He stared down at the corpse. He knew that when a person died, the blood stopped moving in the veins. Thus, wounds inflicted after death tended not to bleed or to bleed very little. Bruises, however, were a different matter. These were injuries where a blow caused small blood vessels to rupture under the skin, rather than through it, and such ruptures did and could occur after death. Unlike with cuts, therefore, Bartholomew knew of no way to tell when a bruise was inflicted. So he was unable to determine whether the damage to Kyrkeby was done while he had still been alive.
He inspected the man’s hands, to see whether ripped or cracked nails indicated some kind of struggle with his attacker, as Walcote’s had done. Kyrkeby’s fingers were thick with dirt, but when Bartholomew wiped it off he saw nails that were gnawed to the quick and that would not have broken anyway. Next he checked for the kind of injuries he associated with someone trying to defend himself – wounds to the arms where the victim had tried to fend off an attacker, or where he had turned away to protect his head. There was nothing definitive, and the marks on Kyrkeby’s arms did not tell him whether the Dominican had struggled against an attacker or not.
Dispirited, Bartholomew examined the rest of the body, but found nothing to give him any further clues as to what had happened. The soles of Kyrkeby’s shoes were muddy, but with muck that seemed more like the dirt of the High Street than the clinging clay of the Carmelites’ hole in the ground. Bartholomew rubbed his chin, wondering whether this implied that Kyrkeby had not entered the tomb of his own accord.
And that was all. Beneath his habit, the Dominican Precentor wore homespun hose of dark brown and a woollen vest, both of which were thick and warm and of a quality that indicated the friar had the means to purchase better clothes than the ones that were provided free of charge by his Order. Recalling the purses that had been stolen from Walcote and Faricius, Bartholomew rifled through Kyrkeby’s clothes to see if he could find the leather scrip most friars carried at their waists, anticipating that the Dominican’s would be large and well filled if his clothes were anything to go by. However, if Kyrkeby had possessed such an item, it was not with his body now.
Bartholomew was just finishing his examination when Agatha arrived. The church was silent, and he realised that the scholars had finished their prayers and had returned to Michaelhouse. She nodded a brusque greeting, and began her work, grunting and swearing as she scrubbed the dark mud from the dead man’s skin, her large hips swaying vigorously and her skirts swinging about her ankles. While Bartholomew fetched pail after pail of water from the well in the Market Square, she gradually turned Kyrkeby into something that resembled a human being. She sluiced the dirt from his hair and brushed it back from his face, and rinsed the muck from his eyes and ears.
At eight o’clock the bells began to toll for terce, the great bass boom of St Mary’s drowning out the tinny clatters from St John Zachary and All Saints in the Jewry. Carts rattled along the High Street, and the shouts of the owners of the stalls in the market began to ring out as trade got under way. Feet splashed through puddles as students ran to lectures and apprentices hurried about their masters’ business.
‘That is better,’ remarked Michael, walking into the porch a little later, and leaning over to inspect their handiwork. ‘But he still looks rough. Can you do no better?’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew shortly, wiping his hands and arms on a piece of rag and rolling down his sleeves. ‘I have spent a large part of the morning on this. We should tell the Dominicans what has happened soon, or they will be accusing us of withholding information from them – no matter how honourable our intentions.’
‘True,’ admitted Michael. ‘Although I have been busy, too. I went to the Carmelite Friary to poke around that tunnel to see if we missed anything last night…’
‘And did we?’ asked Bartholomew hopefully.
‘No. Then I walked to St Radegund’s to see if Matilde had uncovered anything useful…’
‘How is she?’ asked Bartholomew anxiously.
‘She sat in the solar with her hands cupped around her ears, so she had nothing to report. Tysilia informed me, somewhat out of the blue, that eating too many oatcakes would turn me into a horse…’
‘That would not have been because you were eating the nuns’ food, would it, Brother?’ asked Bartholomew innocently.
‘And I spoke to Sergeant Orwelle again,’ continued Michael, ignoring him. ‘I asked whether there was anything more he could tell me about when he found Walcote’s body.’
‘And was there?’
