The Mark of a Murderer (38 page)

‘I do not know,’ said Polmorva icily. ‘I was not standing by this tree when he died to see what happened, was I?’

‘Really,’ said Michael flatly, in a tone that indicated he was not so sure. Polmorva bristled, but Michael turned to Duraunt
before he could respond. ‘We will give Spryngheuse the benefit of the doubt, and will ensure he has all the due ceremony appropriate
to a recently deceased scholar from a respected Oxford College. It is often difficult to tell the difference between murder
and suicide in hangings, and we may never know what really happened.’

He shot Bartholomew a look that the physician interpreted as a suggestion that he should inspect the body later, without a
hostile audience. It was a recommendation Bartholomew intended to follow, because he did not want to be accused of witchcraft
or a morbid love of anatomy while he carried out his examination. Michael went to fetch the bier and Polmorva accompanied
him, saying he wanted to ensure the monk left Merton Hall and did not go exploring by himself. The merchants declined to linger
with a dead man – especially once it started to rain – and it was not long before Bartholomew was alone with Duraunt.

‘Are Polmorva’s accusations true?’ the old man asked in a voice that cracked with sorrow. ‘Do you defile corpses by prodding
them after they have been laid to rest?’

‘I did inspect Okehamptone,’ admitted Bartholomew, not liking the way Duraunt considered his duties sacrilegious. ‘But only
to find out how he died. I imagine most men would want justice if their lives were snatched by killers, and I do not think
Okehamptone would object to someone discovering he had been murdered.’ He thought about the uneasy sensation he had experienced
shortly after the examination, and sincerely hoped he was right.

Duraunt went to sit on the cistern wall. The pit was
already half full, recovering quickly from Tulyet’s drainage. ‘I find the notion of you caressing a two-week-dead corpse painfully
disturbing. Did you “inspect” him with the help of a knife and rouse out his innards while you were there?’

‘I did not,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘That would be illegal.’

Duraunt sighed, and was silent for a while, evidently too unsettled to discuss the matter further. Eventually, he changed
the subject. ‘The merchants are itching to be back to their businesses. I suspect they plan to blame Okehamptone or Chesterfelde
for killing Gonerby, just to have something to tell this demanding widow. Both are dead, so not in a position to argue.’

‘They may be maligning the names of innocent men.’

‘Is that worse than seizing someone
en route
and dragging him to Oxford for hanging? Because that is what they will do if they fail to catch a culprit: they have vowed
not to return empty-handed. I shall be glad to go home, though. Oxford is violent and unsettled, but I have friends there,
and I know where I stand. Here I do not know who to trust.’

‘Like Polmorva, you mean?’

‘No, I do not mean Polmorva,’ said Duraunt, although his eyes dipped away when he spoke. ‘I know you dislike him, but it is
the merchants I am worried about. Eu and Wormynghalle hate each other, and Abergavenny is hard-pressed to keep the peace.
I would not be surprised to learn that one of them took the lives of Okehamptone, Chesterfelde and Spryngheuse. They hate
my University with a passion, and may regard this as a good opportunity to rid themselves of a few of us.’

‘Then why did you invite them to stay at Merton Hall?’

‘Because I fear the St Scholastica’s Day riots were started deliberately, and I do not want the same thing to happen here.
I would rather have the merchants where I can see them.’

It sounded noble, but Duraunt no longer struck Bartholomew as a man who would put his own scholars in danger to protect a
strange town. Once again he was not sure what to think.

Duraunt forced a smile. ‘Let us talk of happier things, Matthew. Have you read any of the theories recently proposed by Heytesbury?
We are proud to have him at our College.’

‘A Fellow from King’s Hall – Hamecotes – is visiting Oxford at the moment,’ said Bartholomew, grateful to discuss a topic
that would not be contentious. ‘He has gone to buy books, and says he has already secured Heytesbury’s
Regulae solvendi sophismata
from Merton.’

Duraunt shook his head. ‘Not from Merton, Matthew. We never sell our books, because we barely have enough for ourselves, as
I am sure you will remember. And Heytesbury’s
Regulae
would be far too valuable to exchange for mere money. It would be priceless to us.’

‘How odd,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘I wonder if Hamecotes made the story up, and has gone off on business of his own – or whether
someone wants us to believe he is somewhere he is not.’

