Bartholomew 11 - The Mark Of A Murderer

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘This fellow was burly, with dark hair,’ offered Norton obligingly. ‘In his early twenties.’

  ‘That is him,’ said Michael, looking hard at Dodenho.

  ‘Well, perhaps I did meet him,’ admitted Dodenho reluctantly. ‘But I do not know him.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Norton. ‘You sniggered and whispered in your room like a pair of virgins.’

  Dodenho saw he was cornered, and that continued denials would be futile. He sighed. ‘He was a sociable sort of fellow who liked to drink – it was the wine that made him giggle – but he was not a friend. Simply an acquaintance.’

  ‘Then why did you deny knowing him?’ demanded Michael.

  ‘Because I wanted to avoid being interrogated,’ snapped Dodenho, finally giving vent to his anger. ‘I know how you work – quizzing people who have even the most remote associations with the deceased – and I did not want you adding me to your list of suspects.’

  ‘Do you know who killed this poor man?’ asked Powys of Michael, breaking into the uncomfortable silence that followed. Paxtone pointedly set down the little silver knife he used for cutting his food, and declined to eat as long as the discussion was about corpses and murder.

  ‘Not yet,’ replied Michael.

  ‘Were these Merton men deep sleepers?’ asked Wormynghalle curiously. ‘You say they dozed through the dumping of a body in their chamber.’

  ‘We suspect a soporific was used on them,’ said Bartholomew.

  ‘That would make sense,’ said Paxtone, intrigued, despite his antipathy to the subject. ‘I read about a similar incident that took place in Padua: a murder carried out in the presence of insensible “witnesses”. I recall that poppy juice was used.’

  ‘These men are from Oxford,’ said Michael, taking an egg with one hand and more meat with the other, ‘so they may well have access to sinister texts from foreign places, telling them how to render men senseless while they murder their colleagues. What a feast! And what makes it so especially fine is that there is not a vegetable to be seen. Only meat will help me solve the mystery surrounding this particular victim’s death, because it is complex and nothing is what it seems.’

  ‘I have a theory,’ said Dodenho, who had recovered from his embarrassment at being caught out in a lie, and was back to his confident self.

  ‘You do?’ asked Michael, cheeks bulging with pork. ‘Let us hear it, then.’

  ‘Well, it is a reductio ad absurdum, really.’ Dodenho cleared his throat and adopted an expression he imagined was scholarly. ‘Consider this proposition: what I am now saying is false.’

  ‘The “liar paradox”,’ said Bartholomew, wondering what the man was getting at. ‘Expounded by Bradwardine in his Insolubilia. What does it have to do with Chesterfelde?’

  ‘Nothing,’ replied Dodenho impatiently. ‘I never said it did – I just said I have a theory. It relates to the paradox I have just mentioned, and it is my idea, not this Bradwardine’s. I could grow to dislike you, Bartholomew, always telling a man his ideas belong to someone else.’

  ‘I thought you meant you had an idea relating to Chesterfelde, too,’ said Norton accusingly. ‘But all you did was change the subject to something that revolves around you.’

  Dodenho shrugged. ‘I can think of worse things to discuss.’

  Eventually, Powys stood and said the final grace, dismissing the Fellows to their teaching. Paxtone walked with Bartholomew to the gate, with Michael trailing behind, his large face glistening with grease. Reluctantly, Bartholomew declined Paxtone’s offer of a visit to the clyster pipes, knowing duty called him to the Tulyet household and Dickon.

  ‘Good luck with the Devil’s brat,’ said Paxtone. ‘And with your murder. I hope you solve it quickly, so it does not plunge us into a series of riots, like those at Oxford.’

  ‘So do I,’ agreed Michael. ‘Especially with the Archbishop’s Visitation looming.’

  As it transpired, Paxtone’s recommendation to dally before visiting Dickon was a good one, and, by the time Bartholomew and Michael arrived, the boy had recovered from his initial shock and was back to normal. The injury comprised a small bruise surrounding a minute perforation, and needed no more than a dab of salve. The operation was over in a moment, and Bartholomew and Dickon were relieved to discover it was painless for both of them. This was not always the case, because Dickon employed fists, teeth, feet and nails to fight off the physician’s ministrations, often resulting in Bartholomew being just as badly mauled as his small patient.

