The Mark of a Murderer (36 page)

‘I do not think that is a very nice thing to—’ began Wormynghalle uncomfortably.

Dodenho ignored her. ‘I saw this onlooker fish about with a hook for some time before he snagged something
of interest. He took his find – a waterlogged sack – to some bushes, where he thought he could inspect it unseen.’

‘What do you want?’ asked Weasenham wearily. ‘Half of what I found? You are welcome. Most of it comprised baubles that I shall
toss into the river as soon as I have a free moment.’

‘Blackmail!’ cried Wormynghalle, looking at Dodenho in horror. He took no notice and fixed all his glittering attention on
the unhappy merchant.

‘There was a little silver dog. I saw it being made for mad Master Clippesby of Michaelhouse. That was no mere bauble.’

‘It was a gift from Clippesby to Matilde,’ said Weasenham. His expression became gleeful as he saw a way to change the subject.
‘For services rendered.’

‘For her kindness to an injured cat,’ corrected Wormynghalle sharply. ‘Clippesby is besotted with animals, and she helped
one that was hurt. She is a good woman and he wanted to show her his appreciation, so do not make it sound sinister, Master
Weasenham, when we know it was innocent.’

Bartholomew warmed to her even more, admiring her for speaking out in defence of two people whose reputations were currently
compromised in the unforgiving little town.

‘The dog was
stolen
from Matilde,’ said Dodenho. ‘There are rumours that Eudo took it, but the Sheriff found no trace of the thing when he searched
Merton Hall. Now we know why. Eudo – aided by Boltone – kept his stolen goods submerged in the cistern, where no one would
ever think to look. Tulyet’s men missed them, because they were looking for a body, not a sack of treasure. But you did not.’

‘I see,’ murmured Bartholomew. ‘Eudo and Boltone did not attack us because they were concealing a murdered corpse, but because
they were protecting stolen goods.
They had been working on the pulley when we confronted them, either because they wanted it mended so they could retrieve the
sack, or because they had acquired new treasures that needed to be hidden.’

‘Interesting,’ mused Michael. ‘So, the bailiff and his tenant had nothing to do with the dead man. That particular corpse
simply had the misfortune to be stored in the same place as Eudo’s loot.’

Bartholomew reconsidered. ‘Although we should not discount the possibility that they killed him
because
he discovered their hoard. Also, we should not forget that Chesterfelde probably died near the cistern – of a cut wrist.
And Eudo also has a damaged arm.’

‘Eudo would not have let you examine his injury if he thought it would lead you to connect him with Chesterfelde’s death.
The two gashed hands are coincidence, and the “connection” will mislead us if we pay it too much attention.’

‘What else was in the sack?’ demanded Wormynghalle of Weasenham, clearly disgusted by the stationer’s dishonest activities.
‘I assume you intend to return it all to its rightful owners?’

‘Just trinkets,’ reiterated Weasenham, with an anxious glance at Dodenho. ‘It contained nothing any owners would want to see
again, I assure you.’

‘He is lying,’ whispered Bartholomew. ‘Eudo would not have tried to kill us for trinkets.’

‘I do not believe you,’ said Dodenho. ‘Why would anyone hide a sack of rubbish?’

Weasenham sighed in resignation. ‘I will show you, if you like. The dog was the only valuable piece, and you can have it –
but only if you agree to say no more about the matter.’

‘No, thank you,’ said Dodenho with disdain. ‘I have no wish to possess stolen silver. My belongings are regularly
searched by students desperate for my learned writings, and I do not want them to discover contraband in place of my erudite
scribbling.’

‘What do you want, then?’ asked Weasenham. ‘My wife?’

‘Lord, no! She does not have the time,’ said Dodenho. Weasenham frowned, and Bartholomew was intrigued that the stationer
should be observant in the affairs of others, but so blind in his own. ‘I want nothing more than a decent arrangement over
parchment. It is expensive.’

‘I do not like this,’ said Wormynghalle uneasily. ‘I refuse to be involved in anything immoral, and—’

‘Quite right,’ agreed Weasenham. ‘You are a sensible man, sir. The King will not be pleased to learn that scholars from the
hall his father founded submit poor merchants to extortion . . .’

