Bartholomew 11 - The Mark Of A Murderer

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘So, you were all intoxicated except Polmorva?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Does that include Chesterfelde?’

  Spryngheuse gave a sad smile. ‘He was used to wine, and could drink a lot without his head swimming, but he was merry, too, that evening. It just made him laugh a lot – giggle, rather.’

  ‘Interesting,’ said Michael. ‘We must have words with Polmorva.’

  Spryngheuse paled. ‘Please, no! He will know it was I who told you about his deception with the wine, and life is bad enough without having him after me with his sharp tongue.’

  ‘Better that than with his sharp knife,’ Michael pointed out. ‘But I will ensure he does not know you are our source. Besides, he may even confess once he learns I have him trapped.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Bartholomew, knowing the monk would need more than speculation to corner the likes of Polmorva. ‘But we need to speak to Eudo and Boltone first. Are they at home?’

  ‘In the garden,’ replied Spryngheuse. ‘There is a cistern, which provides fresh water for the house, and they are repairing its pulley. They have been fiddling with it all day.’

  Bartholomew and Michael walked through Merton Hall’s neat vegetable plots to where they ended in a small arm of the River Cam known as the Bin Brook. The manor cultivated turnips, cabbages, onions, peas and beans using labour hired by the bailiff, although no one was working there that day. It was a pleasant garden. Walls and trees protected it from the wind, and the paths that wound through it were attractive and peaceful. Bartholomew took a deep breath of air laden with the scent of earth soaked by the morning’s shower, and paused to admire the line of red-tiled roofs belonging to the houses on Bridge Street. He recalled that Merton Hall and Tulyet were neighbours, their grounds separated only by the stream and the Sheriff’s Dickon-proof wall.

  At the very bottom of the toft was the cistern. It comprised a huge, stone-walled chamber that was sunk into the earth, like a deep, square well. Its walls rose above the ground to knee height, and a massive wood and metal lid fitted snugly across them to prevent animals and leaves from dropping inside and contaminating its contents. An intricate system of drains and sluices allowed river water to enter it, and it was invariably at least half full, even in times of drought. Merton Hall thus always had a source of fresh water, albeit at times a murky one.

  ‘This design is clever,’ said Bartholomew, impressed as always by skilful feats of engineering. ‘Its builders have ensured that, as long as the Bin Brook is flowing, there will always be water. It is deep, too – two or three times the height of a man.’

  ‘Then I would not like to fall in it,’ said Michael with a shudder. ‘I cannot swim.’

  ‘You would not get out, either,’ elaborated Bartholomew, oblivious to the monk’s uncomfortable reaction to this news. ‘At least, not easily. The walls are too slick, and there are no handholds for climbing. That is why the lid remains in place at all times – a hatch can be opened when anyone wants to draw water, but the lid is always closed. I suppose it is possible to tumble through the hatch, but you would have to be very careless.’

  ‘Fascinating,’ said Michael, wishing he would stop. Even the thought of deep, stone vaults filled with water was enough to make his stomach churn, and the notion of being trapped inside one made him feel sick. ‘But I am more interested in the men mending it.’

  As they came closer, they heard the sound of a hammer, and saw Eudo swinging furiously at the mechanism that allowed buckets to be raised and lowered, looking as if he was more intent on destroying it than fixing it. His handsome face wore a vicious scowl, while Boltone stood to one side with his arms folded, watching dispassionately. To belie Bartholomew’s recent statements, the gigantic lid of the cistern had been raised for the occasion, and was flipped back, so that one edge rested in the grass; its opposite side was attached to the wall by massive iron hinges.

  ‘Having trouble?’ asked Michael mildly.

  Eudo glared at him. ‘The pulley has jammed, and I have been playing with the damned thing all day to no avail. Whoever built it is an imbecile.’

  ‘You will not repair it by attacking it like a maniac,’ said Boltone, earning himself a foul look. ‘I have been telling you for hours that a contraption like this needs coaxing, not brute force.’

  Eudo shoved the hammer into his belt. As he did so, Bartholomew noticed the cut on his arm had almost healed, and probably would not even scar.

  ‘You do it, then,’ Eudo snapped, sweaty and irritable. ‘You have been giving advice and making suggestions all afternoon, but nothing has worked. I am tired, hot and my wrist hurts. You do it.’

  ‘Never mind that for now,’ said Michael, raising one hand to prevent Boltone from accepting the challenge. ‘We have come to ask about this unpleasant business at Merton Hall.’

