The Mark of a Murderer (8 page)

‘Then you had better do it quickly, Brother. Before Islip arrives.’

‘I shall!’ vowed Michael confidently. ‘Believe me, Matt, I shall.’

St Mary the Great was the University Church. Since it was the largest building under the academics’ control, and could accommodate
huge numbers of scholars, it was used for public disputations, for when the Fellows were required to vote on issues pertaining
to the running of their University, and for when they needed to resolve some of the frequent and bitter disputes that raged
between its Colleges, hostels, friaries and convents. The church boasted a stalwart tower that housed their various deeds,
documents and stockpiles of coins, and the Chancellor and his clerks had offices located off its aisles.

‘This really is a beautiful place,’ said Bartholomew, pausing to admire the way the sunlight poured through the windows to
form delicate patterns on the newly laid chancel floor. ‘The coloured light virtually dances across the flagstones.’

Michael regarded him stonily. ‘You need a night away from your exertions with Matilde. It is not normal, talking about buildings
as though they were women.’

He moved away, leaving Bartholomew too bemused to point out that the association between the church and a lady was entirely
one of the monk’s own devising. He opened the door to the Chancellor’s office, and Bartholomew could not help but notice that
he did not bother to knock. Tynkell was so much under Michael’s spell after his third year in office that when the monk marched
into the room as if he owned it, Bartholomew half expected him to leap from his seat and offer it up.

Tynkell had not been lawfully elected to his exalted office, although few people other than Michael knew it. There had been
violent objections when Tynkell had first been declared the victor, but these had gradually died away,
and now people were reasonably satisfied with the way Michael ran matters. Indeed, Michael’s power was so absolute that Bartholomew
had once asked why the monk did not simply declare an election and have himself voted in properly. He replied that he did
not have the patience to endure the many dull civic functions that chancellors were obliged to attend – and there was the
fact that while he could take the credit when things were going well, he could always stand back when they were not, and let
Tynkell weather the consequences.

Tynkell was a thin man with an aversion to water that led to a problem with his personal hygiene. He doused himself liberally
with scents in an attempt to disguise the fact that not so much as a drop of water ever touched his skin, with the result
that his office reminded Bartholomew of a rank public latrine sited near a lavender field. Tynkell suffered from digestive
ailments, which the physician insisted would ease if the man were to rinse his hands before eating. Tynkell declined to follow
the advice, and that morning sat clutching his stomach with one hand while the other played nervously with a pen. He was visibly
relieved when Michael entered his domain, and Bartholomew supposed the three men who were with him had been pressing him for
the unthinkable: a decision.

‘This is my Senior Proctor,’ said Tynkell, ushering Michael inside. ‘And my Corpse Examiner.’

‘Corpse Examiner?’ asked one of the men. ‘What sort of post is that?’

‘One that is useful,’ replied Michael enigmatically. ‘He has examined a corpse of your own, as a matter of fact.’

‘Chesterfelde’s,’ said the man. ‘His death was a pity. He was a cheerful fellow, although he did have a habit of quoting the
Bible at you in Latin. At least, that is what he said he was doing. He could have been damning us all to Hell for all I know.’

‘Why would he do that?’ asked Michael. ‘Did you harm him in some way?’

‘Of course not,’ replied the man impatiently. ‘I am trying to illustrate my point. I am a spicer, and have no time for foolery
like Latin. French and English were good enough for my father, God rest his soul, and they are good enough for me.’

‘We can hardly read the Bible in French!’ exclaimed Tynkell, shocked. ‘We are at war with France, and it would be an odd thing
to do, anyway. Latin is the only tongue for sacred texts – and for proper academic discourse.’

‘Allow us to introduce ourselves again, Brother,’ said another of the trio, interrupting the spicer’s tirade. He spoke with
the soft lilt of a man from Wales. ‘I am William of Abergavenny, burgess of Oxford and Master of the Guild of Saints.’ He
indicated the spicer, who sat on his left. ‘This is Philip Eu, also a burgess and a past Mayor. And finally, this is Thomas
Wormynghalle.’

The absence of any reference to title or claim to fame did not escape Wormynghalle’s notice, just as it did not the scholars’,
and Bartholomew immediately sensed there was tension between the three merchants.