‘I am not blackmailing anyone,’ said Dodenho smoothly. ‘I am asking for a mutually acceptable arrangement regarding the purchase
of parchment. I go through a large amount of it when I pen my thoughts, and it would be of great benefit to the academic world
if I did not have to worry about how much I consume.’

‘Very well,’ said Weasenham, defeated. He wrote a figure on a scrap of vellum.

Dodenho shook his head. ‘If you want to keep the noose from your neck, I recommend you be a little more generous.’

Weasenham wrote another figure. ‘And I will sell you this at a very reduced price,’ he said desperately, placing something
on the bench next to the pen. ‘Every scholar should have one, and I hear you do not.’

It was Dodenho’s missing astrolabe.

It was not long before Alyce Weasenham returned to her duties, flushed and with her hair in disarray. Bartholomew saw Langelee
through the window, making no attempt to
hide the fact that he was adjusting his undergarments. Michael paid Weasenham for a small quantity of parchment and ink, and
the two scholars escaped from the shop in some relief.

‘Lord, Matt,’ breathed Michael. ‘What a place! Did you see Dodenho’s face when Weasenham offered to sell him the astrolabe
that was once his anyway? He looked as if it might bite him.’

‘Have you noticed how so many strands of this mystery lead back to Dodenho?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘He knew Chesterfelde – they
laughed together in his chamber. He was in Oxford on St Scholastica’s Day, and I am under the impression he is a fairly frequent
visitor there.’

‘He is – and he foists himself on Merton, to be precise. It is in our University’s records; all applications to study away
must be ratified by the Chancellor, as you know. However, the foray he made in February was unofficial, because there is no
copy of a request, although we know he went: we heard him admit as much ourselves. And now there is the curious business of
his astrolabe.’

‘He accused his colleagues of stealing it,’ recalled Bartholomew. ‘Wormynghalle – and Clippesby – said Wolf may have disappeared
as a result of the complaint, because he did not like being called a thief. Then Dodenho abruptly dropped the claim, and the
astrolabe appeared in the hands of the tanner at Merton Hall. Then it was in Eudo’s hoard at the cistern, and now it is offered
to Dodenho again.’

‘Can we be sure it
is
Eudo’s cache?’ asked Michael. ‘Could it belong to someone else?’

‘Such as who?’

Michael shrugged. ‘Dodenho? But he is not the only member of King’s Hall who has aroused my suspicions. Clippesby said Wolf fled because he was accused of theft, but Dodenho
claims he was at Stourbridge with the pox,
while Norton maintains he disappeared because he could not pay his debts. Who is right?’

Bartholomew had no answer, and he and Michael were silent for a while, each engrossed in his own thoughts. Bartholomew considered
the body in the cistern, pondering who might have salvaged it and why – and what might have happened to it later. The easiest
way to dispose of an inconvenient corpse was to toss it in the river with a rock attached to its feet, and if that had already
happened, then the chances of retrieving it were slim. He suspected Tulyet would not be prepared to dredge any more expanses
of water in search of elusive cadavers, especially with the Visitation looming ever closer.

Michael was more concerned with the living, and was considering Wolf and Hamecotes. The gossiping stationer was not a man
who allowed truth to interfere with his stories, and Michael was inclined to dismiss his tale about Hamecotes as groundless
gossip. But Wolf was a different matter. How ill had his pox made him? Bartholomew had more or less confessed to spotting
him at Stourbridge at the beginning of Clippesby’s incarceration, but had not seen him since. Michael frowned. Poxes could
be disfiguring, so it was possible the man had taken the scars of his shame to some remote manor until he was fit to be seen,
but it was equally possible that he was still somewhere in the town – or even that he was the corpse in the cistern.

‘I think we should revisit Merton Hall before we begin our written analysis,’ said the monk, when no answers were forthcoming.
‘I want to see whether I can catch any of that Oxford rabble in an inconsistency when I ask each one to repeat his story.
Will you come and make notes on what they say? Or do you find the prospect of a morning with Polmorva too unappealing?’

* * *

At Merton Hall they were shown into the solar by an elderly servant. All the Oxford men were there, with the exception of
Spryngheuse, who was in the garden. Bartholomew was surprised, having been under the impression that the soft-spoken Mertonian
seldom went out alone, on the grounds that someone might try to kill him. The three merchants were eating nuts, while Duraunt
and Polmorva were engaged in a debate. Duraunt was pleased to have visitors. Polmorva was not.