  ‘We did not kill anyone,’ said Boltone firmly. ‘Duraunt claims I falsified the accounts – which is untrue, as I shall demonstrate when I have devised a way of doing so – but we had nothing to do with Chesterfelde’s demise.’

  ‘No?’ asked Michael, throwing down the gauntlet in the frail hope of learning something by unnerving them. ‘Prove it.’

  Eudo gave an insolent shrug. ‘We do not need to prove it: we are innocent, and that is that. We are not obliged to explain ourselves to you or to any other man.’

  Boltone adopted a less confrontational attitude. ‘Neither Eudo nor I has a reason to hurt anyone at Merton Hall – least of all a pleasant man like Chesterfelde.’

  ‘What about that scratch on your arm?’ asked Bartholomew, pointing to Eudo’s cut. ‘Chesterfelde had one rather like it – and it killed him.’

  Eudo did not seem to find the association a worrying one. He shrugged again. ‘Perhaps the killer tried to murder me, but, finding me too manly, decided to slaughter the cackling Chesterfelde instead.’

  Michael was unconvinced. He doubted that someone had been so determined to kill by exsanguination that he had moved to a second victim when his first attempt was unsuccessful. ‘Where were you when Chesterfelde died?’

  ‘In the King’s Head, as I told you the last time you asked,’ replied Eudo with a bored sigh. ‘However, since you do not know exactly when Chesterfelde died, I cannot know exactly where I was.’ He sneered. ‘Is that clear enough logic for you, Proctor?’

  ‘It is very clear,’ said Bartholomew, leaning forward to peer into the cistern. Its contents were dark and muddy, and the sides slick with slime. ‘So here is some logic for you: Chesterfelde did not die in the hall – he was killed when someone sliced his wrist and allowed him to bleed to death. His corpse was stabbed and dumped later. Do you have any logic to explain how that happened?’

  Eudo regarded him coldly, and removed the hammer from his belt. It was a large one with a thick oak handle and a mass of metal for a head. ‘That is rubbish,’ he said, swinging it like a weapon. ‘I saw the knife embedded in his spine myself.’

  ‘I am sure you did,’ said Bartholomew, ignoring the threat. ‘However, we cannot always believe what we see, particularly when it is intended to mislead us.’

  ‘We shall talk about this another time,’ said Michael, taking a step away. He had seen the kind of damage expertly wielded tools could do, and decided he would rather discuss Chesterfelde’s murder when he had a posse of beadles at his heels, all armed with knives and swords.

  Eudo regarded him with rank disdain. ‘And do not come here again with nasty accusations and no way to prove them.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Michael, edging further away. ‘Matt, come with me.’

  Boltone shot his companion an uneasy glance. ‘Put the hammer down, Eudo, and let us see to this pulley. We have done nothing wrong and have nothing to fear from the Proctor and his lackey.’

  ‘Not so,’ said Bartholomew, leaning down to inspect the ground. He poked the turf with his finger, and it came away stained reddish-brown. He held it up for the others to see. ‘Chesterfelde was killed here – and his blood in the grass proves it.’
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  Even before he had finished speaking, Eudo moved. He swung the hammer at Bartholomew’s head in a savage, deadly arc. Startled by the speed of the attack, the physician jerked away and lost his footing. Without breaking stride, Eudo lunged at Michael.

  ‘No,’ screamed Boltone in horror. ‘Eudo! There is no need for violence!’

  Michael moved with surprising speed for a man of his girth, and managed to twist out of the way. He staggered backwards, where the low wall of the cistern bumped against his calves, and windmilled his arms furiously in an attempt to regain his balance. Boltone darted forward. Bartholomew could not tell whether the bailiff intended to push or help the monk, but before he could do either Michael disappeared over the edge with a piercing shriek. A splash indicated that he had landed.

  ‘Now you have done it,’ growled Eudo to Boltone. ‘There is no turning back now.’

  Bartholomew rolled in an effort to put as much distance between him and Eudo as possible, then tried to scramble to his feet. Eudo was quicker, and the hammer plunged downward again. Bartholomew squirmed out of the way and heard it connect hard with the pulley, so the whole structure shuddered. While the physician’s attention was taken with Eudo, Boltone approached from the other side, evidently deciding attack was the only way to extricate himself from the situation his friend had created. He was unexpectedly strong for so small a man, and when he grabbed one of Bartholomew’s wrists and shoved him roughly towards the cistern, he was difficult to fend off. From inside the well, Bartholomew could hear the panicky gurgling of a man who could not swim.

