The Mark of a Murderer (39 page)

‘They behaved then exactly as they have done since: Duraunt with wounded saintliness, Polmorva with smug superiority, Wormynghalle
with aggression, Eu with indifference, and Abergavenny with tact. And Chesterfelde grinned and doffed his cap like a lunatic.
Did
he
kill Okehamptone and Gonerby, do you think, and then someone dispatched him?’

‘We have two distinct methods of execution: Okehamptone and Gonerby died from wounds to their throats; Chesterfelde bled to
death from a cut to his arm. There could be more than one killer.’

‘But they both involve incisions and bleeding,’ mused Michael. ‘Perhaps the murderer was aiming for Chesterfelde’s throat
but got his arm instead. I know you said a knife caused the wound, but perhaps he did not have time to use teeth, so resorted
to his dagger instead.’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘That does not sound likely. However, with this latest death, our list of suspects is down to
Polmorva, Wormynghalle, Eu and Abergavenny.’

‘I note you do not include Duraunt, even though he has lied to us. But these are not the only ones with Oxford connections.
We have Hamecotes, gone to Merton to buy books, and who sends messages about his purchases to his room-mate Wormynghalle,
who has also studied in Oxford.’

‘Duraunt said Merton would never sell a book, even though Hamecotes cited a specific volume by Heytesbury. Do you remember
Heytesbury, Brother? He visited us himself not long ago.’

Michael nodded, but preferred to continue his analysis of the current case, rather than wallow in memories of past ones. ‘We
also have Dodenho, present in Merton during the riots, and who knew Chesterfelde well enough to invite him to his room. And
there is Norton, who has stayed at Oxford Castle, and who knows so little Latin that you have to wonder why he is here.’

‘Wolf, too,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He also spent time at Oxford.’

‘And we do not know where
he
is now,’ mused Michael. ‘The three explanations we have been given are the pox, his debts and a lover. You saw him at Stourbridge
– where another of our suspects currently resides, by the way – so you must have noticed whether he was covered in lesions.’

‘Not really,’ said Bartholomew, reluctant to disclose a man’s personal medical details.

Michael regarded him irritably. ‘Do not be coy with me, Matt, not when we are trying to solve murders. Tell me what was wrong
with him and I promise the information will go no further.’

Bartholomew considered: Wolf had given no indication that he craved secrecy, and the truth was not especially awkward or embarrassing.
‘He had a mild ague – the kind most of us ignore. To be frank, I thought he was malingering, and assumed he just wanted a
respite from teaching. I am surprised he is still away, because medically, there is no reason why he should not have returned.’

‘Perhaps he has been too busy killing old enemies from Oxford,’ suggested Michael, going to unbar the door before someone
demanded to know what they were doing. ‘I do not like scholars disappearing without permission. Why do you think I tightened
the rules about that sort of thing? It was so I would know where every clerk should be at any given time.’

‘Was it?’ asked Bartholomew, amused. ‘You told everyone else it was so arrangements could be made to cover their classes before
they left. I did not realise it was all part of the Senior Proctor’s plan to create an empire in which he controls every man’s
movements.’

‘Well, you do now,’ said Michael, unrepentant. ‘But here is William, come to pray for Spryngheuse. Do not tell him
we have a suicide, Matt, or he will have the carcass tossed into the street.’

‘Another murder!’ boomed William as he entered. ‘These Oxford men certainly know how to dispatch each other! How many is that
now? Three? Four? All I can say is that I hope the Archbishop does not get wind of it and decide not to come. I have just
paid to have my habit cleaned, and I would not like to think I have wasted my money.’

Leaving William to his sacred duties with Spryngheuse’s remains, Bartholomew and Michael returned to Michaelhouse and ate
a meal of salted herrings and barley soup. Michael complained bitterly about the fact that it was a fish day, and sparked
off a debate between Suttone and Wynewyk about whether it was right to abstain from meat at specific times during the week.
Suttone maintained that the men who gorged on flesh on Fridays were the same folk who had provoked God to send the plague.
Wynewyk declared that the definition of ‘meat’ was so vague – animal entrails, for example, were not considered as such, although
muscle was – that He probably thought it was irrelevant. The argument was still in full swing when the hall was cleared of
tables for the afternoon’s lectures.

