The Lost Prophecies

by The Medieval Murderers

  ‘Well?’ asked Michael, as Bartholomew completed his examination. ‘What can you tell me?’

  ‘He died from a blow to the back of the head, delivered by something heavy and blunt. The wound is too well defined to have been made by a stone, and not well defined enough to have been made by a sword. It was caused by some other implement.’

  ‘Such as a mallet,’ said Michael flatly, seeing where the physician was going.

  ‘A mallet would be a likely contender,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘And there is something else.’

  ‘Yes,’ said William tightly. ‘The killer was not content with just bludgeoning poor Roger. He insisted on mocking us too.’

  Bartholomew turned Roger’s face to one side so it caught the light. The left cheek was untouched, but the right one had a bloody mark carved into it. It was the letter P.

  ‘What does that mean?’ asked Michael, gazing at it in bewilderment.

  ‘It stands for Peterhouse, of course,’ replied March. ‘What else could it be?’

  Michael was deeply uneasy as he left King’s Hall and followed William to All Saints’, Bartholomew in tow. He had managed to persuade the vice-warden to refrain from tackling Peterhouse until the proctors had inspected the scene of the crime and spoken to witnesses, although agreement was given reluctantly, and he was not sure William could be trusted to keep his word. The man was mad with grief and fury, and it would take very little for him to gather his troops and head off for a confrontation with the foundation he had grown to hate.

  ‘It seems so unlikely,’ said Michael to Bartholomew as they walked. He spoke in a low voice, so William would not hear. ‘Why would Peterhouse advertise what they had done?’

  ‘Peterhouse?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘You mean Wittleseye. He is the one with the bloody mallet under his bed.’

  ‘Not necessarily. Perhaps one of his students did it – killed Roger, cut the mark into his victim’s face, then realized it was stupid, so hid the hammer in Wittleseye’s room because he did not know how else to extricate himself from his predicament.’

  ‘It is possible, I suppose,’ conceded Bartholomew, although with scant conviction. ‘Do you think Roger killed Neuton and was dispatched in revenge? I would not have thought Roger was the type to poison someone, but then I would not have said he was the type to discuss prophecies with Shirford either.’

  ‘I am not comfortable with March’s abrupt defection to King’s Hall,’ said Michael, voicing another concern. ‘I would not put any low deed past him – poisoning, bludgeoning, planting murder weapons on innocent parties, assaulting proctors. And not carving letters on a dead man’s face either.’

  ‘Can he write?’

  ‘Yes, unusually for a beadle. But speculation is taking us nowhere: we need solid proof.’ Michael called out to William, who was walking a few steps ahead of them. ‘After yesterday’s brawl, everyone from King’s Hall went home. Did Roger leave the college at any point, other than to go to All Saints’ and guard the book?’

  William turned to face him. ‘No. Some of our lads escaped in the night, to be caught by John de St Philibert. But my brothers and I held a wake for Hugh. It started immediately after you left and did not finish until morning Mass. Roger was the only one to leave, which he did about an hour before dawn – to watch over the book, as I said.’

  ‘And when did March come to tell you what he had found?’

  ‘Shortly after sunrise. Roger must have been killed not long after he left us, because his corpse was cooling. I have been in enough battles to know about that sort of thing.’

  They arrived at All Saints’, but Shirford had heard what had happened to Roger and was loath to answer the door. He yielded only when Michael threatened to set fire to it. The priest’s face was pale, and he looked as though he had been crying. Whether the tears were for Roger or for his own unenviable predicament was impossible to say.

  ‘The book has precipitated some evil deeds,’ he said miserably. ‘Poor Roger! He was a sullen devil at times, but he had a good heart. He brought me food every evening.’

  ‘Even yesterday?’ asked Michael. He glared at William when Shirford nodded. ‘You said Roger did not leave Hugh’s wake until an hour before dawn.’

  William shrugged. ‘I forgot about the earlier excursion. But he was gone less than an hour.’

  ‘An hour?’ Michael was not amused. ‘That is a long time for delivering victuals.’

  ‘He was not with me that long,’ said Shirford, before catching William’s eye and falling silent.

