An ear-shattering scream of delight followed them as Dickon greeted his father. Several people jumped in alarm, while those who knew Dickon shook their heads in mute disgust. Bartholomew walked a little more quickly, in case the boy spotted him through a window and demanded a visit, setting a pace that had Michael gasping for breath. They crossed the Great Bridge, where there was no sign of anyone thinking of self-murder, and turned along Merton Lane. For the second time that day, Michael hammered on the door. As before, it was answered by the pale-headed bailiff.
‘Now what? The body has been taken to the church, and everyone else is out.’
‘Good,’ said Michael, pushing his way inside. ‘That will make our task here all the easier. And I want a word with you anyway. Where were you when Chesterfelde died?’
‘Why?’ asked Boltone, looking shifty. ‘What does that have to do with you?’
‘Just answer the question,’ snapped Michael.
‘I was asleep,’ replied Boltone. ‘It is common knowledge that Chesterfelde died between after the curfew bell at eight and before dawn. I was asleep all that time, and so was Eudo.’
‘Eudo?’ asked Bartholomew. He sensed he should know the name, but his tired mind refused to yield the information.
‘Eudo of Helpryngham,’ said Boltone impatiently. ‘He rents the manor from Merton College – I told you about him earlier. He and I sleep in the solar, while the scholars have the hall.’
‘Were the scholars alone last night?’ asked Michael. ‘Or did they entertain guests?’
‘They might have done,’ replied Boltone unhelpfully. ‘I went to bed immediately after the curfew, so I have no idea what they did. I am a heavy sleeper. I snore, too, and Eudo always wraps a cloth around his ears to block my noise, so neither of us heard what that miserable rabble were doing.’
‘What happened after you retired at eight?’
‘I heard nothing until the cockerel crowed before dawn. When I went to wake the Oxford men for their breakfast, there was Chesterfelde with a knife in his back. It was my yell of horror that roused the others from their slumbers.’
‘They were all there?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Three surviving scholars and three merchants?’
‘Yes,’ replied Boltone. ‘But I cannot say whether they were all there the whole night. Sometimes they debate and argue, and keep me awake, but I was exhausted yesterday, and I heard nothing.’
‘Argue?’ pounced Michael. ‘You mean they antagonise each other?’
Boltone shrugged. ‘Sometimes. Polmorva called Spryngheuse a sludge-brained pedant last week, and Chesterfelde responded by referring to him as a slippery-tongued viper. But I am busy today: Duraunt accused me of being dishonest in my accounting, so I have to prove him wrong. Do you want anything else, or can I go?’
‘Go,’ said Michael. ‘We only want to inspect the hall again.’
‘All right,’ said Boltone. ‘But do not touch any of the scholars’ belongings, or they will accuse me of doing it.’
Michael and Bartholomew climbed the stairs to the hall. The room was much as it had been the last time they were there. Straw mattresses were stored on one side, ready to be used again that night, and blankets were rolled on top of them. The trestle tables employed for meals had been stacked away, and only the benches left out, so there would be somewhere to sit when the visitors returned. The window shutters had been thrown open to allow the hall to air, and the fire Duraunt had enjoyed earlier had burned out – the day was warm and heating unnecessary, even for chilly old men.
‘Right,’ said Michael, rubbing his hands. ‘Do you want to go through these saddlebags for stained clothes, or keep watch to make sure no one catches us?’
‘You just told Boltone you would not touch anything.’
‘I lied,’ said Michael carelessly. ‘It comes from dealing with the likes of Abergavenny and Polmorva. Well? Hurry up and decide, or they will be back before we have started.’
‘You do it,’ said Bartholomew distastefully. ‘I will make sure no one comes.’
While Michael rummaged through the visitors’ bags, Bartholomew sat on a windowsill and struggled to stay alert. The sun was warm on his face, and he felt pleasantly relaxed. When Michael spoke, he started awake. For a moment, he did not know where he was, and gazed around him, blinking stupidly.
‘I see my integrity is safe under your vigilant care,’ remarked Michael caustically. ‘You really do need a good night’s sleep, Matt. Now I cannot even trust you to keep watch while I ransack people’s belongings. What would we have said if they had caught us?’