‘I will be Mayor next year,’ snapped Wormynghalle, shooting Abergavenny an unpleasant glance, ‘and I was elected a burgess
in January. It is about time Oxford had a tanner as Mayor. It is just as respectable a trade as spicery or wine-selling.’

As he gazed challengingly at his companions, Bartholomew took the opportunity to study them. Abergavenny was black-haired
and fair-faced, like many Celts, and his eyes held a humorous glint, as if he found much of what he saw amusing. His cloak
was embroidered with a tiny vine motif, and Bartholomew surmised that he was a vintner. Eu was tall and thin, and spoke English
with a thick French accent. The inflexion was inconsistent, and
Bartholomew suspected English was his mother tongue, but that he liked to emphasise the fact that he hailed from old Norman
stock. There was a carving of a nutmeg on his ring, which was exquisitely made and a symbol of tastefully understated wealth.

Wormynghalle was Eu’s exact opposite: short, heavily built and pugilistic. He did not wear his fine clothes as comfortably
as his companions, and the rings on his fingers and his heavy gold neck-chain were ostentatious examples of his riches. The
chain carried a heavy pendant in the shape of a sheep’s head, to represent his trade as a curer of skins; the workmanship
was poor, despite the high quality of the medium, and the carving possessed a set of very un-ovine teeth. When inspecting
him, Bartholomew was unfavourably reminded of the overweight peacock that lived at Michaelhouse, and was not surprised the
man’s companions did not seem to like him. His trade as a tanner would not endear him to men who dabbled in the rarefied worlds
of exotic spices and wines, either. Tanning was a foul, stinking business involving bloody, flayed skins and vats of urine.

‘We have come to investigate a murder,’ stated Wormynghalle, when no one replied. ‘The culprit fled to Cambridge, and we intend
to hunt him out and take him home with us.’

‘It happened during the St Scholastica’s Day riot,’ elaborated Abergavenny, ‘while the town was in flames and there was murder
and mayhem everywhere. It was then that this evil fellow chose to strike down an innocent man.’

‘With a sword,’ added Wormynghalle.

‘That unrest was months ago,’ said Michael, startled. ‘Why search for this culprit now? And how do you know he is in Cambridge
anyway?’

‘His victim was left mortally wounded, but not dead,’ explained Eu. ‘The poor man – Gonerby was his name –
gasped with his dying breath that he overheard his assailant telling a friend that he intended to hide in Cambridge until
the hue and cry had died away. I was there: I heard Gonerby’s words with my own ears. Then he charged us to catch the killer
and make him answer for his crime. I am from an ancient family, who believes in the sanctity of oaths and sacred vows—’

‘So do I,’ interrupted Wormynghalle, not to be outdone on the chivalry front.

‘—so I gave my word to Gonerby, as he died, that I would find his murderer,’ finished Eu, looking Wormynghalle up and down
in disdain, to deny that he and the tanner shared common ideals.

‘Tell me this killer’s name,’ said Michael. ‘If he is guilty, then he is yours to take to Oxford.’

‘Gonerby did not know it,’ replied Abergavenny. ‘That is why we came ourselves, and did not entrust servants to find him.’

‘Tracking a killer is not easy, and will need men of intelligence and cunning,’ said Wormynghalle, oblivious to the long-suffering
glances his colleagues exchanged behind his back. ‘That means us. Besides, Gonerby was popular, and if I catch his killer,
everyone will vote for me as Mayor.’

‘Many people died during that riot,’ said Michael. ‘What makes Gonerby’s death worthy of investigation, when others are not?’

‘He was wealthy, popular and influential – a parchment-maker,’ replied Eu, twisting his nutmeg ring around on his finger.
‘We cannot afford to have men like
him
murdered and their killers going free. What message would that send to the general populace?’

‘We do not want scholars thinking they can slaughter us as they please, and nothing bad will ever happen to them,’ elaborated
Wormynghalle, who did not seem averse to
stating the obvious. ‘It might encourage others to try their luck.’

‘This is an odd tale,’ said Michael, frowning. ‘You know more about Gonerby’s death – and about his killer – than you are
telling, since you cannot possibly hope to snag the culprit with the information you have shared with us. It is simply not
enough to allow you to start.’

‘We know the killer is a scholar,’ offered Abergavenny. ‘Gonerby said he wore a student’s dark garb
and
he heard him say Oxford was too dangerous, so he would study in Cambridge instead.’

