The Mark of a Murderer (7 page)

Bartholomew shrugged. ‘I imagine Polmorva heard that Duraunt planned to leave Oxford, and seized an opportunity to escape
the turmoil for a few weeks.’

‘I would love to discover that Polmorva killed Chesterfelde. I do not like his sneering smile or his condescending manners.
But tell me about this feud of yours. You clearly detest each other, and since it is unlike you to harbour such feelings over
two decades, it must have been a serious quarrel you had.’

‘It was a long time ago,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘It hardly matters now.’

Michael gave a derisive snort. ‘That was not how it appeared to me! If Duraunt had not been there, you would have been at
each other like fighting cocks.’

‘It sounds ridiculous now,’ said Bartholomew, smiling ruefully. ‘But it started with those teeth Duraunt mentioned. Polmorva
designed them, and hired them out to edentulous monks so they could eat the same amount of meat as their fully fanged colleagues.
Obviously, metal teeth are not as good as real ones, and several monks became ill – partly because they were swallowing food
that was not properly chewed, and partly because the wretched things were used communally.’

Michael started to laugh. ‘They
shared
them – passed them around like a jug of wine?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘And they did not clean them, so contagions passed from one to another. I was young and insensitive, and
informed the monks that they owed their
resulting sicknesses to greed, because they ate fine foods after God and Nature had decided it was time for them to stop.’

Michael regarded him with round eyes. ‘You said that? Do you not think it was a little sanctimonious? It is not for some student
to tell an old man what he can or cannot eat.’

Bartholomew winced. ‘As I said, I was young.’

‘And this is why you and Polmorva are at loggerheads?’ asked Michael, thinking it ludicrously petty. ‘He invented some teeth
and you denounced them?’

‘Eventually, a monk died. I accused Polmorva of bringing about the fatality and he objected. Once the gauntlet was down all
manner of quarrels and fights followed. But then I left Oxford and that was the end of it.’

‘Until now,’ mused Michael. ‘Is that why you went to Paris, instead of continuing your studies at Oxford? You wanted to escape
from Polmorva?’

‘He was one factor,’ admitted Bartholomew. ‘But the chief reason was that I wanted to study with an Arab physician – their
medicine is so much more advanced than our own. Paris had such a master, Oxford did not.’

Michael thought about what he had been told. ‘You are right; your feud
is
ridiculous – although, having met the man I can see why you fell out. But he will be gone soon, and you can forget about
him again.’

‘Not if we find him guilty of Chesterfelde’s murder.’

‘There are other suspects – Boltone and Eudo for a start, although it would be galling to admit that Polmorva is right. So,
what can
you
tell me about Chesterfelde? Are you sure that small wound on his wrist was the fatal one, and not the huge hole in his back?
I did not want to question you in front of Polmorva, but I confess I am unconvinced.’

‘Chesterfelde’s sleeve was bloodstained, and the fact that the injury bled so profusely means he was alive when it
was inflicted. However, the comparative lack of blood seeping from his back indicates he was dead when that happened. There
is only one conclusion: his wrist was slashed, bringing about death by exsanguination, and the wound in his back was added
later – to his corpse.’

‘You also said there were no other marks on his body – no bruises and no indication that he struggled. Why would he allow
his wrist to be sliced, and then do nothing while he bled to death?’

‘Perhaps he was drunk. I doubt it was something that happened in his sleep, because it would have hurt enough to wake him
up – unless he was fed some sort of soporific, I suppose.’

‘A soporific would explain why Duraunt slept through the incident, too,’ mused Michael. ‘He said he is usually a light sleeper.’

‘That means the entire party from Oxford – all four scholars and the three merchants – was dosed. They all claim to have slept
through whatever happened last night.’

Michael nodded slowly. ‘We shall have to ask Boltone or Eudo whether they provided their guests with something more than wine.’

Bartholomew was silent for a moment, while he organised his thoughts. ‘I do not think Chesterfelde died in the hall. There
would have been a lot of blood, and Duraunt and the others would definitely have woken up had someone started to scrub the
floor in the middle of the night – sedated or otherwise. I think he must have been killed elsewhere.’