‘Of course not,’ said Agatha dismissively. ‘I told you all there was to know. I have already informed you that I was in the King’s Head when he burst in and announced what had happened.’
‘It is as well to be sure,’ said Michael. ‘You may have forgotten something, or thought something was unimportant when it was vital.’
‘And had I forgotten anything?’ demanded Agatha, hands on hips and eyes narrowed.
‘No,’ admitted Michael. ‘However, I did learn one new thing from Orwelle.’
‘I suppose you mean the fact that he found Walcote’s purse at dawn this morning?’ asked Agatha carelessly. ‘He discovered it near Barnwell Priory.’
Michael stared at her. ‘You already know about this?’
‘Orwelle has been obsessed by that missing purse,’ said Agatha smugly, gratified that her intelligence seemed to be better than Michael’s. ‘Walcote was a fairly wealthy man, you see, and Orwelle could not push the thought of a full purse out of his mind. He is always on the lookout for dropped pennies in the mud, and this morning he found Walcote’s scrip.’ She pointed to a sorry-looking item that Michael extracted from his own scrip and held distastefully between thumb and forefinger. ‘That is it.’
‘How do you know it is Walcote’s?’ asked Bartholomew, inspecting it carefully. ‘It could be anyone’s.’
‘Because Walcote is the only man to have lost a purse recently,’ said Agatha impatiently.
‘Faricius lost one,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘How can you be sure this is not his?’
Agatha gave a heavy sigh. ‘Because it is obvious that Walcote’s killers stole it from his body, and then threw it away as they fled from the town, just as they passed Barnwell Priory.’
‘That seems a strange coincidence,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘Walcote lived at Barnwell, and now Orwelle finds his purse nearby. Perhaps Walcote dropped it, and it was not stolen at all.’
‘I think Agatha is right: the killer took the purse, then made off to the wasteland around Barnwell before removing its contents,’ said Michael. ‘Orwelle found it empty.’
‘It is Walcote’s purse,’ declared Agatha firmly, seeing that Bartholomew remained uncertain. ‘I have a feeling about it, and my feelings are never wrong.’
Bartholomew saw there was no point in arguing with her. She was convinced she was right, and that was that. He looked down at the sodden leather bag. It was filthy, consistent with lying in the mud and rain since Monday night, and was empty. Other than that, it was unremarkable. It was one of the ones sold by the dozen in the Market Square, and comprised a brown pouch with holes punched into the top, through which a string was threaded that sealed it when drawn tight. Bartholomew owned one just like it. He doubted whether anyone would be able to identify it as definitely Walcote’s or Faricius’s – or even Kyrkeby’s.
‘If Walcote was a man of means, why would he own a cheap purse like this?’ he asked thoughtfully.
‘He did, though,’ said Michael tiredly. ‘We proctors fine undergraduates in pennies, and a sturdy leather scrip like this is perfect for holding them. More expensive ones tend not to be strong enough to hold large quantities of base coins of the realm.’
‘And what about Faricius?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Did he own one of these, too?’
‘We can ask,’ said Michael.
‘And Orwelle found this one empty?’ pressed Bartholomew. ‘He did not take its contents before passing it to you
?’
‘I confess that crossed my mind,’ admitted Michael. ‘But Orwelle was bitterly disappointed that there was nothing in it. I do not think he would have been able to lie quite so convincingly, had he taken its contents for himself.’ He sighed. ‘So, the motive for Walcote’s murder looks to have been theft. It seems to fit the facts. And that means we are dealing with a random act of violence after all, not some clever conspiracy.’
‘I am not so sure,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Theft is inconsistent with the manner of his death: why hang someone when it is easier, quicker and much safer to stab him? Walcote’s death has the feel of an execution to me, not a simple robbery.’
Michael gestured to Kyrkeby’s body. ‘What can you tell us about him? You wanted more light so that you could see what you were doing, so what can you tell me now?’
‘I am sorry, Brother,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I have learned nothing new. All the options I outlined last night – struck on the head, his neck snapped, crushed in the tunnel or his heart giving out – are still equally possible.’
‘Not the latter, Matt,’ said Michael. ‘No one would need to hide a body that had died naturally. Oh, damn it all! Where did he come from?’