  ‘Perhaps I misremembered the length of his absence,’ hedged William. But he saw he was not going to fool the Senior Proctor and gave an impatient sigh. ‘All right. Roger left the wake before sunset to take Shirford his supper. But I decided not to tell you about it, because I knew what you would think – that he used the time to go and kill Neuton.’

  ‘He had a motive,’ said Michael coldly. ‘And now we learn he had an opportunity.’

  ‘If you think that, then you are a greater fool than you look,’ snapped William. ‘Roger would never stoop to poison, not when he had a dagger in his belt.’

  ‘He might follow orders, though,’ argued Michael. ‘Such as to deliver something to a kitchen while cooks were out. I imagine he was excellent at fulfilling that sort of duty.’

  Shirford smiled, keen to say something positive about the man who had been kind to him. ‘Oh, he was very good at errands. He ran them for me all the time – fetching books from the library, ensuring I had clean clothes, buying fuel for my lamp . . .’ He trailed off when he became aware that he was the subject of another furious glare from William.

  Bartholomew stepped forward when he saw the vice-warden beginning to lose his temper. ‘Michael will find out what happened to Roger,’ he said soothingly. ‘He knows what he is doing.’

  ‘But I will not succeed unless people are honest with me,’ added Michael. ‘How can I solve any murder when no one tells me the truth?’

  ‘I have not lied,’ snapped William. ‘I just neglected to mention something.’

  Michael grimaced but declined to argue. He turned to Shirford. ‘Roger’s body was found in the churchyard, right outside. You must have heard something.’

  Shirford’s expression was apologetic. ‘Unfortunately, I did not. After you left, all was calm until your Junior Proctor caught those Peterhouse lads trying to break in. And then all was quiet again until March found Roger’s corpse.’

  ‘So,’ summarized Michael, ‘Roger brought you your supper around the time when Neuton was poisoned. Then he returned to King’s Hall and joined the wake with his brothers. Shortly before dawn, he left the party because he was worried about the book.’

  ‘Why are you wasting time here?’ barked William, his patience finally breaking. ‘Peterhouse killed Roger. The culprit might even be Wittleseye himself. He claims he is no warrior, but warriors do not sneak up behind someone and batter out his brains.’

  ‘Shattered bones,’ murmured Michael, so only Bartholomew could hear. ‘Roger’s bones are shattered, and the King’s house is certainly mourning – far more so than the occupants of the rock, when murder spoiled their most sacred place. Now all we need do is wait for the traitor’s face to blaze. Whatever that means.’

  ‘Judging by the speed at which these events are coming true, I do not think we need wait for long,’ whispered Bartholomew. ‘Indeed, I think the traitor might be standing right here in front of us.’

  ‘William? Yes, I see why you settled on him as your prime suspect. He is mine too.’

  ‘Not William,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Shirford.’

  Michael was startled by the physician’s choice but knew better than to dismiss his opinion out of hand, no matter how outlandish it sounded when phrased so tersely. They escorted William home to King’s Hall, where they left a whole pack of beadles to ensure that he could not escape to wreak havoc. William was furious to find himself effectively imprisoned in his own college, but the monk tartly inform
ed him that he could spend the day in the proctors’ gaol if he would prefer. March came to stand next to the seething vice-warden and began whispering in his ear.

  ‘He will not stay in long, Brother,’ warned Bartholomew as they left. ‘He wants revenge, and if you do not present him with Roger’s killer soon he will go out and find himself a culprit.’

  ‘Bartholomew is right,’ said John. He was waiting for them outside the gate, having delivered the mallet to the proctors’ office. ‘William Bardolf is out for blood, and I suspect yesterday’s riot will be nothing if he is allowed to do as he pleases today.’

  ‘If anyone dies as a result of his agitating, he will stand trial for murder,’ vowed Michael. ‘His father may be the king’s favourite, but that will not save him from the full rigours of the law if he disregards my orders. I will see to that.’

  ‘He is on the verge of presenting “the king’s favourite” with a powerful book of prophecies,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘I imagine all manner of blind eyes might be turned in repayment for that sort of service. The only way to prevent further bloodshed is to solve these murders fast.’

