Bartholomew 11 - The Mark Of A Murderer

by Susanna GREGORY

  CHAPTER 3

  The following morning heralded another glorious day, clear and blue. Michael told Bartholomew that he had been reviewing the evidence surrounding Chesterfelde’s death and had eliminated none of the suspects from his enquiries. He had visited the King’s Head tavern and ascertained that Eudo had indeed consumed copious quantities of ale on the night in question, but pointed out that being drunk did not preclude anyone from committing murder. He also distrusted Boltone, and thought Polmorva might well be right to accuse him of the crime on the basis of mistaken identity in the dark. But he distrusted Polmorva more, and considered him exactly the kind of man to kill and confuse the evidence by thrusting knives into dead men’s backs. The result was a wealth of suspects.

  ‘But not Duraunt,’ said Bartholomew as they walked up the High Street, Michael to ask yet more questions of his potential culprits, and Bartholomew to answer a summons from Sheriff Tulyet. Tulyet’s son had stabbed himself with one of his toy arrows, and his anxious parents wanted to ensure the injury was not serious. Bartholomew regarded the prospect of a session with Dickon without enthusiasm, sensing the nagging ache behind his eyes that had been plaguing him all night was likely to become worse once Dickon’s enraged screeches had soared around it.

  ‘Duraunt seems kindly,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘But do not forget that phial we found in his bag – and the fact that we suspect everyone was fed a soporific before Chesterfelde was killed.’

  ‘It probably belongs to Polmorva,’ insisted Bartholomew doggedly. ‘Besides, the merchants or the scholar we have not yet met – Spryngheuse – might have killed Chesterfelde.’

  ‘That is why I want to question Duraunt about the poppy juice and why I want to meet Spryngheuse – so I can at least try to eliminate some of them from my investigation. I will keep you company while you tend Dickon, and then you can help me. I would like you to watch Polmorva and assess his reaction when we produce that vial.’ He gave Bartholomew a sidelong glance. ‘And I assure you that you have the better half of the bargain: a few moments with Dickon is far more dangerous than an entire week with murderers from Oxford.’

  ‘What about our teaching?’ asked Bartholomew with arched eyebrows. ‘It is Monday, and we have lectures all day. I paid Falmeresham to read De criticis diebus aloud for an hour while I tend Dickon, but he cannot do it all morning.’

  ‘He can,’ said Michael. Bartholomew saw a crafty look in the monk’s eye. ‘I anticipated we might be assisting each other, so I slipped him a little extra. Galen’s De criticis diebus is a lengthy work, and Falmeresham has promised to keep your students enthralled with it until noon – or at least, occupied so they do not wander around the hall and make a nuisance of themselves. I cannot imagine anyone being interested in a medical view of diet. Food is not for the cold analysis of science.’

  ‘What about Clippesby’s astronomers? Galen’s thoughts on vegetables are not relevant to their studies, and they are my responsibility now he is indisposed.’

  ‘You have only yourself to blame for that,’ said Michael haughtily. ‘You went to see him yesterday; you should have pronounced him fit and brought him home. But, as it happens, you can set your mind at rest over the astronomers, too. Young Rob Deynman has agreed to supervise them while they calculate every movable feast in the ecclesiastical year for the next decade.’

  ‘Deynman?’ spluttered Bartholomew in appalled disbelief. ‘Deynman? He can barely calculate the time of day when he hears the dinner bell ring! He is not capable of helping other students.’

  ‘He is not going to teach them,’ said Michael, unmoved by his objections. ‘He will just make sure they do not make too much noise or escape early. And at least he can read, which is more than can be said for the scholars of some Colleges.’

  He glanced meaningfully to the other side of the street, where Thomas Paxtone, the Master of Medicine from King’s Hall, was passing the time of day with Bartholomew’s sister. Paxtone was a rosy-cheeked, smiling man from a village near Huntingdon and, unlike the other two physicians in the town – Lynton of Peterhouse and Rougham of Gonville Hall – he was willing to tend the poor, as well as those who could afford to pay for his services. His charity meant that some of the burden was lifted from Bartholomew, who was grateful.

  ‘Mistress Edith is telling me that she and her husband are about to embark on a journey,’ said Paxtone, nodding a friendly greeting as Bartholomew and Michael approached. ‘The weather is fine, so they will leave for London today.’