  Tulyet then invited Bartholomew and Michael to his office and, wanting to hear more about the town’s preparations for the Visitation, Michael accepted. The Sheriff led the scholars into the ground-floor chamber he used for working, and barred the door so Dickon could not follow. He was amused when a tousled head appeared at the window a few moments later: Dickon had discovered an alternative entrance. While Tulyet crowed his delight at the child’s resourcefulness, Bartholomew and Michael braced themselves for an invasion. They were not to be disappointed.

  ‘Bang!’ yelled Dickon, leaning through the window with a small bow in his chubby hands. There was an arrow nocked into it, and the missile was pointed at Michael.

  Although Dickon hated Bartholomew tending the results of his various mishaps – and anything went when treatment was in progress – he did not mind the physician at other times, and was perfectly happy to sit on his knee and insert grubby fingers into his medical bag in search of something dangerous. But Michael was a different matter. Dickon did not like Michael, and the feeling was wholly reciprocated. Michael was not averse to doling out the occasional slap while Dickon’s doting parents were not looking, and was unmoved by the boy’s shrieks of outrage when he did not get his own way. In essence, Dickon knew that in Michael he had met his match, although that did not prevent him from trying to score points over the monk whenever he could. That morning it looked as if he might do it with a potentially lethal weapon.

  ‘God’s blood, Dick!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, leaping up to interpose himself between boy and target. ‘I thought you said you would not let him have that again after he shot himself in the foot.’

  ‘That was a freak accident,’ objected Tulyet. ‘The drawstring was too tight, and made the arrows fly with too much power. But we have loosened it again, and now it is quite safe.’

  ‘I do not feel safe,’ snapped Michael, cowering behind Bartholomew. ‘Tell him to put it down.’

  ‘Dickon!’ said Tulyet sharply. ‘Do you remember what I said? You can only have the bow if you do not point it at anyone. If you aim it at Brother Michael, I will take it away and burn it.’

  Dickon’s small face lost its expression of savage delight and became sombre as he considered his options. He studied his father hard, as if assessing how seriously to take the threat, then moved to one side so he could see the tempting target that quailed behind the physician. Then he looked back at Tulyet. His fingers tightened on the weapon and Bartholomew saw that the little arrow had a nasty point on it, and while Dickon was probably too small to shoot it with sufficient power to kill, he could certainly cause some painful damage. He moved again to block Dickon’s line of vision, and wondered what the Sheriff was thinking of, to give the lad such a dangerous plaything.

  ‘Come and watch me,’ ordered Dickon imperiously, lowering the bow when he saw he would not have a clear shot at Michael anyway. ‘By the river.’

  ‘We are busy,’ replied Michael shortly. ‘Go away.’

  ‘Come!’ insisted Dickon firmly. ‘Now.’

  ‘Go and see your mother, Dickon,’ suggested Tulyet, wheedling. ‘She may have a cake.’

  ‘Now,’ repeated Dickon, and the bow came up again. ‘I shoot.’

  ‘We shall have no peace unless we oblige,’ said Tulyet resignedly. ‘He only wants us to watch him in the butts at the bottom of the garden for a moment.’

  ‘You should not give in to him, Dick,’ grumbled Michael heaving himself out of his seat and preparing to hik
e to the end of the Tulyets’ long toft. ‘It will make him worse than he already is.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Tulyet indignantly. ‘He is a little more boisterous than some lads his age, but only because he is unusually intelligent. Besides, what do you know about being a parent? You are a monk.’

  ‘I know more than you can possibly imagine,’ replied Michael, aloofly enigmatic and leaving Bartholomew and Tulyet wondering exactly what he meant.

  ‘But a bow, Dick,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is not wise. He may harm himself again or, worse, decide to shoot a person or an animal. He could do real harm.’

  ‘He must to learn how to handle weapons,’ insisted Tulyet. ‘It will be part of his knightly training, and the younger he is, the faster he will become accomplished in their use. He will be Sheriff one day, and I want him properly prepared, or the first armed outlaw he meets will make an end of him.’

  ‘I must have myself promoted to Chancellor before you relinquish your post,’ muttered Michael, as they followed the boy to the end of the vegetable plots, where a sturdy wall had been erected to keep the child away from the river. ‘Dickon will not work as smoothly with me as you do.’

