The Mark of a Murderer (6 page)

Smiling with genuine affection, Bartholomew went to greet the man who had taught him the Trivium – grammar, logic and rhetoric
– so long ago. Duraunt had aged since Bartholomew had left Merton to complete his studies in Paris. His hair was white, and
there were deep lines in his kindly face. He had taken major orders with the Austin Canons, too, and wore a friar’s habit,
rather than the traditional Merton tabard Bartholomew recalled. When he clasped his teacher’s hand it felt thin and light-boned,
although the grip was still firm and warm. His grin was warm, too, and his face lit with joy as Bartholomew sat next to him.

‘You did not write as often as you promised,’ Duraunt
said, gently chiding. ‘Nor did you accept my offer of a Fellowship at Merton. What does Cambridge have that we could not provide?’

‘My sister,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘She wanted me near her. Besides, I like the Fens. They produce a poisonous miasma that
is the cause of several interesting agues.’

Duraunt smothered a fond smile. ‘Well, that is a virtue with which Oxford cannot compete.’ He glanced at Polmorva. ‘I hope
you two will behave respectfully towards each other, and do not continue that silly feud you began as students. It was a long
time ago, and I doubt you even recall what started it.’

‘I do,’ said Polmorva coldly. ‘It is not something I am likely to forget – or to forgive.’

‘You could have asked me about Matt when I came to inspect Okehamptone,’ said Michael, after a short and tense silence; out
of respect for Duraunt, Bartholomew refrained from responding in kind. ‘You did not mention then that you knew him, and I
was with you for some time.’

Duraunt shrugged. ‘You are a Benedictine and Matthew detests that particular Order. I did not imagine there was any possibility
that you and he would be acquainted.’

‘Is that so?’ asked Michael, startled. ‘And what, pray, is his problem with Black Monks?’

‘He is very vocal about their venality,’ explained Duraunt, oblivious to his former student’s discomfort. ‘And then there
was that business with them and the set of artificial teeth provided at feasts for those who had lost their own. He made no
secret of what he thought of
that
.’

‘I can imagine,’ said Michael, intrigued by a hitherto unknown episode in his friend’s past. ‘But perhaps you would elaborate?’

‘Another time,’ said Duraunt, finally noting the mortified expression on Bartholomew’s face.

‘You have still not explained why you have come to deal with a corpse,’ said Polmorva, addressing Bartholomew. ‘Have I underestimated
you, and you have reached the dizzy heights of
Junior
Proctor?’ He smirked disdainfully.

‘He is the University’s Senior Corpse Examiner,’ replied Michael, making the post sound a good deal grander than it was, ‘and
one of our most valued officers. So, lead us to Chesterfelde’s body, and we can set about bringing his killer to the hangman’s
noose.’

‘Polmorva said it was not decent to leave him on the floor while we ate breakfast, so we put him in the solar,’ said Duraunt.
‘However, he was killed here, in the hall, during the night – we know, because he was found at dawn today, and he was alive
when we retired to bed.’

‘Where did the rest of you sleep?’ asked Michael. ‘In the solar?’

Duraunt shook his head. ‘The solar is used by Eudo, who rents this manor, and Bailiff Boltone. It is the best room in the
house, and it would not be right to oust the man who pays to live here.’

‘I disagree,’ said Polmorva, and from the weary expression on Duraunt’s face, Bartholomew saw this was not the first time
this particular issue had been aired. ‘Merton owns this building, and its bailiffs and tenants should evacuate the “best room”
when College members visit.’

‘I do not want our people claiming we treat them shabbily,’ said Duraunt tiredly. ‘We are the visitors, so we shall sleep
in the hall and leave them the solar.’

Michael brought the discussion back to the murder. ‘But you said Chesterfelde died in the hall. How could that happen, if
you were here?’

Duraunt’s expression was sombre. ‘That is precisely why we were all so shocked. I sleep lightly, and wake at the slightest
sound, but I heard nothing last night, and neither did anyone else. I suppose I was exhausted – I was in church
most of yesterday, preparing myself for Pentecost.’

Michael was bemused. ‘Are you telling me Chesterfelde was killed while he was in the same room as you both?’

Duraunt nodded unhappily. ‘I am afraid so, Brother.’