  Edith kissed her brother, her face flushed with excitement at the prospect of an adventure. ‘Oswald is packing the last of our belongings and the horses are saddled. It is a week earlier than we anticipated, but our son will not mind.’

  ‘He might,’ warned Bartholomew, suspecting his nephew would be appalled by the unannounced arrival of his parents. Richard was a lawyer, and youth and a high income had combined to render him wild. Bartholomew trusted he would outgrow his dissolute lifestyle in time, but the lad had not shown any indication of encroaching sobriety so far. He hoped Edith would not find her beloved son entwined in the arms of a prostitute, or drunk and insensible – or both – because it would hurt her.

  Edith waved away his concerns with the happy optimism he had always envied, then became serious and pulled him to one side, so Michael and Paxtone could not hear. The two scholars immediately began a rather strained discussion about whether the Archbishop should spend more time at King’s Hall, which was one of the University’s richest foundations, or Michaelhouse, which had a reputation for academic excellence. The decision would depend on whether the University wanted Islip impressed by Cambridge’s scholarship or its capacity for lavish entertainment.

  ‘You know I am fond of Matilde,’ Edith whispered to her brother, ‘and I think she would make you a good wife. But your nightly visits are damaging her reputation and yours.’

  ‘You know about them, too?’ asked Bartholomew, mortified.

  ‘She nodded soberly. ‘But I do not want my parting words to be nagging ones, so I shall say no more. Just this: be careful and trust no one – especially sweet old men from your past.’

  Bartholomew stared at her. ‘You mean Master Duraunt? Why? What has he done to make you wary of him?’

  Edith lowered her voice further still. ‘I was in the apothecary’s shop when he bought a good deal of poppy juice. Now, there is nothing wrong with that, but when the apothecary questioned the high potency of the dosage, Duraunt said you had recommended that strength to him the previous evening. I happen to know you did not, because you were with Matilde all that night. He lied, Matt.’

  Bartholomew’s thoughts whirled. ‘I have never recommended a sedative to him – weak or strong.’

  Edith grimaced. ‘So, beware of him. But I must go, or Oswald will wonder where I am.’

  She kissed Bartholomew again, and darted off down the High Street, more like a girl than a mature woman ten years Bartholomew’s senior. He watched her go fondly, trusting she would have a safe journey along the King’s highways, and that she would not be too distressed by what he was sure she would find when she invaded her debauched son’s domain.

  ‘I bought a new set of urine flasks recently,’ Paxtone said conversationally when she had gone. ‘Would you like to see them, Matt?’

  ‘He is going to visit Dickon Tulyet,’ said Michael, before his friend could accept the enticing offer. ‘He should not dally.’

  ‘He should,’ argued Paxtone fervently. ‘Because then the brat might have expired by the time he arrives – with luck.’

  ‘Thomas!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, shocked. ‘Dickon is a child.’

  ‘So his parents claim,’ said Paxtone grimly. ‘But I think otherwise. The boy is a monster, with his hot temper and unruly behaviour. You should dally, Matt. It will allow him to use up his strength by tormenting his helpless parents, so he will be more docile with you. I would not tend him if Tulyet made me a gift of Cambridge Castle!’

  Without furt
her ado, he took Bartholomew’s arm and guided him towards the impressive edifice that comprised King’s Hall. Not averse to Dickon expending some of his violent energy before their visit, and accepting the sense in Paxtone’s logic, Michael followed.

  Founded almost forty years earlier, King’s Hall was a training ground for men who wanted to enter the King’s service or for those destined for exalted posts in the Church. Because it was a royal foundation, it was never short of funds, and no expense had been spared in providing its scholars with a supremely comfortable home. It comprised buildings gathered around a neat, clean yard, and well-tended grounds of orchards, fields and vegetable gardens that extended to the river. As a senior Fellow, Paxtone had been allocated two stately rooms for his personal use – an unthinkable luxury in a University where space was at a premium – both of which were elegantly furnished.