‘That does suggest you should look to a University member for your culprit,’ admitted Tynkell. ‘But it does not tell us whether
he was an Oxford student who saw Cambridge as a safe haven, or whether he was a Cambridge student who happened to be visiting
Oxford at the time of the riot.’

Abergavenny nodded. ‘So, we intend to look at both possibilities. Gonerby’s widow told us we cannot go home unless we bring
her a killer. She made us promise to fulfil her husband’s last wish, even if we die in the attempt.’

‘She is a forceful lady,’ said Eu, not entirely admiringly. ‘Just because we three happened to stumble on the dying Gonerby,
she decided
we
should be the ones to hunt down his murderer. I did not want to oblige, but we had made that promise to Gonerby, so it became
a point of honour.’

‘
I
was only speaking to comfort the man in his final agonies,’ said Abergavenny ruefully. ‘But Wormynghalle here made the promise
public and Mistress Gonerby held us to it.’ He cast an admonishing, resentful glance at the tanner.

‘I did what was right,’ declared Wormynghalle defensively. ‘How was I to know you were only humouring Gonerby when you swore
to avenge him? I was under the impression that you held the same principles as me, and
I was astonished to learn you were ready to renege.’

‘You are deliberately misrepresenting us,’ snapped Eu, seeming to forget he was in the Chancellor’s office and the argument
was being witnessed by strangers. ‘Of course I believe in honour and the sanctity of oaths, but this was different. I was
trying to calm him, not agree to sacrifice weeks of my life searching for a fellow whose name and description we do not know.’

‘It has cost you little so far,’ said Wormynghalle nastily. ‘You arrived here eleven days ago, and you have spent virtually
all that time establishing new business contacts.’

‘We did not promise to hunt this killer to the exclusion of all else,’ said Abergavenny reasonably. ‘And the opportunities
that have arisen in and around Cambridge have been irresistible.’

‘For spicers and vintners maybe,’ snapped Wormynghalle. ‘But not for tanners. Mine is not a trade that benefits from distant
agreements – it is cheaper to buy and sell
my
materials locally.’

Abergavenny smiled to acknowledge his point, then turned to Michael. ‘But we have drawn our personal affairs to a close, and
now we are ready to begin our hunt.’

‘But this
still
does not explain why you did not visit Cambridge sooner,’ said Michael. ‘If this quest is so important, then why the delay?
Gonerby has been dead almost four months.’

‘We could not just up and leave,’ declared Eu. ‘We had arrangements to make, and there were important matters that required
our attention. We came as soon as we could.’

‘We came when it became obvious we had no choice,’ corrected Abergavenny ruefully. ‘We thought the task an impossible one
from the start, and were reluctant to begin something we could not finish. But Widow Gonerby is a forceful woman, and she
was backed by the guilds. Gonerby
was well liked, and everyone insisted that his last wish should be carried out.’

‘Because the city is under interdict, Gonerby was buried without the appropriate rites and his wife was furious,’ added Eu.
He shuddered. ‘I would not like to see
her
lose her temper again – and she will, if we return without a culprit.’

‘An interdict is a terrible thing,’ agreed Tynkell. ‘Corpses rot in the streets, because their kin refuse to allow them to
be buried without a requiem mass. The stench offends my delicate senses.’

For a moment, no one spoke, and all three merchants, Bartholomew and Michael regarded him in wary disbelief. Then Eu pointedly
lifted a heavy pomander to his nose and mouth, while Abergavenny was clearly struggling not to snigger.

Michael dragged his thoughts away from the Chancellor and back to the merchants. ‘Your task would be difficult if the killer
had remained in Oxford, but how will you find him here, in a town where you have no friends and where no one has any reason
to help you?’

‘And even if you do discover a scholar who was in Oxford the day Gonerby died, it will be impossible to prove he is the culprit,’
added Bartholomew. ‘Unless he confesses.’

‘There were many vicious murders that dreadful day,’ added Tynkell softly. ‘Sixty scholars were slaughtered as they tried
to go about their lawful business. Sixty!’

‘And how many townsmen?’ demanded Eu. ‘Probably twice that number!’

‘More,’ said Wormynghalle, tugging aggressively on his sheep-head pendant.