‘We shall have a good look around Merton Hall and its grounds later,’ promised Michael. ‘If as much blood was spilled as you
say, then it will not be hard to find out where this foul deed took place. We can also search for stained clothing – his killer
should be drenched in the stuff.’

‘Not necessarily. He may have slashed Chesterfelde’s
wrist, then stood back. But it is worth looking, I suppose.’ Bartholomew gave a sudden, uncharacteristically malicious grin.
‘It will definitely be worthwhile if we discover something incriminating among Polmorva’s belongings.’

The town was busy by the time Bartholomew and Michael reached the High Street and started to walk to St Mary the Great, where
Chancellor Tynkell had his office. People were out, enjoying the Feast of Pentecost before work began again the following
morning. Merchants rode in carts drawn by sleek ponies or strutted in their Sunday finery, displaying to their colleagues
that they were men of influence, who could afford the finest boots, the best cloth for their cloaks, and the richest jewellery
for their wives and daughters. Apprentices gathered in gangs, yelling insults to passing students in the hope of goading them
into a fight, while Michael’s beadles patrolled the streets, alert for any scholar who might be tempted to respond.

Even the poor were out in force, spending carefully hoarded pennies on jugs of strong church ale or the aromatic pies sold
illegally – Sunday trading was an offence punishable with a heavy fine – by Constantine Mortimer the baker. Entertainers had
flooded into the town, too, ready to take advantage of the holiday spirit among the townsfolk. Troops of jugglers vied for
attention with singers and fire-eaters in the Market Square, although only the very best could compete with the threadbare
bear that danced an ungainly jig in the graveyard of St Mary the Great. It revealed broken yellow fangs as it scanned the
fascinated spectators with its tiny, malevolent eyes, and gave the impression that it would dearly love to maul someone.

The atmosphere was generally amiable, although Bartholomew did not like the way the townsmen congregated in sizeable gaggles
to savour their ale, or the fact
that students from various Colleges and hostels tended to form distinct bands. He knew from experience that it took very little
to spark off a riot – as Oxford had learned that February – and large gatherings of men with access to strong drink was often
more than enough.

He considered the pending Visitation, and hoped the town would be peaceful when the Archbishop arrived. Simon Islip was deeply
concerned about the number of clerics who had died during the plague, and had made it known that he intended to establish
a new College for the training of replacements. He had studied in Oxford himself, and most people thought he would build it
there, but every Cambridge scholar was united in the hope that he might be persuaded to change his mind. It was therefore
imperative that he should find a town that was strife-free, clean and peaceful, filled with industrious, law-abiding scholars
– and with townsmen who would welcome another academic foundation. Bartholomew thought uneasily of Chesterfelde’s death, and
three merchants intent on investigating a murder, and prayed they would not spoil Cambridge’s chances of winning Islip’s patronage.

Then his mind drifted to the St Scholastica’s Day riot in Oxford, and he wondered whether the wanton destruction and indiscriminate
killing would encourage Islip to look more favourably on Cambridge. Both towns and their universities were notoriously unstable,
and fights were commonplace, despite Cambridge’s current attempts to pretend they were not. It occurred to him that Oxford’s
disturbances must have been particularly serious, if they had encouraged ambitious and scheming men like Polmorva to abandon
their homes. He said as much to Michael.

‘It was the most devastating incident Oxford has ever known,’ replied Michael gravely. ‘Did you not pay attention when I told
you about it? We had the news four months ago, and I remember very clearly regaling you with details.
I thought you seemed distant at the time, and now I see why: you were not listening.’

‘I am sure I was,’ said Bartholomew. He vaguely recalled the conversation, but it had been about the time when Clippesby had
taken a turn for the worse and, as his physician, Bartholomew had been more concerned with him than with Michael’s gossip
about a fracas in a distant city.

‘Well, I am sure you were not,’ retorted Michael. ‘Or we would not be having this discussion now. The riot started when scholars
began an argument over wine in a tavern called Swindlestock.’

‘I know it,’ said Bartholomew with a smile. ‘I have done battle in it myself – against Polmorva, in fact, when he referred
to Merton as a “house of fools”. The landlord threw us into the street, and told us to take our quarrels to University property,
and leave his alone.’