‘What are you discussing?’ asked Michael, sensing the debate had gone further than academic sparring and was moving to the
point where feelings might be hurt.

‘Yesterday we attended a lecture by a man named Dodenho,’ said Polmorva. ‘I thought it original and entertaining, while Duraunt
maintains the central thesis was purloined from someone else’s work. I believe he is mistaken, and we have been arguing about
it ever since.’

‘I attended that event, too,’ said Michael. He explained to Bartholomew. ‘It was about the dispute between Bonaventure and
Aquinas on the notion of individuation: if matter is common to all bodies, and forms are objects of concepts, then what gives
specific items their individuality?’

‘Bonaventure argued – and I believe him to be correct – that it is the conjunction of matter and form that gives objects their
individuality,’ said Polmorva. He gave one of his patronising sneers. ‘Let me give you an example, to help you understand,
Bartholomew: imagine a ball of wax, which is then stamped with a seal. The conjunction of wax and seal thus makes an individual
object – an imprinted disc – that is separate from either wax or seal, because of its form.’

‘Bonaventure then went on to make an analogous statement,’ said Michael, to show he was perfectly well acquainted with the
debate and its issues. ‘That human
individuality is assured only in the union of body and soul – and he considered the soul to comprise spiritual matter
and
spiritual forms.’

‘But Aquinas disagreed,’ said Bartholomew, placing parchment and ink on a table and preparing to take notes. ‘He maintained
that although the form of the spirit is shared by other members of the same species, a particular object is unique by virtue
of its determinate quantitative extension in space and time. And, in knowing form, the mind knows matter only in general terms.
Ergo
, reason cannot know singulars directly.’

Duraunt clapped his hands in delight. ‘I see you have not forgotten what I taught you all those years ago, Matthew. But you
did not come here to debate the question of corporeal substances.’ His expression was wistful. ‘Or did you? Such a discourse
would make an old man very happy.’

‘That is not why we are here,’ said Michael, although whether he referred to academic polemic or to pleasing Duraunt was unclear.
‘We have come – yet again – to unravel the web of lies that has been spun at Merton Hall. First, there were untruths about
Chesterfelde, then about Gonerby, then about Okehamptone, and now there is a fourth corpse to consider – one that has mysteriously
disappeared.’

‘That had nothing to do with us,’ said Eu. ‘We have been too busy trying to solve Gonerby’s murder. Of course, that would
not be an issue if your University was even remotely competent at deciding which of its members slaughters innocent merchants
in alien cities.’

‘Then what about you?’ asked Michael, swinging around to Polmorva. ‘You have had plenty of time to drop corpses in cisterns
and fish them out again, because you have not had the burden of identifying a killer, like these poor burgesses. Or have you?
Since you witnessed Gonerby’s
death, you are probably more than eager to see his murderer caught – so he does not try to silence you, too.’

Polmorva gave a tight smile. ‘I saw nothing to identify the culprit, and I can defend myself anyway. Brawling with Bartholomew
as a young man allowed me to hone my martial skills.’

‘If you fight as poorly as Matt, then you should consider hiring a bodyguard,’ advised Michael. ‘But the body missing from
the cistern is not my only concern today. I have recently learned that Eudo is a thief, and that he has been storing his ill-gotten
gains on Merton property.’

‘That is no surprise,’ said Polmorva. ‘The man lived here, for God’s sake. Where else would you expect him to keep his loot?
But this does not mean that you can charge
us
with his crimes.’

‘We shall see,’ replied Michael enigmatically. ‘One of the objects recovered from his hoard was an astrolabe. A silver one.’
He looked hard at Wormynghalle, who sat fiddling with his sheep-head pendant, although whether his restless twisting resulted
from boredom, anxiety or a guilty conscience was impossible to tell.

‘That was Polmorva’s,’ said Eu. ‘But, not being brass, it did not work, so he sold it to our tanner.’

‘Why did you sell it, Polmorva?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Are you short of funds?’

Polmorva stared at him with glittering hatred. ‘No, I am not,’ he snarled. ‘How dare you – with your patched tabard and frayed
tunic – accuse me of poverty. Do I
look
poor, when my clothes are the best money can buy, and Queen Philippa herself uses me as her occasional confessor and rewards
me accordingly? And how could I buy silver astrolabes, if I were impecunious? Your question is foolish as well as impertinent.’