‘Because we are trying to be good guests,’ said Abergavenny with a strained smile. ‘The scholars enjoy long, pedantic debates and I do not see why these should be curtailed by our presence. It was my suggestion that they adjourn to the solar during the day for their erudite discussions. Duraunt was kind enough to allow us to stay here, so the least we can do is stay out of his way.’
‘Why did he invite you?’ asked Michael. ‘You seem odd bedfellows.’
‘Because we are rich,’ replied Wormynghalle smugly. ‘We are all in a position to make handsome benefactions to his College when we return to Oxford, and wealthy merchants are always being courted by scholars – like whores after men with full purses.’
Abergavenny winced at Wormynghalle’s coarse analogy, while Eu shook his head. Bartholomew watched them closely, and thought about what Michael and Tulyet had said. The Sheriff distrusted the laconic, noble-born Eu, because he had met his kind before, while alarm bells had jangled in Bartholomew’s own mind over Wormynghalle, because he was aggressive, overconfident and brutal. But it had been the diplomatic, reasonable Abergavenny that Michael had elected as the villain, on the grounds that the Welshman’s congeniality was good cover for evil intent.
‘It suits us to stay at Merton Hall,’ said Abergavenny, again calming troubled waters. ‘The best taverns are inside your town gates – where we have no desire to be.’
‘Why not?’ asked Michael.
Eu sighed impatiently. ‘Why do you think? We have just left a city ravaged by scholars, and we do not want to be trapped inside another. We are safer here on the outskirts.’
‘That is why I bought claret on Saturday,’ explained Wormynghalle. He glared at Eu, implying that the spicer’s failure to do likewise indicated he was cheap. ‘I wanted to thank Duraunt for his hospitality. He declined to accept coins, no doubt hoping for a larger donation when we return, but he is fond of wine, and I felt I should do something pleasant for him while we are here.’
‘Never mind this,’ said Eu. Bartholomew saw the tanner’s barb had hit its mark. ‘Have you come to give us Gonerby’s killer, so we can go home?’
‘It is him!’ said Wormynghalle, pointing at Bartholomew. ‘He is our culprit.’
‘How in God’s name have you deduced that?’ asked Michael, startled.
‘It is obvious. He knows Oxford, because he was an Oxford scholar himself. Polmorva told me. He must have visited our city in February, perhaps to meet old acquaintances, killed Gonerby and fled home again.’
‘Why would I do that?’ asked Bartholomew, not bothering to hide his contempt for the man. ‘I have never met Gonerby.’
‘So you say,’ countered Wormynghalle. ‘But, for all we know, you may have been enemies for years. Polmorva said you were a Merton man two decades ago, and Gonerby was living in the city then. Perhaps you ordered some parchment from him, and were dissatisfied with the result. There could be all manner of reasons why you did not like each other.’
‘Did Gonerby supply parchment that was of inferior quality, then?’ asked Michael.
Abergavenny intervened, as usual. ‘Of course not. His parchment was excellent, and few scholars had cause for complaint. But I do not think this physician is our man, Wormynghalle.’
‘He is a suitable suspect, though,’ said Eu. He looked Bartholomew up and down appraisingly. ‘He looks poor, so no one will miss him. We will take him with us when we leave.’
‘You will not,’ said Michael, ‘because he is not your culprit. He gave the University Lecture on St Scholastica’s Day, and more than five hundred people – scholars and townsmen – will vouch he was here, in Cambridge, not off stabbing merchants in Oxford.’
‘Am I to understand from this discussion that you have learned nothing about Gonerby’s killer?’ asked Wormynghalle, sounding disgusted.
‘Give me time,’ said Michael coldly. ‘I have other matters to attend, besides looking into the murders of men I do not know in cities I have never visited. But I have spoken to a number of Cambridge students who were in Oxford during February, and some Oxford scholars who are here now. I have several promising lines of enquiry.’
Bartholomew knew for a fact he did not, but said nothing to contradict him. He did not like the merchants and their assumption that money made them important, and he resented Wormynghalle’s accusations. He did not know whether he would prefer Chesterfelde’s killer to be Polmorva or the tanner, and began to hope they were in cahoots, and had done it together. Then he realised he was allowing his dislike to interfere with his reason, and tried to control his growing antipathy.