‘That they are all suspects until you have Chesterfelde’s killer under lock and key,’ replied Bartholomew, rubbing his eyes as he stood. ‘Duraunt will not object, but Polmorva will, which would be satisfying. Well? Did you find his clothes drenched in gore?’
‘No,’ said Michael in disgust. ‘Not so much as a spot. There are a few drips on the floor where we found the body, but that is not surprising. I found this in Duraunt’s bag, but it cannot have any relevance, given that no one has been poisoned.’ He handed Bartholomew a tiny phial.
The physician took it carefully, knowing that small pots often contained fairly powerful substances. This one was no exception, and it released the pungent odour of concentrated poppy juice when he lifted it to his nose. He recoiled. ‘There is enough soporific here to put half the University to sleep!’
Michael regarded it thoughtfully. ‘And it is partly empty, which means some of it has been used. Is there enough missing to make half a dozen merchants and scholars doze through a murder?’
Bartholomew inspected the vial. ‘Yes, but Duraunt is not your culprit. He was appalled by the murder, and he is a kind, gentle man.’
‘So you said earlier,’ said Michael. ‘But people change, and you have not seen him for years. Who knows what he might have become in the interim?’
Bartholomew had a better explanation. ‘Polmorva is not beyond hiding something incriminating among another man’s possessions. He did it to me once, and almost had me convicted of theft. I only just managed to hurl them out of the window, before my chest was searched.’
‘Them?’
‘Those teeth – the ones he made for the Benedictines. He claimed they had been stolen and accused me of taking them. When I went to my room, there they were, hidden under a book.’
‘How do you know it was he who put them there?’
‘The servants saw him. But this is getting us nowhere. Put the phial back where you found it, Brother. We can ask Polmorva and Duraunt about it later.’
‘No,’ said Michael, slipping the bottle into his scrip. ‘I do not want a potentially toxic substance in the hands of my suspects. I shall keep it, and we will know to whom it belongs when its disappearance is reported.’
‘That is dangerous,’ warned Bartholomew uncomfortably. ‘Boltone knows you have been here. It will not look good for the Senior Proctor to be on the wrong end of a charge of theft.’
‘I shall deny it,’ said Michael. He walked towards the solar. ‘Since we are here, we may as well be thorough. We should see whether Boltone and Eudo own stained clothes, too.’
The solar was far less tidy than the hall, and was strewn with bedding and discarded clothes. Filthy shirts sat in a pile in one corner, where they were evidently picked through to be worn again on subsequent occasions, while boots and shoes lay where they had been cast off. Two smelly dogs lounged in a shaft of sunlight from the open window, and watched with uninterest as Michael began to sift through the mess. Bartholomew remained by the door, standing so he would not fall asleep again.
‘There is nothing here, either,’ said Michael. He wiped his hands on his habit in distaste. ‘Eudo and Boltone live like pigs! I am not surprised Duraunt declined to wrest the solar away from them.’
‘Someone is coming!’ said Bartholomew urgently, hearing footsteps on the stairs. ‘Come into the hall and pretend to inspect the blood where the body was found.’
Michael had only just reached the place and leaned down to look where Bartholomew was pointing before the door was flung open. The man who stood there was tall, and Bartholomew supposed he was handsome, although there was something in his arrogant demeanour that was highly unattractive. His dark brown hair was long and wavy, and his blue eyes were surrounded by dark lashes, giving him the appearance of a foreigner, although his clothes were solidly English, with none of the cosmopolitan fripperies flaunted by many men of substance.
‘Who are you?’ he demanded, hands on hips as he regarded the scholars imperiously. ‘And what are you doing here?’
Michael straightened, irked by the man’s manner. ‘Senior Proctor, investigating the murder of Roger de Chesterfelde.’
‘He smiled a lot,’ said the man, making it sound sinister. ‘And he cited a good deal of Latin – not that those stupid merchants could understand him. Unlike me. I attended the King’s School when I was a boy, and I can read.’ He drew himself up to his full height and looked as if he expected them to be impressed.
‘I imagine reading will be helpful to the man who rents this manor,’ said Michael evenly. He had surmised that the man was Merton’s tenant, Eudo of Helpryngham.
