some time
before the voice of reason quelled those of dissent and anger.

‘Strong wine is the cause of all this,’ said Polmorva. ‘If you had not caroused so wildly the night Chesterfelde died, then
he would still be with us and Spryngheuse would not have hanged himself.’

‘You were just as inebriated as the rest of us,’ snapped Duraunt. He realised he had admitted something he had denied before
and a flicker of annoyance crossed his face. He gritted his teeth and continued. ‘You pretended to abstain, but you did not
– not that night and not on other occasions. I heard you snoring later, in the way a drunken man sleeps.’

Polmorva assumed an expression of weary patience. ‘You lie, old man. You—’

‘Hanged himself?’ interrupted Wormynghalle, regarding Polmorva with raised eyebrows. ‘You just accused Bartholomew of murdering
him, and I assumed you had good reason for doing so. Now you say suicide. Which is it?’