Bartholomew turned to see Richard Stanmore entering the church. His nephew’s scented goose grease could be smelled the instant he pushed open the door, and Michael immediately sneezed. Behind Richard, and cruelly – although very accurately – mimicking his mincing walk, was Cynric, coming to see whether Bartholomew needed any help.
‘God’s blood, man!’ Michael snuffled, removing a piece of linen from his scrip with which to dab at his nose. ‘What have you done to yourself? You smell as though you have spent the night romping with whores.’
‘And what would a monk know of such things?’ asked Richard innocently. ‘However, I can assure you that a man of my standing in society is hardly likely to “romp with whores”, as you so delicately put it.’
Bartholomew was sceptical of this claim, recalling the presence of Richard’s horse in the Market Square suspiciously early that morning.
Michael sneezed again, and looked Richard up and down disparagingly. Bartholomew could see why the monk was disapproving. Richard was wearing yet another set of exquisite clothes, this time in shades of red and gold. Around his waist was an ornate belt, from which dangled a dagger that was mostly handle and no blade. Bartholomew saw Cynric regarding it with amazement that turned to mirth. Despite his finery, however, Richard did not look well. There was a puffiness around his eyes, and his complexion was sallow and unhealthy, as if he were enjoying a lifestyle that was too hard on his body and required of him too many sleepless nights. With a flourish, Richard produced the bandage Bartholomew had lent him the morning after Walcote had died and wrapped it around the lower half of his face.
‘That is better,’ he declared in a muffled voice. ‘The King’s courtiers tie cloth around their noses to exclude foul smells from their nostrils. It stinks like a butcher’s stall in here.’
‘What do you want?’ demanded Michael, irritated. ‘Do not expect your uncle to waste time with you today. He is busy with University business.’
‘Since when has that fat monk been your keeper?’ asked Richard, addressing Bartholomew and deliberately turning his back on Michael. ‘Does he decide when you see your family these days?’
‘As it happens, he is right,’ said Bartholomew shortly, not liking the way Richard and Michael bickered. Richard was arrogant and obnoxious, and Bartholomew understood exactly why Michael had taken a dislike to him. But when all was said and done, he was Bartholomew’s nephew, and he felt Michael might have made some pretence at affability. ‘I am busy today.’
‘Very well,’ said Richard, disappointed. ‘I only wanted you to introduce me to Master Langelee. I suppose it can wait.’
‘What do you want with Langelee?’ demanded Michael immediately. ‘He will have nothing to say to a young man who wears an ear-ring.’
‘You should invest in one,’ said Richard, treating the monk to a knowing wink. ‘They are very popular with the ladies.’
‘Then maybe the ladies should wear them,’ retorted Michael. ‘Yours makes you look like a pirate, not a lawyer.’
‘I thought they were the same thing,’ muttered Cynric, regarding Richard, his ear-ring and his ornamental dagger with undisguised disdain.
Agatha stepped forward, and in one lightning-fast movement that caught Richard unawares, she seized the offending item between her thick fingers to inspect it minutely. Richard froze in alarm, while Bartholomew held his breath, half expecting her to rip the ear-ring from its lobe to underline her disapproval. But she merely released it and moved away, wrinkling her nose and pursing her lips to indicate that she did not like the scent of the goose grease that clogged the air around him.
‘This particular fashion will not last long,’ she announced, indicating the ear-ring with a jerk of her thumb. ‘What sane person deliberately pierces himself with a piece of metal?’
‘Everyone at court has one,’ objected Richard, rubbing his ear ruefully. ‘Those who do not are considered to be dowdy and not worth knowing.’
‘It is comforting to know that our country is being governed by men with gold through their ears and buttons on their shirts,’ said Michael coolly. ‘No wonder we have been at war with France for so long: everyone spends his time thinking about ear-rings and clothes, while affairs of state are deemed unfashionable and unimportant.’
Disgusted, both by Richard and the courtiers he imagined were damaging his country, the monk began to stride towards the door. Richard hovered to talk to Bartholomew.