‘You think he is dead? Perhaps he is the body you saw in the cistern.’ Duraunt glanced behind him at the murky water, and
stood quickly.

‘There is no reason to think that. Perhaps he has escaped with a lover, as Weasenham says. Or perhaps he is with Wolf, nursing
him through his pox.’ Bartholomew went to where Spryngheuse lay, sorry he was dead and recalling the man’s distress in the
days before he died.

‘Do not touch him, Matthew,’ said Duraunt softly, watching the physician close the staring eyes. ‘If you examine him and discover
he committed suicide, then we shall have to inter him in unhallowed ground: my conscience will not allow anything else. But
as long as there
is doubt, he can rest in a churchyard. Let there be doubt, so he can be given a Christian burial.’

Reluctantly, Bartholomew complied.

Suspecting his Corpse Examiner would never have an opportunity to examine Spryngheuse unless he took matters into his own
hands, Michael abandoned the notion of taking the body to St Clement’s, and arranged for it to go to St Michael’s instead.
This, he assured the suspicious Oxford contingent, was a great honour, and Spryngheuse would be guaranteed prayers from men
who were members of a University, like himself. When they remained sceptical, he offered to bury Chesterfelde at the same
time – two interments for the price of one. Father William had agreed to undertake vigils with his Franciscan students, and
Michael said he would recite the requiem mass himself, which met with further suspicion from Polmorva, gratitude from Duraunt
and indifference from the merchants. It was, after all, not they who would be footing the bill for the funeral expenses.

‘And what about the interdict?’ asked Polmorva archly. ‘We have been told that prevents any Oxford citizen from being decently
laid to rest.’

‘We shall bury them first and worry about the relevant dispensations later,’ replied Michael. He smiled at Duraunt. ‘Then,
even if permission is refused, no one will want to exhume them, especially once Matt has described the diseases that might
be unleashed in so doing.’

‘Thank you,’ said Duraunt, taking Michael’s hand in both of his own. ‘When will you perform the rite? It is Friday now and
Chesterfelde died on Saturday. The sooner he is laid to rest the better.’

‘Today,’ said Michael, wanting the bodies out of St Michael’s well before the Visitation. He did not like the notion of the
Archbishop stepping inside and declaring it
reeked of the dead. ‘Before vespers. I hope you will all attend.’

‘We might,’ said Eu cautiously. ‘It depends on what else is happening.’

‘I will come,’ declared Duraunt. ‘And so will Polmorva.’ Polmorva looked none too pleased that he had been volunteered, but
he inclined his head in reluctant assent.

Michael had arranged for Spryngheuse to be carried away by pall-bearers he had commandeered from Michaelhouse. Deynman and
Falmeresham were more than happy to escape the monotonous tones of Master Langelee reading a text he did not understand, while
Cynric was always willing to help the monk. The book-bearer nodded amiably at Abergavenny and exchanged a few words in Welsh,
while Bartholomew and the students lifted Spryngheuse into the parish coffin. Then Cynric and Bartholomew took the front of
the box, and the others grabbed the back.

‘What did he say?’ asked Bartholomew of the Welshman.

‘He asked me to keep you from dissecting Spryngheuse once you have him in your domain – but that if I cannot, then I am to
make sure Duraunt and Polmorva do not find out.’

Bartholomew frowned. ‘What did he mean by issuing such a request? That he hopes no one will examine Spryngheuse, because there
is evidence that he did not kill himself ? And that Duraunt and Polmorva have a good reason for wanting such information kept
hidden?’

‘Or that they are more likely to make a fuss,’ suggested Falmeresham practically. ‘That pair seem opposed to anatomy in any
form, but especially when practised by you.’

‘Or that you may discover Spryngheuse
was
a suicide, which means he cannot be buried at St Michael’s,’ offered Cynric. ‘A suicide
and
a man under interdict is banned from hallowed ground on two counts.’

Bartholomew recalled Michael’s contention that Abergavenny was a man clever enough to kill and evade justice, and wondered
whether the monk had been right. Tulyet was still convinced Eu was involved in more than he had revealed, while Bartholomew
had not shaken his conviction that the blustering Wormynghalle was the villain. He grimaced when he recalled the way the tanner
had levelled his accusation regarding the astrolabe, and supposed the dislike was mutual.

