Bartholomew 11 - The Mark Of A Murderer

by Susanna GREGORY

  Dodenho led Bartholomew to his chamber, Michael and Wormynghalle trailing behind them, but then realised he had run out of ink. He claimed it was because he used so much for scribing his erudite masterpieces, but Bartholomew looked around the room and knew he was lying. It was arranged in such a way that writing would be difficult: its two desks were shoved in a corner where the light was poor, and the area near the window – where the tables should have been – held a pair of comfortable chairs that were obviously used for dozing in the sun.

  The rest of Dodenho’s quarters was equally a shrine to easy living. Feathers clinging to the rugs on the floor suggested that he and his room-mate pampered themselves with down mattresses, rather than the more usual straw ones. A table held several jugs of wine, and on a tray stood a large plum cake, some cheese and a bowl of nuts.

  ‘How do you write with the desk so far from the light?’ asked Michael guilelessly.

  ‘He does not scribe as much as he would have you believe,’ whispered Wormynghalle, amused by the question. ‘But he reads by the window – learns theories that he then claims as his own.’

  ‘I work better in the gloom,’ pronounced Dodenho with considerable authority. ‘Now, where is my ink? Damn that Wolf! He must have made off with it.’

  ‘Wolf left on Ascension Day – almost two weeks ago,’ pounced Michael wickedly. ‘Does this mean you have only just noticed you have none left?’

  ‘Perhaps it was not Wolf,’ blustered Dodenho, caught out. ‘I must have used the last of it committing my mean speed theorem to parchment yesterday.’

  ‘You mean the one devised by Bradwardine?’ asked Bartholomew, who loved the complex physics entailed in the Mertonian’s theories about distance and motion.

  ‘I mean the superior one devised by me,’ snapped Dodenho, striding to what appeared to be a private garderobe and inspecting the shelves. Bartholomew thought it an unlikely place to find ink, and, judging from the grins of Michael and Wormynghalle, so did they. Wormynghalle began to whisper again, taking the opportunity to speak while Dodenho was out of earshot.

  ‘His plagiarism may deceive uneducated men like Norton, but I do not appreciate him trying to mislead me, too. I am no knuckle-brained courtier, but a man who takes his studies seriously. I find it extremely irritating, and expected a better quality of scholarship from a Cambridge College.’

  ‘There are plenty of men like Dodenho at Oxford, too,’ objected Michael, conveniently forgetting the fact that he had never been there.

  Wormynghalle inclined his head apologetically, aware he had trodden on sensitive toes. ‘I know; I have met them. They are partly why I came here – to be away from boasters and theory-thieves.’

  ‘You will never escape those,’ said Bartholomew, thinking him naïve to suppose he could.

  Wormynghalle smiled. ‘But I have met many brilliant men since I arrived here. I particularly enjoyed your lecture on Grosseteste’s notion that lines, angles and figures of geometry are a useful tool for understanding natural philosophy. Perhaps we could debate that some time?’

  ‘When?’ asked Bartholomew eagerly. His fatigue miraculously evaporated. ‘Now?’

  Wormynghalle indicated Michael with a nod of his head. ‘It had better be later if we do not want to make an enemy of the Senior Proctor. I will set our students an exercise that will keep them occupied, and we can use the time for informal disputation. But you will be here all day if you wait for Dodenho to find his non-existent ink. Come upstairs and I will give you some of mine. I write all the time, and have a plentiful supply.’ He gave Dodenho a disparaging glance and led the way to the floor above.

  ‘It is much nicer here without Wolf and Hamecotes,’ declared Dodenho, following. ‘I am glad they have gone away on business of their own. I like having a room to myself.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Michael. ‘Your truant Fellows. Have you heard from them?’

  ‘I had a letter from Hamecotes today,’ said Wormynghalle, pulling a crumpled missive from the pouch on his belt. ‘He arrived safely in Oxford, and has already bought Gilbertus Angelicus’ Compendium medicinae and William of Pagula’s Oculus sacerdotis for our library.’

  He seemed delighted, and Bartholomew supposed that, to an earnest scholar like Wormynghalle, securing books was far more important than staying in College to teach.