Bartholomew checked his students were on schedule with their reading, then left to visit his patient in St John’s Hospital.
Michael went with him, because the dying man was a Benedictine called Brother Thomas, who had been kind to him as a naïve
and homesick novice many years before.

‘You are fatter than ever,’ said Thomas, when Michael followed the physician into the hall.

‘Good afternoon to you, too,’ said Michael irritably.

‘If you continue to grow, you will be too big to fit through doors,’ Thomas went on mercilessly.

‘I am not fat,’ replied Michael with a cross sigh. ‘I just have big bones. Tell him, Matt.’

‘You are fat,’ said Bartholomew baldly. ‘And it is not
good for your health. You puff and groan when you walk up Castle Hill, and you can no longer chase criminals.’

‘I do not
want
to chase criminals,’ objected Michael, while the old monk made a wheezing sound to indicate he was chortling his appreciation
at the physician’s blunt tongue. ‘That is why I have beadles. Besides, it is inappropriate for a Senior Proctor to scamper
through the streets of Cambridge like a March hare. I have a position of authority, and must move in a stately manner.’

‘Like an overloaded cart pulled by a straining nag,’ said Thomas brutally. ‘Matthew is right: you do not look well with so
much flesh on your heavy bones, and you are eating yourself into an early grave. And there is another thing: you often put
your friend in dangerous situations. Imagine how you would feel if he needed your help and you could not move fast enough
to save him.’

‘Quite,’ said Bartholomew. ‘So, no dinner for you tonight, Brother.’

Thomas grimaced. ‘I am serious, so listen to me! I am an old man and I know what I am talking about. Michael is obese, and
such men often die before their time. I do not want that to happen to him, and I do not want you killed in some fracas, screaming
for him while he waddles too slowly to your aid. Heed my words. I will meet God today, and you cannot refuse a dying man’s
last request.’

Bartholomew was silent, unnerved by the old man’s gloomy warnings, while Michael busied himself by fussing with the bed-covers.
They waited until he slept, and then left. Bartholomew knew he was unlikely to wake again, and that the frail muscles in his
chest would soon simply fail to fill his lungs with air. Michael was pale when they emerged into the sunlight, and the physician
saw Thomas’s words had struck hard. They walked without speaking until they met Paxtone outside King’s Hall, where Michael’s
expression went from troubled to angry. Bartholomew
sensed the monk was about to say something he might later regret, just because he wanted to vent his spleen.

‘No, Brother,’ he said quietly. ‘Attacking Paxtone for being a poor Corpse Examiner will achieve nothing. He will not understand
what he has done wrong, and you will offend a man who is a friend.’

‘Perhaps I should include
him
on my list of suspects,’ said Michael bitterly. ‘He, too, visits Oxford with gay abandon, and may have his own reasons for
disguising a murder.’

‘If that were the case, then I doubt he would have confessed to performing an inadequate examination. He would have let us
assume he was thorough.’

He greeted Paxtone amiably before Michael could reply, and told him about the mass arranged for Chesterfelde and Spryngheuse
later that afternoon. Paxtone said he was saddened to hear about the deaths, and offered to attend the requiem with some of
his colleagues.

‘Why?’ asked Michael, unnecessarily abrupt. ‘Did you know them?’

‘No,’ replied Paxtone, startled by the monk’s hostility. ‘But they were fellow scholars, and it is the least we can do. Weasenham
told me today that the St Scholastica’s Day riots were started deliberately, and that someone intends to do the same here.
We academics need to stick together, to show the town that we stand solidly with our Oxford colleagues.’

‘Where did Weasenham hear this?’ demanded Michael furiously.

Paxtone took a step back, unnerved by his temper. ‘He did not say. Why? Do you think he made it up? It would not be the first
time he invented tales when he found himself short of real stories.’

‘Come with me to see him now,’ ordered Michael. ‘I want to know if there is a factual basis to his rumour-mongering, or whether
he is speaking out of spite. In either
case, he will desist immediately. I will
not
have him giving people ideas, and starting trouble when Islip is about to arrive.’