Michael turned to Wormynghalle. ‘We met a relative of yours this morning.’
Wormynghalle was aghast. ‘It was not my wife, was it? She is heavy with child, so I hope you are mistaken. I would not like to think of her travelling so far when she is about to provide me with a son.’
‘A scholar named John Wormynghalle,’ said Michael. ‘Of King’s Hall.’
‘Oh, him,’ said Wormynghalle uninterestedly. He gave the astrolabe a vigorous shake. Something rattled, and Bartholomew saw that his fiddling had broken it. ‘He is no kin of mine. He came sniffing around as soon as I arrived, doubtless hoping we were related, so I would be obliged to donate money for his education. We talked for an hour, but could find no common kin, and he left disappointed. Did he tell you we were from the same stock? Cheeky beggar!’
‘I came to speak to Duraunt,’ said Michael, suddenly heading for the door that led to the solar. His abrupt departure had the effect he intended: the merchants were puzzled and uneasy, suspecting he knew more than he had told them about Gonerby’s murder and the repercussions it might have on the men who had decided to avenge it. ‘I will keep you informed of my progress.’
Bartholomew caught Michael’s arm before he reached the solar door and spoke in a low voice as the merchants began a carping argument among themselves, debating what the monk might have learned that he declined to share with them. ‘Why did you ask Wormynghalle the tanner about Wormynghalle the scholar? He told us this low fellow is not his kin, and we have no reason to disbelieve him. There was no reason to check his story.’
‘His, no,’ agreed Michael. ‘But I did not like the way the tanner accused you of murder, just because he has been listening to Polmorva. I wanted to see if I could catch him out in a lie – to see whether he would deny meeting young Wormynghalle on the grounds that he will not want to be associated with anyone at Cambridge. But he was more honest than I imagined he would be.’
Bartholomew considered. There was definitely something unsavoury about the tanner, and it went further than his coarse manners and penchant for wild accusations. ‘I told you the first time we spoke to him that I had a bad feeling about the fellow.’
‘You have not met him before, have you?’ asked Michael, pausing to look hard at Bartholomew. ‘In Oxford, when you were a student?’
‘No. I would have told you.’
‘Would you? You keep a lot from me these days, and I do not know what to think.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You slip out every night to meet Matilde, but you refuse to tell me why your relationship has taken this sudden and unexpected step. You do not usually hide secrets from me.’
‘Just because I decline to share details about Matilde does not make me a liar,’ said Bartholomew, faintly irritated. ‘You should know me better than that.’
Michael did not reply. He knocked on the solar door, but did not wait for an answer before pushing inside. Duraunt sat near the hearth, a book on his knees, while Polmorva diced with a man who wore a distinctive grey-fringed cloak. The man’s jaw dropped in horror when he recognised the visitors, while Michael regarded him thoughtfully and Bartholomew’s mind whirled with questions.
‘So,’ said the monk amiably to the man who had been contemplating suicide on the Great Bridge the previous morning. ‘We meet again, sir.’
‘You know each other?’ asked Duraunt, surprised.
Duraunt closed his book and indicated that the visitors were to sit with him on the stools that were clustered around the hearth. Bartholomew obliged, but Michael remained standing.
‘Who are you?’ the monk asked of the stranger.
‘Walter Spryngheuse.’ The man began to gabble, and Bartholomew sensed he would say anything to prevent Michael from telling Polmorva and Duraunt about the incident on the bridge. ‘And you are here to look into Chesterfelde’s murder. I cannot believe someone killed him. He was good company and everyone liked him.’
‘Someone did not,’ Michael pointed out.
Spryngheuse’s eyes became watery. ‘I miss him. He was a Balliol man and I am from Merton, but we were friends nonetheless. I wish he had not died.’
‘We all do,’ said Duraunt comfortingly. ‘But he has gone to better things.’
Spryngheuse pulled himself together. ‘Duraunt has been telling me about you, Bartholomew.’
‘Not very accurately,’ said Polmorva nastily. ‘He has been far too kind in his reminiscences.’
‘And you have been too harsh,’ said Spryngheuse immediately.