‘Actually, no,’ replied Eudo. ‘If there is any reading to be done, Boltone does it. I prefer to be outside, with the sun on my face and fresh air in my lungs.’
‘I am not surprised,’ said Michael, casting a significant glance at the squalor of the solar. ‘What do you know about Chesterfelde’s death?’
‘Nothing,’ replied Eudo. ‘I was at the King’s Head last night, and then I came here. I was drunk and heard nothing at all – not even Boltone’s infernal snoring. I probably downed seven or eight jugs of ale.’ He looked as if he was fishing for compliments, in the same way that Bartholomew’s younger undergraduates bragged about the amounts of wine they could consume without being sick. But Eudo was in his thirties, and should have grown out of such foolishness.
‘You have hurt yourself,’ said Bartholomew, pointing to a crude bandage that adorned Eudo’s left arm. ‘What happened?’
‘I probably fell over when I was staggering home last night. You are a physician, are you not? Tend it for me. It is very sore.’
Without waiting for Bartholomew’s consent, Eudo unravelled the dressing to reveal an injury on the inside of his forearm that was no more than a scratch. It was slight enough to have been caused by brambles or even a cat, and the reams of material enveloping it were far in excess of what was needed. Despite its superficial nature, Eudo grimaced and sucked in his breath when Bartholomew examined it.
‘You do not need to keep it wrapped,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I will smear it with salve, but the best thing would be to leave it open to the air. It will heal more quickly.’
‘It is a serious injury,’ declared Eudo, watching Bartholomew apply a balm of woundwort and hog’s grease. ‘Besides, I told Boltone I was too sick to work, and he will think I am malingering if he sees me without a bandage. Put it on again.’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew, replacing the salve in his bag. ‘It will not heal if you keep it covered. Besides, you are malingering if you claim it is stopping you from working.’
Eudo’s handsome face creased into a scowl as he bound the afflicted limb himself. ‘You are no good. Doctor Rougham would have ordered me to spend a week in bed and buy half an apothecary’s shop in poultices and purges, but he is away at the moment, more is the pity. Still, it has saved me money, because I am not paying you for bad advice and a smear of pig oil.’
‘So, you can tell us nothing about Chesterfelde’s murder?’ asked Michael, seeing Bartholomew about to take issue. ‘You saw and heard nothing?’
‘No,’ said Eudo proudly. ‘Not with nine jugs of ale inside me.’
‘You said seven or eight.’ Bartholomew pounced.
‘Did I?’ asked Eudo carelessly. ‘It was a lot. Probably nearer ten.’
‘I wish it had been twenty,’ muttered Bartholomew in an undertone. ‘That would have wiped the smile off your face this morning.’
Bartholomew and Michael left Merton Hall and began to walk towards their College. On the way they met Duraunt and Polmorva, who said they had been visiting Duraunt’s fellow Austin Canons at nearby Barnwell Priory. Polmorva’s expression hardened when Michael told him that he and his Corpse Examiner had re-inspected the place where Chesterfelde had died, and Bartholomew thought he detected an uneasy flicker in his eye; he wondered whether he guessed they had searched his possessions and was afraid of what might have been found. Duraunt contented himself with reciting a short prayer for Chesterfelde, then started to discuss the next University Debate. Michael fretted impatiently as the old man gabbled on about his favourite topics for such occasions, while Bartholomew listened with interest, recalling disputes on similar issues they had attended together in Oxford – an erudite, careful teacher and his eager but inexpert student.
When they eventually parted, Michael went to search the University’s records for any scholars who had been granted leave of absence to study in Oxford, and to peruse applications from Oxford students who wanted to visit Cambridge, while Bartholomew walked to the hamlet of Stourbridge, outside the town. He wanted to see Clippesby, and assess whether there was any improvement in his condition. As it was such a fine day, he strolled slowly, enjoying the sweet scent of ripening crops and the damp earthiness of fertile soil. The sun lay golden and warm across the fields, occasionally cooled when fluffy white clouds drifted across its bright face.