  As they strolled across the scrubby grass in front of Paxtone’s window, someone hailed them. It was the Warden, a quiet Welshman with long front teeth and a shock of lank grey hair. Thomas Powys had been in office for several years and was a popular master, being kindly, tolerant and ready to grant his Fellows considerable freedom on the understanding that they did not break College or University rules. He was more strict with his students, though, which Bartholomew thought was a good thing: there were more of them in King’s Hall than in any other Cambridge institution, and the possibility of serious trouble with such a large body of closely knit young men was very real.

  ‘Brother Michael,’ said Powys, baring his impressive incisors in a smile. ‘I have been meaning to report to you that we are down two Fellows this term. You need to know for your attendance records.’

  ‘Robert de Wolf and Richard de Hamecotes,’ elaborated Paxtone. ‘It is highly inconvenient to be without them, actually – as you will know yourself, Brother. I understand Michaelhouse is missing poor Clippesby at the moment. Insanity again, is it?’

  ‘Are they absent with your permission or without it, Warden?’ asked Michael, ignoring the impertinent query and not revealing that he already knew about the King’s Hall truancies from his University spies.

  Powys looked uncomfortable. ‘Hamecotes wrote to us saying he has gone to Oxford to purchase books for our library. We are short of legal texts, so his journey will be of great benefit to the College.’

  ‘If he wrote telling you what he planned to do, then it means he asked for permission after he had gone,’ Michael surmised. ‘You did not grant him leave: he just went.’ He eyed the Warden questioningly.

  ‘I do not want trouble,’ said Powys softly. ‘Hamecotes had no business abandoning us during term, but he has never done anything like this before. I confess I am surprised by his conduct, but if he returns loaded with books, then I am prepared to overlook the lapse.’

  ‘What about the other Fellow?’ asked Michael. ‘Wolf. Did he just decide to slip away, too?’

  Powys nodded unhappily. ‘He is in debt – expenses unpaid from last year – but we had agreed to postpone the matter for a few weeks, because he was expecting an inheritance. I am astonished he decided to take unauthorised leave, too, and we miss him sorely. He is an excellent teacher and a popular master.’

  ‘Debt?’ asked Michael. ‘How much does he owe?’

  ‘Quite a bit,’ admitted Powys. ‘I know scholars with serious financial troubles sometimes abscond, so they will not have to pay their dues, but I do not think Wolf is one of them.’

  ‘Hamecotes’s room-mate was as surprised as the rest of us when he left, but Wolf’s was not,’ said Paxtone, rather imprudently, given that he was talking to the Senior Proctor – the man who might later penalise his colleagues for breaking the University’s rules. ‘Wolf likes women, and I suspect he is enjoying himself with one and has lost track of time.’

  ‘For eleven days?’ asked Powys archly. ‘She must be quite a lady!’ He turned to Michael. ‘Come to my office, Brother, so I can write down their details for your records.’

  ‘You are very honest,’ said Michael, as he started to follow. ‘Most Colleges would have tried to conceal the matter, because Wolf and Hamecotes will certainly be fined when they return.’

  ‘I considered keeping quiet,’ admitted Powys. ‘But we have too many students, and we cannot trust them all not to chatter. Besides, it is always best to tell the truth.’

  ‘I wish everyone believed that,’ said Michael wistfully.

  Bartholomew left Michael to deal with the absent Fellows, and went with Paxtone to his chambers. These overlooked the herb gardens at the back of the College, and when the window shutters were thrown open, the rooms were filled with their rich scent, fragrant in the warmth of early summer.

  ‘You look tired,’ said Paxtone sympathetically, as Bartholomew flopped into a large oak chair that was filled with cushions. ‘Did a patient keep you up again last night?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Bartholomew shortly, wondering whether this was his colleague’s discreet way of mentioning that he, too, knew about Matilde. Since even his sister was aware of it, he supposed it was not out of the question that the Fellows of King’s Hall were, too.

  ‘You must learn to refuse,’ advised Paxtone, peering into Bartholomew’s face, concerned. ‘You will make yourself ill if you persist in burning the candle at both ends. A man needs his rest just as much as he needs his daily bread.’

  ‘There are just not enough hours in a day to do everything,’ said Bartholomew wearily. He rubbed his eyes and sat up straight, knowing he would fall asleep in Paxtone’s peaceful chamber if he allowed himself to settle too deeply into the chair.