Michael raised his eyebrows and gazed dispassionately at Polmorva. ‘I see. Were the three of you alone, or were there others
present, too?’

Duraunt rubbed his eyes. ‘There was Spryngheuse, who is a Merton man, like me. Chesterfelde was from Balliol, but he and Spryngheuse
were friends regardless. And there were three Oxford burgesses called Abergavenny, Eu and Wormynghalle.’

‘Chesterfelde was murdered in the presence of
six
other people?’ asked Michael, making no attempt to hide his incredulity. ‘And none of you heard or saw anything?’

‘That is what we said,’ replied Polmorva insolently. ‘Would you like me to repeat it, so it can take root in your ponderous
mind?’

Bartholomew blocked Michael’s way, as the monk took an angry step towards him. He knew from experience that Polmorva could
goad people to do or say things they later regretted, and he did not want Michael to strike him and face some trumped-up charge
of assault that would divert attention from Chesterfelde’s death. Then it occurred to him that Polmorva might have antagonised
Chesterfelde, and the resulting fracas had ended in a death. It would not be the first time such a thing had happened and,
as far as Bartholomew was concerned, Polmorva was at the top of his list of murder suspects.

‘Where are Spryngheuse and the three merchants now?’ he asked.

‘Out,’ replied Polmorva shortly. ‘They grew tired of waiting for you to come, so they left.’

Michael was now in control of himself. He smiled pleasantly as he took a seat opposite Duraunt. ‘Then we shall
have to make do with you two. What can
you
tell me about Chesterfelde? Why did he come here? Because he was friends with Spryngheuse?’

Polmorva sighed. ‘We answered these questions when you came to poke into Okehamptone’s death. Do you have nothing better to
do? Cambridge scholars are a wild and undisciplined rabble. Surely your time would be better spent in taming them?’

‘I hardly think we need that kind of advice from you,’ retorted Michael tartly. ‘You have been obliged to run away from your
University because it is so unsettled. At least here we can walk the streets without resentful townsmen coming after us with
pitchforks and spades.’

This was not strictly true, and the relationship between University and town was uneasy, to say the least. But there had been
no serious disturbances for several months, and Cambridge was as calm as could be expected. Bartholomew hoped it would stay
that way until the Archbishop had been and gone.

‘We all came for different reasons,’ replied Duraunt, striving to keep the peace. ‘As I told you before, Brother, I am here
to do an inventory of Merton property in Cambridge. There is evidence that Bailiff Boltone and Eudo are keeping some of the
profits that should come to us . . .’ He trailed off unhappily, clearly uncomfortable with his role in investigating others’
dishonesty.

‘The man who let us in?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘He did not seem worried about you being here.’ He did not add that the bailiff
seemed more concerned with the scholars’ maudlin spirits than bothered by what they might learn about his accounting practices.

‘Probably because he thinks he has covered his tracks,’ said Polmorva. ‘But why do you think I told him to be about his work,
and not to stand gossiping with you? It is because I want to impeach the fellow, as he deserves, so
we can move to another of Merton’s manors and leave this nasty town.’

‘So, Polmorva is here because Oxford is too dangerous for him,’ said Bartholomew, addressing his summary to Duraunt. ‘And
you came to investigate a dishonest tenant. What about the others? Why are three Oxford burgesses staying here, and what about
the dead men: Okehamptone and now Chesterfelde? Why did they come?’

‘I am not the only one who believes it is prudent to let Oxford settle before we return to our studies,’ replied Polmorva.
‘Chesterfelde and Spryngheuse also left because they feared for their safety. As Duraunt said, they were friends – Spryngheuse
decided to flee, so he invited Chesterfelde to run with him.’

‘And the three merchants are here to look for a killer,’ explained Duraunt. ‘They believe a scholar used the St Scholastica’s
Day riot as an excuse to kill one of their colleagues, and they have evidence that suggests the villain came to Cambridge
afterwards. Okehamptone was their scribe.’

Michael pursed his lips. ‘You did not mention this when I was here last time. You said then that these merchants were here
for business. This is poor form, gentlemen. The proper procedure for such matters is to inform the appropriate authority –
me, in this case – immediately upon arrival. It is not polite to investigate crimes in other people’s towns without asking.’

‘They are with your Chancellor as we speak – obtaining official permission for something they have been doing anyway,’ said
Polmorva smugly.