‘You are right,’ said Paxtone, starting to walk in the direction of the stationer’s domain. Bartholomew followed, and could
not help but notice that Michael was not the only large man who waddled. ‘These tales that Oxford was ripped to pieces by
townsfolk angered
me
, and I am a mild-tempered fellow. I cannot imagine what will happen if lads like Lee of Gonville or – I am sorry Matt, but
it is true – Deynman and Falmeresham come to hear them.’

Michael stormed into Weasenham’s shop. It was busy, with at least twenty students and Fellows inspecting the merchandise.
Alyce was demonstrating a new kind of ink that dried more quickly than traditional ones, while Weasenham was deep in conversation
with several scholars, all of whom were listening avidly to every whispered word. Bartholomew’s heart sank when he caught
the word ‘Scholastica’ among the muted diatribe, and it plunged even deeper when he saw that the eager ears belonged to Gonville’s
feisty students, including Lee. Michael surged up to them.

‘Brother Michael,’ said Weasenham, beaming falsely when he saw the monk’s furious expression. ‘Have you used all that parchment
already? Do you want me to send you more?’

‘What has he been telling you?’ demanded Michael of Lee.

‘Nothing about a certain physician’s visits to a Frail Sister,’ squeaked Weasenham in alarm, when he misunderstood what Michael
was asking. ‘I swear I have said nothing to anyone about that.’

‘What physician?’ snapped Lee. ‘You had better not be gossiping about Doctor Rougham’s meetings with Yolande
de Blaston on the first Monday of the month, or you will have me to contend with.’

‘Does he?’ asked Weasenham encouragingly, eager for more details.

Bartholomew felt sorry for Rougham. It was the second time he had heard people refer to the dalliance, and, although
he
had been unaware of the man’s penchant for Yolande, it was clearly no secret. Rougham could have gone to his College after
the attack, and not imposed himself on Matilde, after all. He reconsidered: but then he would have told people about Clippesby,
and the tale that a Michaelhouse Fellow had bitten a Gonville man would have resulted in trouble for certain.

‘No,’ Lee replied unconvincingly. ‘It is a lie put about by his enemies. He goes to …to treat her bunions.’

‘Bartholomew is her physician,’ said Weasenham, not so easily misled. ‘And Rougham would never physic her, because she would
not be able to pay him. Bartholomew does not care about that kind of thing, but Rougham certainly does.’

‘She has two physicians,’ said Lee in a voice that was loaded with menace. ‘One for her bunions, and one for everything else.
So, we shall say no more about the matter. If I hear the faintest whisper against Doctor Rougham or Yolande, I will come to
your shop and ram your parchments—’

‘What was he saying to you just now?’ interrupted Michael. He hoped the stationer would take Lee’s threat seriously, because
he was sure Rougham would assume Bartholomew was the source of any rumours that associated his name with that of Yolande de
Blaston.

‘He was telling us what happened in Oxford on St Scholastica’s Day,’ said Lee, still scowling at Weasenham. ‘The men who started
the riot were called Chesterfelde and Spryngheuse, both of whom have been murdered in Cambridge since.’

‘Really,’ said Michael flatly. ‘And how do you come to be party to this information, Weasenham?’

Weasenham swallowed uneasily, and would not meet Michael’s eyes. ‘Spryngheuse told me himself. He and Chesterfelde are to
be buried today, and everyone knows they are young men dead before their time. He said a Benedictine had followed him here,
determined to exact revenge, and he was thinking of moving to another town. He planned to go today.’

‘He left it a bit late, then,’ muttered Lee.

‘Tell him the rest,’ said Paxtone to the nervous stationer. ‘About the plot to spread unrest and bring down the universities.’

‘I am only repeating what I have been told,’ bleated Weasenham, unnerved by Michael’s stern expression. ‘The Oxford disorder
was deliberately started, and it is believed that the same thing will happen here.’

‘Who said this?’ demanded Michael.

‘Polmorva. He said he will abandon Cambridge soon, because it is on the verge of a serious crisis. He is thinking of setting
up a new university in a different place – not Stamford or Northampton, because scholars have tried those places before, and
their schools were suppressed – but somewhere really nice, like Haverhill in Suffolk, or perhaps Winchester.’

‘Did he mention the names of the men who want to see us in flames?’ asked Michael coolly.

‘He did not know them, but obviously something is going on, because Chesterfelde was murdered, and now Spryngheuse is dead.’