  ‘I have heard nothing from Wolf, however,’ offered Dodenho. ‘I doubt he is buying books, given how much money he owes the College. I do not miss him or his nasty habit of dropping nutshells all over the floor, where they hurt my bare feet. And Hamecotes has a habit of waking me far too early in the day with his damned pacing. He makes the floorboards creak, right above my head.’

  ‘He is thinking,’ said Wormynghalle defensively, pausing at the top of the stairs to open a window. The stairwell had the musty, sour odour often associated with places inhabited exclusively by men, even relatively wealthy ones like the scholars of King’s Hall, and Wormynghalle wrinkled his nose fastidiously. ‘He is especially sharp-witted in the mornings, and we always rise early and pass the time in scholarly discourse – and when he thinks, he walks back and forth. All you and Wolf talk about is the quality of College ale.’

  ‘That is important, too,’ argued Dodenho, watching him struggle with the latch before shoving him out of the way and opening it with brute force. He regarded his young colleague with dislike. ‘At least we can discuss something other than work. You cannot, and it is tedious in the extreme.’

  ‘I heard you were the victim of a crime recently,’ said Michael to Dodenho, seeing Wormynghalle’s angry look. He did not want to be caught in the middle of a petty row between two men who should have better manners than to bicker in company.

  ‘What crime?’ demanded Dodenho. ‘Do you mean the time when Hamecotes defamed me, by publicly accusing me of stealing his ideas on the meaning of time?’

  ‘No,’ said Michael. ‘I mean a theft. Something was stolen from you.’

  ‘Nothing was stolen,’ said Dodenho, and his face flushed red. ‘I found it again.’

  Wormynghalle regarded him in disbelief. ‘You found it? But you stormed around the College for days, accusing people of making off with your astrolabe, and now you say it was not taken after all? Why did you not say so sooner? We have been thinking there was a thief under our roof all this time.’

  ‘An astrolabe?’ asked Bartholomew, recalling that he had seen such an object in the hands of the tanner at Merton Hall. ‘It was not silver, was it?’

  ‘Show it to me,’ ordered Michael.

  ‘I sold it,’ said Dodenho uneasily. ‘It was silver, and therefore too valuable to keep in a place like this, where impecunious students are in and out of our rooms all the time.’

  ‘A student stole it?’ asked Michael, confused. ‘And then you got it back and sold it?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Dodenho. ‘No.’

  Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘Well, it must be one or the other. However, I was under the impression that Bailiff Boltone or Eudo might have laid sticky fingers on the thing.’

  Dodenho appeared to be bemused. ‘What makes you mention them in particular?’

  ‘No reason,’ hedged Michael. ‘Why? Do you know them?’

  Dodenho seemed to consider his options. ‘A little,’ he replied eventually. ‘I met them once or twice through my friend . . . through my slight acquaintance, Chesterfelde. But they did not steal my astrolabe. That was students.’ His face took on a grim, stubborn look.

  ‘Misleading the Senior Proctor is a serious matter,’ said Michael sternly. ‘You would not be lying, would you, Dodenho?’

  ‘Of course not,’ bleated Dodenho. ‘Why would I do such a thing?’ He gave one of the falsest smiles Michael had ever seen and changed the subject. ‘Now, where is this ink, Wormynghalle?’

  He pushed past the younger man and opened the door to an airy chamber where two desks were placed in the windows, to make best use of the light. Bartholomew looked around and saw a neat, functional room
, obviously occupied by two people dedicated to academic pursuits. Shelves contained books and scrolls, all carefully stacked, while ink and pens were kept on a windowsill, to avoid accidental spillage that might damage the precious tomes. It was a clean place; Bartholomew could not see so much as a speck of dust anywhere.

  Wormynghalle placed a tray on one of the tables and fetched a scrap of parchment. Bartholomew dipped his pen in the inkwell, and was amused when the first word he wrote came out bright green.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Wormynghalle, hurriedly supplying another pot. ‘That is Hamecotes’s. He has a liking for this particular colour, because he says it does not fade as readily as black.’

  ‘He is a verdant kind of man,’ said Dodenho, not entirely pleasantly. ‘He wears a green hood on Sundays, and dons emerald hose under his tabard. And he likes vegetables, especially cabbage.’

  ‘And folk think Clippesby is insane,’ muttered Michael.