‘Your tongue is overly sharp, Polmorva,’ agreed Duraunt, leading Bartholomew to wonder what the man had been saying.
‘Meanwhile, I have learned that you like to drink and argue,’ said Michael to Duraunt, preventing the physician from responding with some reminiscences of his own. ‘You were making so much noise on the night Chesterfelde died, that you disturbed your neighbours.’
Duraunt was astounded. ‘Really? It was quite unintentional, I assure you, and I shall apologise to them at once. We were discussing Bradwardine’s mean speed theorem, and it was so exciting that we may have been a tad raucous.’
‘Chesterfelde had interesting opinions,’ explained Spryngheuse shyly. ‘He was an amusing debater, so we laughed a lot. We did not mean to annoy anyone, though.’
‘It was the merchants’ fault,’ said Polmorva testily. ‘They were the ones guffawing at Chesterfelde’s inanities. Debates are not meant to be funny – they are serious expressions of philosophical ideals, and I disapproved very strongly when you all made that one into a joke.’
‘Do not be so ready to frown,’ admonished Duraunt mildly. ‘There is nothing wrong with laughter. Indeed, I am glad we were merry that night, since it was Chesterfelde’s last. At least he died after a lovely evening in pleasant company.’
‘Mostly pleasant,’ said Bartholomew, suspecting Polmorva had been a terrible misery.
‘You drank plenty of wine,’ fished Michael. ‘It made you sleep more deeply than usual.’
‘We did not imbibe that much,’ objected Duraunt. ‘And I seldom sleep well these days. It is one of the curses of old age.’
‘Is that why you take poppy juice?’ asked Bartholomew.
Duraunt stared at him. ‘I do not dose myself with poppy juice or any other kind of soporific. When I am restless, I pray, and eventually sleep overtakes me.’
‘Then what about the tincture you bought from the apothecary?’ asked Michael. ‘You claimed Matt had recommended that you swallow a strong dosage, but he has done no such thing.’
‘He did,’ said Duraunt firmly. ‘Twenty years ago, when I had stomach pains, he recommended poppy juice at a specific strength that cured them instantly. I have used his remedy ever since on rare occasions, particularly when I undertake long journeys. My digestion is adequate at home, where I am used to the food, but it occasionally misfires when I travel and am obliged to eat unfamiliar fare.’
‘You have been taking concentrated poppy juice for two decades?’ asked Bartholomew in horror.
A note of genuine irritation crept into Duraunt’s voice when he replied. ‘You are not listening, Matthew. I said I take it on rare occasions when I travel. But Okehamptone’s death upset me, and I felt the need for a dose. I thought I had brought some with me, but I could not find it, so I purchased more from the apothecary. And now you know everything about my stomach and its sporadic irregularities. Does that satisfy your morbid and unwarranted curiosity?’
‘I am sorry,’ said Bartholomew, startled and hurt by the reprimand. He was aware of Polmorva’s smirk. ‘But it is odd that you all slept through Chesterfelde’s murder, and that a dose of strong medicine was added to your wine is not an unreasonable conclusion to draw.’
‘Especially since we found some in your bag,’ added Michael.
But it was Bartholomew who bore the brunt of Duraunt’s outrage. ‘You searched my possessions? Without my permission?’ He shook his head and there was a hard, unforgiving look in his eye that cut the physician to the quick. ‘I expected better of you, Matthew. I do not know what you have become here in Cambridge, but I do not like it.’
‘I did not like what he was before,’ said Polmorva. ‘I am not surprised to learn he is the kind of man to go through our belongings. It would also not surprise me to learn that he killed Chesterfelde, since he seems to have developed a talent for skulking and prying.’
‘I would not go that far,’ said Duraunt, his faded blue eyes still fixed unblinkingly on the physician. ‘But the next time you want to know something, Matthew, you can ask. You will not rifle through my bags. Is that clear?’
Bartholomew nodded, feeling like an errant schoolboy, and fumed at the gloating expression on Polmorva’s face.
‘Good,’ said Duraunt, leaning back in his chair. ‘Then we shall say no more about the matter. Why are you here? Was it just to ask about the poppy juice, or do you have another purpose?’