They reached the church, where Bartholomew ensured Spryngheuse was arranged neatly and covered with a clean blanket. Polmorva
watched him with the eyes of a hawk, while Duraunt knelt nearby and prayed. Neither scholar made a move to leave the chapel,
so Michael announced it was time for his mid-morning repast and begged them to excuse him. Bartholomew was bemused, because
Michaelhouse did not run to additional meals during the day, and supposed the monk intended to inveigle an invitation to King’s
Hall again. He followed him along the High Street and into St Michael’s Lane. After a few steps Michael doubled back, peering
around the corner.

‘There they go,’ he said with satisfaction. ‘I knew they would not linger once we had gone. Come on, before the Franciscans
arrive for their vigil.’

He grabbed the physician’s arm and hauled him back to St Michael’s, where he barred the door to make sure the Oxford men did
not return and catch them unawares.

‘Hurry,’ he ordered peremptorily. ‘We do not have long, and I need answers.’

‘I am not sure about this,’ said Bartholomew unhappily. ‘Duraunt asked me not to determine whether the death was suicide or
murder, because he wants Spryngheuse buried in the churchyard.’

‘We shall put him there regardless,’ said Michael. ‘The wretched man was terrified out of his senses these last few
days, and we always bury lunatics in hallowed ground, no matter how they die.’

‘He claimed a Black Monk was following him,’ said Bartholomew, making no move to comply.

‘Then that proves he was addled,’ said Michael. ‘I know every Benedictine in this town, and none is in the habit of stalking
people. Spryngheuse imagined this spectre, which is why no one else ever saw him. Come on, Matt. I need to know what happened.’

Bartholomew examined the marks around the dead man’s neck, trying to be fast and thorough at the same time, eager to be done
before Polmorva or Duraunt returned. It was not long before he had learned all he could. He turned to Michael.

‘When we stood by the tree, looking at Spryngheuse’s body, I noticed fresh scratches on the bark, and here you can see corresponding
marks on his shoes. They suggest he climbed the trunk of his own accord. His hands are not tied, and there are no signs of
a struggle. Also, the noose’s knot is just behind his ear. I have noticed it is nearly always there when death is self-inflicted,
whereas it tends to be at the back when someone else lends a hand. Can you see the bruising caused by the rope is in an inverted
V? With murder it tends to be more of a straight line, although there are exceptions, of course. However, in this case, I
am almost certain it was suicide.’

‘When did it happen?’

Bartholomew knew from experience that time of death was difficult to estimate with any degree of certainty. ‘He was last seen
at dawn – so some time between then and when we found him.’

‘Thank you, Matt. However, I had worked that much out for myself. Can you not be more specific?’

‘Not really. The body is cool to the touch, blood has pooled in its hands, and it is beginning to stiffen around
the eyes and jaws, so I suppose he died closer to dawn than to now.’

‘And he perished by hanging? You will not later claim there was a bite in his throat or that he was knocked on the head?’

‘It is difficult to be sure about anything you do not actually witness, but you can see for yourself that his throat is intact.’

‘Polmorva claimed that Spryngheuse did not want to die, and we saw for ourselves that he was terrified, which
does
indicate a desire to live. Why would he suddenly give up on life?’

‘It was not sudden: remember what he was doing at the Great Bridge on Sunday? Perhaps he decided it was better to die than
to live too frightened to eat, sleep, or even go for a walk.’

Michael sighed. ‘There is only one thing that is clear in this case: all our victims are connected to Oxford. It started with
Gonerby, bitten during that city’s riots. Next was Okehamptone, an Oxford scribe, whose murder was disguised to appear as
a fever. And now Balliol’s Chesterfelde and Merton’s Spryngheuse – two men accused of instigating the St Scholastica’s Day
disorder – are dead.’

‘None of Okehamptone’s companions examined the body, not even out of curiosity,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘Do you not think that
is odd?’

‘Most folk do not share your fascination with the dead, Matt. And anyway, the University’s Senior Proctor and a Corpse Examiner
came to do that for them. So, what does this tell us, other than that their trust in my abilities was sadly misplaced?’

‘That the killer was relieved when his plan passed off without a hitch. Do you recall any odd reactions among the Oxford men
that day?’