  Tulyet draped an arm around his shoulders. ‘Give the lad a chance, Brother. He will be a splendid man in time – taller than his father and with the sweet temperament of his mother.’

  ‘He will be tall,’ agreed Michael.

  ‘Watch,’ commanded Dickon, aiming his arrow at a circular target made of straw. Bartholomew was perturbed when the boy sent the missile thudding neatly into its centre, and even more so when he saw how hard Dickon had to pull to extricate it. His father may have loosened the bowstring, but it was still taut enough to drive the arrow home with considerable force. Tulyet grinned in proud delight.

  ‘You can see Merton Hall from here,’ said Michael, peering over the top of the wall and refusing to admire anything Dickon did.

  ‘Our properties are divided only by the Bin Brook,’ said Tulyet, applauding as Dickon repeated the exercise, which indicated that the first shot had been skill, not chance. ‘We are neighbours, although my house fronts on to Bridge Street and Merton Hall is accessed from Merton Lane.’

  ‘I do not suppose you saw anything odd the night Chesterfelde was murdered, did you?’ asked Michael hopefully.

  Tulyet shook his head. ‘Eudo is a noisy fellow, and his loud voice occasionally disturbs us while we sit in our orchard of an evening, but we usually hear nothing from the others who are currently staying there – those scholars and the merchants.’

  Bartholomew and Michael exchanged a bemused glance that Tulyet should dare to complain about Eudo when he had sired such a raucous brat. ‘Usually?’ asked Michael. ‘There are exceptions?’

  Tulyet nodded. ‘They were quite noisy on Saturday night, as a matter of fact. They were not arguing or fighting, just speaking loudly and laughing a lot.’

  ‘Laughing?’ asked Michael. ‘Laughing about what?’

  ‘Chesterfelde was guffawing, and encouraging the others to enjoy themselves,’ elaborated Tulyet. ‘I met him once or twice on his previous visits to our town, and he was always smiling.’

  ‘Bailiff Boltone said the same,’ said Bartholomew. ‘So did Norton. He seems to have been a cheerful sort of man.’

  Michael rubbed his chin. ‘I wonder whether Dodenho’s initial denial that he knew Chesterfelde is significant. His excuse for the lie may be valid – that he does not want a passing friendship to implicate him in a murder enquiry – but now I find myself wary of what he told us. Still, Chesterfelde sounds as though he was a likeable sort of fellow.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Tulyet. ‘Generally speaking.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Michael.

  Tulyet folded his arms, watching his son shoot off the head of a flower. ‘He had a hot temper, and I recall Dodenho telling me that it took very little to set it off. But, like many quick-to-anger men, his fury faded fast, and I do not think it was a serious flaw in his character. I am glad this is not my investigation, Brother. It takes a particular kind of skill to explore scholars and their cunning ways, and it is not one I shall ever possess. I am just grateful that my boy will never attend a University.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Michael wholeheartedly. ‘So am I.’

  It was noon by the time Bartholomew and Michael reached Merton Hall. Michael rapped sharply on the door and it was answered, as previously, by Boltone. There was ink on the bailiff’s fingers, and his eyes were red and raw, as if he had been straining them. Bartholomew supposed he had been working on his accounts so that Duraunt could assess whether he had been cheating.

  ‘Tell me, Master Bailiff,’ said Michael, smiling in a friendly fashion, ‘when did you last visit Oxford?’

  ‘I am obliged to present yearly accounts,’ said Boltone, looking furtive, ‘but I go there as rarely as possible. It smells, and all the streets look the same. Why?’

  ‘Were you there in February?’ asked Bartholomew. He could think of no reason why a Cambridge steward should kill an Oxford merchant, but that did not mean it had not happened.

  ‘No,’ said Boltone, a little too quickly. ‘I have not been since last October, and February was too cold for long journeys. The roads were closed by snow then, anyway.’

  ‘They were,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘But not for the whole month.’

  Boltone stood aside to allow them to enter. ‘Have you decided which of these Oxford men killed Chesterfelde? Was it a scholar or a merchant? I do not know who I would prefer you to hang: I dislike that condescending Eu, but I hate the sly Polmorva.’