The hospital was a sprawling complex of buildings enclosed within a fence of woven hazel. It had originally been founded for lepers, so their disease would not contaminate others, but now it accepted patients with a variety of ailments. It comprised the Chapel of St Mary Magdalene, an ancient two-celled church with thick walls and tiny windows, and a number of huts with thatched roofs, where the inmates lived. The community had its own well, fish-ponds, fields, orchards and livestock, and its residents were seldom obliged to deal with the outside world.
The warden who cared for the eclectic collection of people who had been banished from ‘normal’ society was an amiable Austin Canon called Paul. He tended his thirty or so patients with the help of a small staff of lay-brothers, and Bartholomew considered the man little short of a saint. He was tall and sturdy, which was a useful attribute when dealing with the obstreperousness of madness and the heavy lifting required for the bedridden, and his brown hair lay thickly around his untidy tonsure. He was nearly always smiling, and it was not unusual for the compound to ring with his laughter.
There was no humour that day, however, because he was troubled. Michaelhouse’s Master of Music and Astronomy was afforded a fair degree of freedom in the hospital, and had been helping to care for some of the sicker inmates. But Clippesby had a habit of wandering away without telling anyone where he was going, and Bartholomew was disturbed to learn that he had vanished several times since he had been enrolled at Stourbridge. Most worrying was the fact that he had been gone for part of the previous night, when Chesterfelde had died.
‘I was with the ducks near the river, Matt,’ said Clippesby dreamily, when the physician asked him about it. He laughed merrily. ‘They will provide me with an alibi, should you require one.’
Bartholomew studied him intently, trying to ascertain whether the man was genuinely trying to be helpful, or was playing him for a fool. He rubbed his hand through his hair when several moments of staring into Clippesby’s clear grey eyes told him nothing at all.
‘You promised you would stay here,’ said Paul reproachfully. ‘Why did you break your word?’
‘I was needed elsewhere, Brother,’ said Clippesby with a serene smile. ‘You have duties towards your charges, so you will understand these obligations. Besides, I do not like being shut up all night. There are too many interesting things happening elsewhere.’
‘What sort of things?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily.
‘Things you would not unde
rstand. Why do you want to know?’
‘A man was killed in Merton Hall last night. You should not wander around the town, Clippesby. People know you are unwell, and we do not want them to accuse you of a crime because they cannot find the real culprit and need a scapegoat. I brought you here for your own safety.’
‘So you say,’ replied Clippesby acidly. He did not like Stourbridge. ‘But that is the second death at Merton Hall. A fellow called Okehamptone perished there a week or two ago. I was visiting some geese at the time, and they were very unhappy that he died so suddenly after arriving in their town.’
‘Were they,’ said Bartholomew. The Dominican’s nocturnal wanderings meant he was often a witness to criminal activities, and he had provided Michael with valuable clues in the past. The difficulty, however, lay in deciding what was true and what was fancy.
‘They were,’ asserted Clippesby. ‘Tell Michael not to forget Okehamptone. It will please the geese to know they have a Senior Proctor who takes all deaths seriously. Can you see that lark, Matt? High in the clouds? I have just heard her say she saw you leaving Matilde’s house at dawn again this morning. You must be more discreet when you visit her, my friend, or you will tarnish her good name.’
‘Matilde the courtesan?’ asked Paul, regarding Bartholomew askance. ‘You visit her during the night? This lark is right, man! You should show some discretion. Leave while it is still dark, not once the sun has started to rise.’
‘I will bear it in mind,’ said Bartholomew shortly. ‘Although the lark should mind her own damned business, and keep her gossip to herself.’
He spent the rest of the day with his ailing colleague, but even after several hours still had no idea whether the Dominican was improving. It was frustrating, and he walked home helpless and angry, wishing there were not so many ailments that his medical training could not cure. He was light-headed from tiredness, but when he flopped on to his bed at Michaelhouse, intending to doze until it was time to meet Matilde, sleep would not come. Images of Clippesby, Polmorva and Duraunt rattled around his mind, along with Chesterfelde and the knife embedded in his back. He sensed he was about to embark on an investigation where nothing would be what it seemed, and that would take all his wits to solve. The unsettling part was that he did not think his wits were up to the task.
Bartholomew 11 - The Mark Of A Murderer Page 8