  John pulled the Senior Proctor and his Corpse Examiner into the churchyard surrounding All Saints’, near the spot where March had found Roger’s body. It was peaceful, and they were shielded from view by a row of trees, so it was a good place in which to talk without distractions.

  ‘Then you two had better start analysing,’ he said practically. ‘You need to review all you have learned, to put the clues together and see if you can come up with a viable suspect.’

  Michael was loath to chat when time was so critical, but he saw the sense in his deputy’s suggestion. He took a deep breath to calm himself. ‘Then tell us why you think Shirford is the culprit, Matt.’

  Bartholomew marshalled his thoughts. ‘Shirford insists that Drayton was unpleasant, as if that justified his murder. And I am suspicious of why he agreed to become the book’s guardian, when it is obvious the task would transpire to be dangerous.’

  ‘Is that it?’ demanded Michael in disbelief. ‘I thought you had something sensible to suggest! You only have to look at Shirford to see why he accepted the Bardolfs’ offer: he is desperately poor and wants a parish of his own. This task represents a few weeks of risk in return for a lifetime of comparative ease and security.’

  John nodded his agreement. ‘Furthermore, your theory does not explain who killed Neuton and Roger. Shirford cannot be the culprit, because he was locked inside All Saints’ when they died.’

  ‘We have only his word for that,’ countered Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps he slipped out.’

  ‘But why would he kill them?’ asked John. ‘What could he gain?’

  ‘He obviously does not want Peterhouse to have the book,’ replied Bartholomew, thinking fast, ‘or he would not have agreed to protect it for King’s Hall. So he poisoned Neuton in order to frighten Peterhouse into dropping their claim.’

  ‘And Roger?’ demanded Michael, deeply unimpressed by his reasoning. ‘Roger was kind to him, bringing him supper and conversation. Why would Shirford kill him?’

  Bartholomew was struggling for answers. ‘Perhaps he did not like the fact that Roger was of no use in interpreting the prophecies. He gave false information about the King of Scotland.’

  ‘Men do not kill for such paltry reasons,’ declared John disdainfully.

  ‘Actually, they do,’ countered Michael, who had a lot more experience of murder than his deputy.

  John sniffed. ‘Well, I refuse to believe Shirford is such a ruthless villain. As far as I am concerned, Bartholomew’s theory is seriously flawed – and accusing the wrong man may lead to even worse trouble than we have already. I sincerely hope you have a more convincing suspect, Brother.’

  ‘I do: William. Why else would he be so determined to go on the rampage? He is trying to cause so much chaos that we will be overwhelmed, and the murders he committed will be forgotten amid a wider slaughter. The only way to stop him is to arrest him.’

  ‘But if you are wrong, the consequences will be catastrophic,’ argued John. ‘One of his kinsmen will assume command, and they are far more brutal than he. And if William is innocent, then his father will have your head – and mine – on a platter. And my prospective father-in-law, the earl—’

  ‘This is not the time to think about ourselves,’ snapped Michael, beginning to aim for the road.

  John put out a hand to stop him. ‘I know you are keen to discharge your duty, but we must take time to review the situation – to use wits and logic, and ensure we take the course of action that will bring this vile business to a swift and bloodless conclusion.’

  Michael knew he was right, and that relations between the two colleges had reached a critical point. A wrongful accusation might well precipitate more strife. He took another calming breath. ‘We have three murders,’ he began, ‘all connected to this damned book. At least two – Neuton and Roger – seem to have been predicted by it. Drayton’s death was seven years ago, but his killer still walks free, and I cannot help but wonder whether William has turned to slaughter again.’

  ‘You think all were murdered by the same hand?’ asked John in surprise. ‘I suppose it makes sense, although it does not explain why William waited so long before claiming a second victim.’

  ‘He is not killing for killing’s sake,’ snapped Michael impatiently. ‘He is killing for a purpose – a purpose clearly connected to the book. I imagine he stabbed Drayton to lay hands on it, then arranged for its miraculous reappearance after the passing of what he thought was a suitable amount of time. But his plans went awry, and he was obliged to kill again.’