  ‘I know you are overburdened,’ said Paxtone kindly. ‘So, to help you, I visited one of your patients in the hovels at All-Saints-next-the-Castle last night – a morbid obstruction of the liver. He sent for you, but your porter said you were out, so his woman came to me instead, although she had no money to pay for my services.’

  ‘That couple barely have enough for bread, and only ask me to visit because I forget to charge them.’

  ‘I “forgot”, too,’ said Paxtone, removing the first of his urine flasks from a chest for Bartholomew to admire. ‘But that is not all I have done for you recently. Michael asked me to inspect a corpse for him a couple of weeks ago. I agreed, because you are my friend and I wanted to be of use, but I shall not do that again! I am a physician, not a Corpse Examiner, and I deal with the living, not the dead.’

  ‘I used to think that, too,’ said Bartholomew, taking the flask and thinking nostalgically of the days when his time had been filled solely with healing and teaching. ‘But the additional income from examining bodies is very useful – it is how I provide medicines for patients like the one you saw last night. Besides, I have learned a great deal from corpses that can be applied to the quick.’

  ‘Anatomy,’ said Paxtone with distaste, taking the flask from Bartholomew and presenting him with another. ‘I hear they are teaching that at the Italian universities these days, but I shall have nothing to do with it. Christian men do not prod about inside the dead. That is for pagans and heretics.’

  ‘What I do is hardly anatomy,’ protested Bartholomew, who had never dissected a corpse in his life, although he would not have objected to doing so. He had been an observer at several dismemberments at the University in Padua, and believed much could be gained from the practice. He turned the flask over in his hands as he spoke. It really was a fine thing, made from thin glass that would allow the urine to be seen clearly through it from any angle. ‘I only assess the—’

  ‘I do not care,’ interrupted Paxtone firmly. ‘I did not like looking at the dead man from Oxford, and I shall not oblige you again. I told Michael as much.’

  ‘What did you learn from Okehamptone’s cadaver?’ Bartholomew asked absently, wondering whether there had been a wound on the body’s wrist, like the one on Chesterfelde’s.

  ‘Learn?’ echoed Paxtone in distaste. ‘Nothing. His companions said he had died from a fever.’

  ‘B
ut you examined the body, to make sure they were telling the truth. So, what did you—?’

  ‘I most certainly did not,’ replied Paxtone fervently. ‘Michael left me alone with the thing, and told me to “get on with it”, to quote his eloquent phrasing. But I saw no reason to disbelieve an honest man like Warden Duraunt, so I knelt next to Okehamptone and prayed for his soul. I considered that far more valuable than poking around his person. Besides, we all know corpses harbour diseases. I do not know how you have lived so long, given your penchant for them.’ He presented another flask with a flourish. It was beautifully engraved; clearly he had saved the best for last.

  ‘So, the only reason you know Okehamptone died from a fever is because his companions told you so?’ asked Bartholomew, taking the object without seeing it.

  ‘No,’ said Paxtone shortly. ‘I knew because there was a thick blanket around his body and one of those liripipes – a combined hood and scarf – enveloping his head and neck. In short, the corpse was dressed just like any man who had been laid low with an ague in his last hours. I possess some common sense, you know.’

  ‘You did not strip the body, to see if there was a dent in his head or a wound under these clothes?’

  ‘Is that what you do?’ Paxtone was clearly repelled and did not wait for a reply. ‘Well, such a distasteful task was not necessary in this case, because Okehamptone looked exactly like a man who had died of a fever: bloodless around the lips and chalk-faced. Besides, there were seven people at Merton Hall, and they all told the same story: Okehamptone contracted some virulent contagion on the way to Cambridge and died the night they arrived. They have no reason to lie.’

  Bartholomew was not so sure, given what had subsequently happened to Chesterfelde, but Paxtone reminded him that Okehamptone had been in his grave almost two weeks, and they could scarcely dig him up to confirm the diagnosis. There was nothing he could do to rectify Paxtone’s ineptitude, and it was none of his affair anyway. He put the matter from his mind and concentrated on the flasks. After each bottle had been re-examined and admired, Paxtone offered to show him his new clyster pipes, too, stored in a shed in the garden. He led Bartholomew into the yard, where Michael was waiting.