‘That is not true,’ said Duraunt sharply. Bartholomew recalled Polmorva’s unpleasant habit of rumour-mongering, and was disgusted
the man had not grown out of it. ‘These are merchants – men always looking for opportunities to expand their trade. They have
been visiting
other burgesses in the area – not just in Cambridge, but in the surrounding villages – and have been so busy that they have
had no chance to investigate the death of their colleague.’

‘Then Chesterfelde was murdered, and they realised Cambridge is just as dangerous as Oxford,’ finished Polmorva. ‘They decided
they had better find their killer and go home before anyone else dies.’ He sighed, and glanced meaningfully at the sun. ‘Do
you want to see Chesterfelde’s corpse or not?’

He led the way to the solar, where a body rested on the floor, covered with a sheet. A bulge near its shoulders indicated
that although it had been moved to a more convenient location, nothing else had been done: Chesterfelde was lying on his front
with the dagger still protruding from his back. Bartholomew pulled the cover away and began his examination, childishly gratified
when he heard Polmorva’s soft exclamation of disgust, followed by a walk to the window for fresh air.

Bartholomew was thorough. He did not like the idea of a man being murdered in the same room as six other people, and no one
noticing. He also felt there was more to the case than either Duraunt or Polmorva had led them to believe. Seeing Polmorva
again reminded him of how much he had detested the man, and he admitted to himself that at least some of his attention to
detail was in the hope that he would discover something that would incriminate him.

‘Whoever stabbed Chesterfelde did so after he was dead,’ he said eventually, sitting back on his heels and looking up at Michael.
‘No dagger killed this man.’

Astonishment flashed in Michael’s eyes, but was quickly suppressed; he did not want to appear at a loss in front of men from
Oxford. ‘Matt is good at this kind of thing,’ he said, rather boastfully. ‘It is why we always –
always
– solve any crimes that are committed here. If a man has been
killed in Cambridge, then you can trust us to bring his murderer to justice.’

‘I am glad he is useful,’ said Duraunt, although distaste was clear in his voice. ‘But what do you mean, Matthew? Of course
he died from being stabbed. Look at the knife buried in his back!’

‘But there is very little blood. His clothes would have been drenched in it had the dagger killed him, and you can see they
are not. This wound was inflicted after he died.’

‘Someone stabbed a corpse?’ asked Polmorva in a tone that suggested he thought the physician was wrong. ‘Why would anyone
do that?’

‘I have no idea,’ said Bartholomew. He pointed to a ragged gash in Chesterfelde’s wrist. ‘But this is the injury that caused
him to bleed to death.’

When Bartholomew had finished his examination of the dead scholar, he and Michael left Merton Hall. Duraunt was troubled,
and urged Michael to solve the murder as quickly as possible. Polmorva informed the monk that there was nothing to solve,
and that Chesterfelde had been killed by Bailiff Boltone or the tenant Eudo, claiming they must have mistaken him for Duraunt
in the dark – Duraunt had come to expose their dishonesty, and it was obvious they had reacted to the threat he posed. Unfortunately
for Chesterfelde, in the unlit room and with so many men sleeping, an error was made.

‘Duraunt seems decent, but Polmorva is an ass,’ declared Michael, as he and Bartholomew walked down Bridge Street. The monk
was alarmed by the notion that three merchants planned to conduct their own murder enquiry in his town, and hoped to interrupt
their meeting with the Chancellor before he granted them the requisite permission. The last thing he needed with the Archbishop’s
Visitation looming was burgesses asking scholars if they had committed a savage crime. It would bring about a fight between
town and University for certain.

‘Duraunt
is
a good man,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘However, Boltone and Eudo have little to fear from an investigation into these alleged
accounting irregularities: if Boltone says they made an honest mistake, Duraunt will believe him. Boltone no doubt knows this,
which is why he seems unconcerned. However, if Duraunt recruits Polmorva, then Boltone will be in trouble: Polmorva will
see him dismissed – or worse – on the most tenuous of evidence. Duraunt may be keen to see the good in people, but Polmorva
always looks for the worst.’

‘I do not understand why Duraunt should invite Polmorva to travel with him in the first place. Gentle men do not choose that
sort of company without a compelling reason.’