  Bartholomew wrote out the prescription, ignoring Dodenho’s insistence that wine and poppy juice would work better without the unnecessary addition of charcoal. Michael followed Dodenho when he went to find a servant to carry the recipe to the apothecary, to see if he could shake loose any more details about the mysterious movements of the astrolabe, while Bartholomew remained with Wormynghalle, who showed him a scroll containing quotations from the Arabic scholar al-Razi. The physician was pleasantly surprised when Wormynghalle listened attentively to his explanation about why Western medicine could benefit from the wisdom of the East, and even more pleased when he offered a number of intelligent comments. Wormynghalle was single-minded, perhaps a little fanatical, about learning, but Bartholomew preferred him to the shallow Dodenho.

  All too soon, Michael returned, and Wormynghalle reluctantly relinquished his guest. He walked with them to the gate, clasping and unclasping his hands as he expounded a theory he had devised based around Grosseteste’s precepts of geometry. While he listened, Bartholomew noticed again Wormynghalle’s downy moustache and the few bristles that sprouted from the underside of his chin, and supposed he left them there to make himself appear older. He understood why, recalling the frustration he had experienced himself when mature scholars had dismissed his ideas, simply because he was young.

  When they reached the road, Michael found it hard to prise the two men apart. Each time he tried to draw their discussion to a close, one would think of another point he wanted to raise. The monk was about to leave them to it, when his attention was caught by three people walking down the High Street together.

  ‘What are they doing out, when I expressly forbade them to stray from their lodgings?’

  Wormynghalle dragged his attention away from Bartholomew’s analysis of radiant lines, and followed the line of the monk’s pointing finger. ‘It is the tanner – the one from Oxford who has the same name as me. But, Bartholomew, have you considered the pro contra abstraction, which—’

  ‘Well?’ demanded Eu imperiously, directing his question at Michael and cutting across the King’s Hall scholar’s erudite exposition. ‘What have you learned about Gonerby’s murder?’

  ‘Gonerby?’ asked Wormynghalle the scholar in puzzlement. ‘I thought you said the dead man from Merton Hall was called Chesterfelde.’

  ‘Gonerby was an Oxford merchant,’ explained Abergavenny politely. ‘He died during the St Scholastica’s Day riots, and Brother Michael has agreed to look into the matter for us.’

  ‘Only because he is afraid our questions will spark off civil unrest,’ said Eu nastily. ‘He does not want a war in progress when the Archbishop is here.’

  ‘Of course he does not,’ said Wormynghalle the scholar sharply. ‘Only a fool would.’

  Eu regarded him coldly. ‘You must be a fool yourself, for approaching my colleague here in the hope of discovering some common kinship. He is a tanner, for God’s sake!’

  The scholar’s eyebrows rose in surprise at the crude insult, but he clearly did not want to become embroiled in a row between merchants. Before his namesake could frame a suitable response to the jibe, he made a tight bow, turned on his heel and marched back inside King’s Hall, giving the impression that he had better things to do than to squabble with burgesses.

  ‘Are you sure you two are not kin?’ asked Eu archly. ‘You both have poor manners.’

  ‘I will kill any man who suggests I have ties to that ruffian!’ snarled Wormynghalle. ‘He wants to claim an association with me, so he can demand a donation towards his studies. He probably assumed my name for that express purpose, but I will not be taken in by charlatans.’

  ‘He is not poor,’ said Bartholomew. Wormynghalle’s chamber was an expensive one shared only with one other man, and with a private garderobe. In Michaelhouse such a large room would have been used as a dormitory for at least six.

  ‘Never mind him,’ said Eu impatiently. ‘I want to know about Gonerby.’

  ‘We have narrowed our list of suspects,’ replied Michael. ‘So, it is only a matter of time before we have your man.’

  ‘Good,’ said Eu, beginning to move away. ‘As we agreed, you have until the Visitation. If you do not have our culprit by then we shall follow Wormynghalle’s advice and take this physician to Oxford for hanging.’

  Michael glowered at their departing backs, although Abergavenny shot the Michaelhouse men an apologetic smile as he left. ‘Eu is a nasty piece of work. Perhaps Dick was right, and he is the one in that unholy trio we should watch. But I still have a hunch about Abergavenny. Did you see the way he leered at us just now?’