‘Well, he was not so fortunate this time. He was hit over the head with a jug. His patrons came to his defence, and the scholars
were obliged to take up arms to protect themselves. And then everything flew out of control. The townsfolk also grabbed weapons,
and the Mayor urged them to slaughter every student they could find, so Oxford would be rid of the curse of academia once
and for all.’

‘I doubt he did any such thing! There are thousands of clerks in Oxford and he could not possibly hope to dispatch them all.
Your version of events came from a scholar with a grudge against the town, Brother.’

‘My “version of events” came from Chancellor Brouweon himself, in his official report to Tynkell,’ argued Michael. ‘The fighting
continued into the next day, and only stopped when every scholar had been killed, wounded or driven from the city. Eventually,
the Sheriff managed to impose calm and the King was informed. Four days later, all privileges and charters were suspended
and the whole city was placed under interdict.’

‘The
whole
city?’ Bartholomew was astounded: these were Draconian measures. ‘When was this interdict revoked?’

Michael nodded in satisfaction. ‘You see? You did not listen back in February, or you would not be asking me this. You would
have remembered that the University was pardoned and encouraged to resume its studies almost immediately, but that the town
remains under interdict to this day.’

‘Still?’ asked Bartholomew in horror. ‘But that means the functions of the Church are suspended: no masses can be said, no
townsman can have a Christian burial, his children cannot be baptised—’

‘I know what an interdict is. And Oxford’s looks set to remain in force for some time yet.’

‘I suppose this is good for us, though,’ said Bartholomew thoughtfully. ‘I cannot see Islip founding a College in a city under
interdict.’

‘No,’ agreed Michael. ‘However, he will not build one in a town rife with unsolved murders, either – which is possibly what
someone is hoping. So, I intend to have Chesterfelde’s killer in my prison before Islip arrives.’

‘You think Chesterfelde was killed to harm Cambridge’s chances with the Archbishop?’ Bartholomew was unconvinced. ‘It seems
a drastic step, and not one that will necessarily work – especially if you discover that Polmorva is the culprit. Exposing
an Oxford scholar as a murderer will only serve to make our case stronger, and theirs weaker.’

Michael’s expression was wry. ‘I suspect it is not as simple as that – not when men like Polmorva and Duraunt are involved.’
He overrode Bartholomew’s objection that his teacher would have nothing to do with such a plot. ‘I do not like the fact that
as soon as Islip announces his intention to come here we have an invasion of Oxford men. Eight of them is a significant number.’

‘But two are dead,’ Bartholomew pointed out.

‘And the survivors include three merchants intending to solve a murder; Polmorva and Spryngheuse claiming they came for their
safety; and Duraunt investigating his bailiff, despite the fact that you tell me he is the kind of man to believe good of
Satan himself.’

‘Duraunt did
not
come for sinister purposes,’ reiterated Bartholomew firmly.

Michael shrugged. ‘Perhaps, but he is the Warden of a powerful Oxford College, and he is here. That is all
I
need to know at the moment. But leave him for now, and consider the others. Polmorva is the kind of fellow who enjoys feuds,
while Chesterfelde made himself an enemy so bitter that he ended up dead. These Oxford men are clearly not peace-loving citizens.’

‘And the merchants?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Oxford’s burgesses hate scholars just as much as do the ones in Cambridge. Surely
it would be in the interests of these three merchants to see Islip found a new College
here
, rather than in their own city?’

Michael’s green eyes gleamed, pleased by the prospect of a challenge that would require his wits. ‘I have been restless lately.
Tynkell does everything I say, and the University is operating exactly as I want it. Michaelhouse thrives under Langelee’s
surprisingly enlightened rule, and there is little for me to do there. We solved that crime involving the Mortimers and Gonville
Hall recently, and since then I have been bored. Now things are looking up.’

‘Looking up?’ echoed Bartholomew, startled by his choice of words. ‘A man has been murdered.’

‘Quite,’ agreed Michael gleefully. ‘And we have clever scholars from Oxford and three cunning merchants involved. This promises
to be interesting, Matt. And it will need a man like me to solve it!’