  ‘What makes you think it was one of those two?’ asked Michael.

  ‘Who else could it be?’ asked Boltone, his eyes wide with surprise that there should be other culprits. ‘Chesterfelde was murdered in their room while they were present – sleeping or otherwise. You do not need one of your University degrees to assess that sort of evidence. And Polmorva and Eu are the nastiest of the group, so they are the best suspects for this vile murder. It is obvious.’

  Michael regarded him thoughtfully. ‘You think Abergavenny, Wormynghalle, Spryngheuse and Duraunt are innocent, do you?’

  Boltone returned the appraising stare, then seemed to reconsider, apparently afraid the monk might be laying some sort of trap that would see him in trouble. ‘Well, I suppose the killer could be one of them,’ he said after a long pause. ‘Except Duraunt, of course. He would never harm anyone.’

  ‘Is that so?’ asked Michael flatly. ‘Of course, Polmorva has you marked down as the assassin. He thinks you killed Chesterfelde by mistake, because you are desperate to do away with Duraunt and prevent him from exposing your dishonesty.’

  ‘Polmorva is a fool,’ snapped Boltone. ‘If I did kill Duraunt, then what do you think would happen? That Merton will forget these accusations and leave me alone? Of course not! They will send another man to look at my records, and then what would I do? Kill him, too? And another, and another? Polmorva is deranged if he believes I would see murder as a way to clear my name. Besides, I have nothing to hide – no reason to stab anyone.’

  ‘I see,’ said Michael. ‘Well, I would like to speak to Duraunt myself today. Do not bother to escort me; I can find my own way. Go back to your accounting.’

  Bartholomew followed Michael up the stairs into the hall. The three merchants sat there, talking in low voices that still contrived to sound hostile. Wormynghalle presented a grotesque sight that day, in a fashionably close-fitting gipon made from gold cloth that gave him the appearance of a shiny grub. His sheep’s head pendant and the rings on his fingers glinted in the sunlight, and he looked exactly what he was: a man of humble origins who found himself rich, and who did not have the taste to accommodate it decently. He played restlessly with a silver disc, and when Bartholomew looked more closely he saw it was an astrolabe, although he could tell from the way the tanner handled the instrument that he did not know how to use it. To him it was just a pretty object made of precio
us metal.

  Eu, meanwhile, wore a gipon of dark green, with a discreet clasp on his cloak that carried his nutmeg motif. He carried himself with a natural dignity, and Bartholomew wondered how the two merchants, diametrically opposed in all respects, managed to stomach each other’s company. He supposed it was because Abergavenny was there, to keep the peace and remind them that they had a common purpose. The Welshman seemed relieved to have company, and Bartholomew suspected he was finding his role as arbitrator hard work.

  ‘Where are the scholars?’ asked Michael.

  ‘In the solar,’ replied Wormynghalle with an unpleasant sneer. ‘They claim they are afraid of boring us with their debates, but the truth is that they prefer their own company.’

  ‘What they prefer is conversation that does not revolve around tanning,’ said Eu acidly. ‘And who can blame them? I do not want to be regaled with the difference between dog and horse urine while I am at table, either.’

  ‘Better than one bristling with cleverly disguised aspersions,’ retorted Wormynghalle. ‘You were the one who offended them on Saturday with your sly tongue and ambiguous “compliments”.’

  ‘We should all moderate our conversation, and—’ began Abergavenny.

  ‘I am surprised you remember,’ snarled Eu to the tanner. ‘You drank so much wine that you were asleep most of the evening.’

  ‘You were drunk when Chesterfelde died?’ pounced Michael. ‘And the night ended in insults?’

  ‘No,’ said Abergavenny hastily. ‘Wormynghalle provided a casket of claret for us all to share, but no one was insensible and no discourtesies were exchanged – just one or two harmless jests . . .’

  ‘Then why do you occupy separate rooms now?’ asked Bartholomew, knowing what happened when wine and poppy juice were combined, and thinking that he and Michael now had the answer to at least one part of the mystery. If the men at Merton Hall had swallowed such a mixture, they would probably not have stirred from their slumbers if the King of France had mounted an armed invasion; a body placed carefully among them would almost certainly have passed unnoticed.