  ‘Not really,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Were you honest in the reply you gave them? Have you narrowed your list of suspects? Men who were in Oxford in February, and who are now here?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Michael. ‘That was the absolute truth. However, I have eliminated so many of them with conclusive and incontestable alibis, that I now have a very short list indeed.’

  ‘How many are left on it?’

  ‘None,’ replied Michael. He shot his friend a rueful grin. ‘I told you it was short.’

  Bartholomew was worried that Michael had no suspects for Gonerby’s murder, since he thought that Eu might be as good as his word, and try to abduct him if the real culprit was not produced. There was also a nagging anxiety that Langelee might just let it happen, on the grounds that it would rid Michaelhouse of the embarrassing situation involving his relationship with Matilde.

  ‘He will not,’ said Michael, when he voiced his concerns. ‘As I said before, he is fond of you. Besides, I shall soon have their man and, if worse comes to worst, I intend to fob them off with a tale about their culprit fleeing to London – send them chasing phantoms while Islip is here.’

  ‘And what if they catch someone innocent? They will execute him.’

  ‘Perhaps, but there is no point worrying about that yet, since we have several days to uncover the truth.’ Michael was silent for a moment, thinking. ‘I have the feeling that Abergavenny was right when he mooted the possibility that the murders of Gonerby and Chesterfelde might be related.’

  ‘What makes you think so?’

  ‘One man is murdered, then a second is killed and his body dumped in the presence of those avenging the death of the first. I dislike such coincidences. However, since I will have Chesterfelde’s killer before the Visitation, hopefully that means I shall have Gonerby’s, too.’ Michael scratched his chin. ‘I need to know more about Boltone and Eudo and their dishonest dealings. The best solution would be to learn that they were in Oxford in February, and once we have proved they murdered Gonerby, we can encourage them to confess to Chesterfelde’s killing.’

  ‘The merchants said it was a scholar who made an end of Gonerby. Eudo and Boltone are not members of any university.’

  Michael shrugged. ‘Gonerby was dying, and dying men do not always make good witnesses – even assuming these merchants have been scrupulous in repeating his alleged last words. Is that Spryngheuse over there, wearing his grey-hemmed cloak, despite the sunshine?
He looks dreadful.’

  Bartholomew agreed: Spryngheuse’s eyes were red-rimmed, there were dark pouches under them, and his face had an unhealthy, waxen appearance. ‘What is wrong?’ he asked as their paths crossed. ‘Are you ill?’

  Spryngheuse’s voice was hoarse when he replied. ‘Remember that Benedictine I told you about – the one Polmorva claims does not exist? I saw him last night, lurking in the garden.’

  ‘Did you speak to him?’ asked Michael. ‘Did he say what he wanted?’

  Spryngheuse shook his head. ‘I told the others to come and look, but by the time they reached the window, he had gone. Polmorva told them I imagined it. I detest that man.’

  ‘I understand why,’ said Michael. ‘He is sly and spiteful. But will you tell me what your friend Chesterfelde thought of Polmorva? Did you ever discuss him together?’

  Spryngheuse regarded him unhappily. ‘You want to know whether Polmorva is Chesterfelde’s killer. Well, he is certainly bold enough to do such a thing, especially since he knew he could.’

  Michael frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

  Spryngheuse sighed and massaged his temples, eyes tightly closed. ‘Ignore me – I meant nothing. I am speaking nonsense, because I am so tired. I do not sleep well these days.’

  ‘I know how that feels,’ said Bartholomew wryly. ‘But if you know something about Chesterfelde’s death, please tell us. We would like to see his killer brought to justice.’

  Spryngheuse swallowed, and for a moment looked as though he might weep, but he pulled himself together. ‘Very well. Polmorva declined to drink much wine the night Chesterfelde died – unlike the rest of us. He abstained in a discreet way – often raising his goblet, but seldom drinking.’

  ‘Why did you notice that?’ asked Bartholomew curiously.

  Spryngheuse’s expression was grim. ‘I have become much more observant since the riots – terror of reprisal does that to a man. Also, you told us Chesterfelde was murdered somewhere other than in the hall, so perhaps he was killed when he went to the latrines. He had imbibed copious amounts of liquid, and would have needed to relieve himself, while Polmorva has an unusually small bladder and is often obliged to get up in the night. It is not impossible that they were out there alone together.’