  ‘Your argument does not make sense,’ said Bartholomew dismissively. ‘It leaves too many unanswered questions.’

  Michael made an exasperated gesture. ‘Then that is too bad, because we do not have time for lengthy explanations. William will transpire to be the culprit. Or rather, William and Roger together. I imagine they killed Drayton because they did not want Peterhouse to have the book. Then they poisoned Neuton in revenge for Hugh.’

  Bartholomew was not convinced. ‘William and Roger are not the kind of men to wait years before capitalizing on the proceeds of a crime. You said so yourself. They are crude and impetuous.’

  ‘William can be patient when he wants – he must have managed patience when he was elected vice-warden, because his colleagues do not bestow that sort of honour on hotheads.’

  ‘I took the opportunity to gossip with some King’s Hall students last night.’ John spoke hesitantly, unsure whether he should share what he had learned. He hurried on when Michael glared at him. ‘When Roger was sick of the flux last term, William doctored him with a remedy sent by their grandmother, the French witch.’

  ‘Hah!’ exclaimed Michael in triumph. ‘Perhaps she sent other potions too. Such as cordial.’

  ‘All right,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘So Roger put the poison in Neuton’s flask after he took Shirford his supper – and it is suspicious that William “forgot” to mention him going out at the pertinent time – but then what? Who killed Roger?’

  ‘William.’ Michael held up his hand when the others started to voice their objections. ‘He was not overly distressed when Hugh died, so why should Roger be any different? His so-called grief is a ruse, so we will not think he killed his own kinsman.’

  ‘And what has he gained by dispatching Roger?’ asked Bartholomew sceptically.

  ‘Safety – no one to let slip that he ordered Neuton’s death. And he is right to take precautions, because Roger was indiscreet and stupid, and might well have blurted out something by mistake. However, all this would make a lot more sense if we knew where this wretched book has been for the last seven years. And do not say God was looking after it, because it is not the kind of tome that warrants divine attention.’

  ‘Why not?’ asked John, startled by the assertion.

  ‘Because I do not see Him protecting a text that describes a queen
’s dalliance with a lover or a spat between colleges. These events are important to people, not to the Almighty. Ergo it is a person who has had this book for the last seven years, and the obvious suspect is William.’

  ‘Or Shirford,’ countered Bartholomew. ‘And we have overlooked the whisperer in our analysis too. Shirford claims he was locked in the church during the riot, but perhaps he was out with his hood hiding his face. He goaded Hugh and later tried to kill John.’

  Michael looked dubious. ‘Shirford will desire peace, Matt. He will not want Peterhouse trying to take the book by force, because he is the one obliged to protect it.’

  ‘Wittleseye!’ exclaimed John suddenly. ‘He killed Drayton and hid the book for seven years. But somehow he lost it, and it appeared in All Saints’ to be claimed by the Bardolf brothers. That is why he maintains King’s Hall has no legal right to it. And it is obvious that Wittleseye killed Roger, because the murder weapon was in his room.’

  ‘All right,’ acknowledged Bartholomew cautiously. ‘Then why did he poison Neuton?’

  ‘Perhaps Neuton found out that he killed Drayton,’ suggested John, ‘and threatened to blackmail him over it. So Wittleseye poisoned Neuton, but was careful to ensure you noticed the lax security at the back door, so you would assume he was killed by an outsider.’

  Michael frowned unhappily. ‘You are right: the evidence does make sense when we have Wittleseye as the killer.’

  ‘There is another suspect too,’ said Bartholomew, deep in thought. ‘March enjoyed yesterday’s brawl and is clearly eager for another. He encourages William, whose side he has joined, to defy the proctors, and he had access to Peterhouse and All Saints’ last night. Moreover, he was muttering to William today, so perhaps he whispered to Hugh yesterday.’

  John nodded slowly. ‘And he was in Cambridge when Drayton was killed, because he told me some tale about Drayton pilfering library books. Plus there is his criminal past to consider.’

  Michael began to stride towards the street. ‘We have talked enough. It is time to act.’