‘We came to inform you that we have been busy with Chesterfelde’s case,’ said Michael. ‘And that progress has been made. We would also like to ask Spryngheuse some questions, since he is the only one we have not yet interviewed.’ He turned to the man. ‘Why did you come to Cambridge?’
‘I told you that yesterday,’ said Polmorva. ‘Did you not listen?’
Michael rounded on him. ‘I am not talking to you, so keep your answers to yourself until you are asked for them. Spryngheuse?’
‘I fled because I was afraid for my life,’ replied Spryngheuse. He hung his head. ‘It is disconcerting to arrive at another university, only to have your closest friend murdered within days.’
Michael included Duraunt and Polmorva in his next question. ‘You did not come because you know the Archbishop is due to visit, and you hope to ensure he founds his new College in Oxford?’
Duraunt was appalled by the accusation. ‘Of course not! What a terrible thing to say! No wonder Matthew has turned bad, if he listens to men like you.’
‘Now, just a moment,’ said Michael indignantly. ‘Oxford is in a state of turmoil – and under an interdict. It is not so far-fetched to imagine someone might take steps to make Cambridge appear similarly uneasy, to ensure we do not gain Islip’s patronage at your expense.’
‘It is far-fetched,’ insisted Duraunt angrily. ‘None of us are so low-minded.’
‘Really,’ said Michael, giving Polmorva a stare to indicate he thought otherwise. ‘But let us return to Chesterfelde, and who might have wanted him dead. Spryngheuse, do you have any ideas?’
Spryngheuse was thoughtful. ‘Chesterfelde visited Cambridge several times, but he was not here long enough to make enemies. He only had friends – not like in Oxford, where he and I are shunned and hated.’
‘That is the price of instigating a riot that left hundreds dead,’ said Polmorva unpleasantly.
Bartholomew stared at Spryngheuse. ‘Chesterfelde was one of the scholars who began the argument in the Swindlestock Tavern?’
‘He was,’ said Polmorva, before Spryngheuse could speak. ‘And Spryngheuse was another.’
‘Let me explain,’ said Spryngheuse tiredly. ‘We were in the alehouse, happy and good humoured, when this Benedictine attached himself to our party. We had never seen him before, but were too polite to send him away. I wish t
o God we had. He seemed to know Chesterfelde had a quick temper, and needled him with inflammatory statements until he reacted with violence – against Croidon the landlord. It was the monk who started the fight, not me and not Chesterfelde, although we are the ones being blamed.’
‘But it was Chesterfelde who smashed the pot over Croidon’s head,’ said Polmorva. ‘And it was you who shot the mason. No one – except you – recalls this elusive Benedictine.’
‘Our friends did,’ objected Spryngheuse. ‘The two others who were with us.’
‘But they were killed,’ said Polmorva. ‘Of the original party, only you and Chesterfelde survived – other than this monk, of course.’ He turned to Michael. ‘I am sure many Benedictines enjoy a good riot, but they are innocent of inciting this one. I made enquiries among the Oxford brethren myself, and this mysterious monastic does not exist.’
‘Is this true?’ asked Michael of Duraunt, his voice cold and angry. ‘Why did you not mention it before? If Chesterfelde was responsible for bringing about these riots, then there is probably an entire city full of people who would like to see him dead.’
‘I did not tell you for two reasons,’ said Duraunt calmly. ‘First, because Spryngheuse and Chesterfelde have always maintained their innocence.’ Here Spryngheuse nodded and Polmorva made a sceptical moue. ‘And second, if they do have enemies, then they are in Oxford, not here.’
‘Not necessarily,’ said Michael. ‘How do you know one of your three merchant friends did not exact revenge? After all, it was the riot Chesterfelde started that saw their friend Gonerby murdered.’
Duraunt shook his head. ‘If that were true, then the killer would have struck during the journey to Cambridge, when there were better opportunities.’
Michael was unconvinced. ‘Perhaps that is what we are supposed to think. Personally, I shall reserve judgement until I have more evidence.’
‘So, what have you learned so far?’ asked Polmorva, in the kind of voice that indicated it would be nothing of significance.
Bartholomew 11 - The Mark Of A Murderer Page 12