‘Have you heard that Master Heytesbury is to give the University Lecture on Sunday in St Mary’s Church?’ he asked smugly. ‘You have me to thank for that: I arranged it all.’
‘You did what?’ demanded Michael, storming back down the nave. ‘It is not for the likes of you to organise who speaks in the University of Cambridge’s public debates.’
‘Because I am an Oxford man?’ asked Richard insolently. ‘I will tell Master Heytesbury you take that attitude. He will certainly rethink whether he wishes to do business with you, if you regard him and his colleagues in so poor a light.’
‘You will mind your own affairs,’ snapped Michael angrily. ‘My arrangements with Heytesbury have nothing to do with you.’
‘He asked me what I thought of you,’ said Richard carelessly, relishing the fact that he had nettled the monk. ‘He wanted to know whether you can be trusted.’
‘My affairs have nothing to do with you,’ repeated Michael in a venomous whisper.
‘So, why are you prepared to give Oxford that property?’ pressed Richard, unmoved by Michael’s fury. ‘As Heytesbury’s lawyer, I have been over the deeds very carefully, but there is no trick. Since you are not a generous man, the only other explanation is that you are a fool.’
‘That is for Heytesbury to decide,’ said Michael, bringing his ire under control and turning away from the infuriating young man. ‘Come on, Matt. We should go.’
‘I do not think you are a fool,’ Richard continued. ‘I always remembered you as a cunning sort of fellow. Then I saw through your little game.’
Michael stopped walking and gazed at Richard, but his beady glare broke when he sneezed, suddenly and violently. Agatha coughed meaningfully, and flapped her hand back and forth in front of her face.
‘Brother Michael is right,’ she declared. ‘You smell like a whore – although I do not know of any self-respecting women who would douse themselves in whatever stinking potion you have bathed yourself in.’
Richard looked her up and down with as much distaste as she had treated him. ‘Better that than reeking of old onions and garlic,’ he drawled.
Agatha advanced on him. ‘Old onions and garlic–’
‘Where is that sheet you had for Kyrkeby, Agatha?’ asked Bartholomew quickly. ‘The day is wearing on, and I am keen for the Dominicans to see the fine work you have done th
is morning. I imagine they will be very grateful to you.’
‘It is in my basket,’ said Agatha, easily diverted when told she could expect the praise of men like the Dominicans. ‘I will fetch it.’
‘Are you sure she is safe to be let loose in a small town like this?’ asked Richard, watching her large figure sway importantly up the aisle to where she had left her belongings.
‘She will rip you limb from limb if I ask her to,’ said Michael nastily. ‘So tell me what you meant when you said you had guessed my plan, or you shall see exactly how unsafe she can be.’
Richard glanced from Agatha to Michael and saw the cold fury in the monk’s eyes. He decided it was not worth taking the risk to see whether Michael was bluffing.
‘Heytesbury believes that you want to use the information he will give you to become the University’s next Chancellor. He thinks you will use the names of the wealthy, but anonymous, Oxford patrons that he will divulge to you to make sure that you are elected.’
Michael did not reply.
‘But I think there is another reason,’ Richard went on. ‘I think that you already know that one of the patrons is a man with large dairy farms, who is reputed to make the best cheese in the country. I think your motive lies entirely with your stomach!’
‘I have never heard such nonsense in my life,’ said Michael, shoving Richard out of the way as he started to walk towards the door. ‘I can assure you that my stomach has nothing to do with my arrangements with Heytesbury.’
‘It has!’ crowed Richard triumphantly. ‘You intend to dine on fine cheese, best butter and large brown eggs for the rest of your indulgent life.’
Bartholomew was thinking about something else Richard had said. ‘What did you mean earlier, when you said Heytesbury was lecturing this Sunday?’
‘Kyrkeby has not yet confirmed with the Chancellor that he still intends to speak,’ said Richard. ‘So, the Chancellor has been looking for a replacement.’
‘If Kyrkeby does speak, it will cause some raised eyebrows,’ muttered Agatha, walking towards them with a winding sheet clasped in one meaty hand. ‘And it will not be his clean hair and scrubbed fingernails that people will notice.’
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