  He struggled hard, seeing that the bailiff intended to hold him while Eudo battered him to death. Seizing the medical bag he always carried, he hurled it with all his might at the approaching Eudo, skidding and dropping to one knee as he did so. Boltone fell with him, his small hands still fixed firmly around the physician’s left arm. Eudo faltered when the bag struck him, but then advanced again, while Bartholomew raised his free arm to protect his head. Eudo’s first blow went wide, and the hammer struck sparks as it smashed into the wall with devastating force. Bartholomew saw he did not have much time, and was acutely aware of the terrified choking sounds emanating from the cistern. He attempted to bring Boltone in front of him, to use as a shield, but the bailiff saw what he was trying to do and resisted. With a grin that verged on the manic, Eudo approached.

  CHAPTER 5

  Just when Bartholomew thought his life was about to end and that Eudo was going to dash out his brains and kick his body into the cistern, where no one would find it until Merton Hall’s residents started to sicken from drinking bad water, Eudo’s smile became forced. Then it faded altogether. The tenant put his hand to his chest, and when he pulled it away, there was blood on his fingers.

  ‘Someone is shooting at us,’ cried Boltone in alarm. He released Bartholomew, who dropped to the ground, certain that if someone was loosing arrows, then it would be no friend of his. The bailiff darted forward and tugged the quarrel from Eudo’s chest, making his friend shriek in pain. ‘I told you to go back to work and not answer questions, and now look what has happened. You should have known the Proctor would not come here alone. We are doomed!’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Eudo, grimacing at the redness staining his palm. ‘We will finish the physician, hunt out this archer, and—’ Another arrow hissed into the ground at his feet, making him jump like the dancing bear Bartholomew had watched in the Market Square. ‘But then again, perhaps not.’

  Without further ado, he raced away. Startled by his abrupt flight, Boltone tore after him, howling for him to stop, but Eudo had no intention of waiting to be shot, and within moments both men were lost from sight. Bartholomew crawled towards the spent missile, his thoughts whirling in confusion. It was tiny, although still large enough to have pierced Eudo’s skin. He scanned the trees that lay across the Bin Brook, and sure enough, there was Dickon’s tawny head poking over the wall. The boy was wearing a grin that almost split his face in half.

  ‘Splat!’ shouted Dickon in delight. ‘I kill him.’

  Bartholomew climbed unsteadily to his feet, edging towards the cistern, half his mind on the fact that Michael had gone ominously quiet, and half on the fact that Dickon might have enjoyed his live target practice so much he would try it again.

  ‘Put the bow down,’ he ordered sternly. ‘Your father forbade you to shoot at people. He will be angry when he learns what you have done.’

  He moved closer to the well and glanced inside it. Michael was not there. Then he saw a scrap of the monk’s habit floating in one corner, and his stomach lurched in horror.

  ‘Dickon!’ he yelled, all thoughts of his own safety gone. ‘Call your father! Hurry! Go now!’

  ‘Pow! I kill him dead!’ yelled Dickon, but obligingly disappeared from the wall. Bartholomew only hoped he would not encounter something more interesting before he summoned assistance – and that Tulyet would take the boy seriously and not put his story down to childish imagination.

  Meanwhile, Bartholomew himself was faced with an agonising decision. If he jumped inside the cistern, he would not be able to climb out unaided – and if Dickon did not manage to raise the alarm, he would eventually drown. But Michael was already unconscious, and would die for certain if he took the time to fetch help himself. He glanced at the pulley, wondering whether he could use it to haul them both to safety, but Eudo had dismantled it to the point where it was useless. There was only one thing to do if he was to save Michael.

  Taking a deep breath, he sat on the wall and launched himself forward. The water was agonisingly cold, and he felt himself descend for some time before he was able to kick his way to the surface. He blinked algae from his eyes and looked for the floating material he had seen in one corner. It was not there: Michael had sunk.

  Trying to quell his alarm, Bartholomew dived. The water was cloudy and no sunlight penetrated the pool, which meant it was impossible to see. He flailed around in increasingly desperate circles, searching for anything grabbable. The tips of his fingers encountered something waving near the side of the pit, and he moved towards it, his lungs almost ready to burst. He located an arm and seized it, kicking towards the surface and surprised at how heavy Michael had become.

  He dropped his prize in horror: the face that emerged was not the monk’s, nor was it anyone he could save. Whoever else was in the well was long past earthly help, and there was a deep, gashing wound in the throat that looked as if someone had hacked it with stunning ferocity. Bartholomew had a fleeting image of a moss-coloured liripipe and a youngish face before he released the corpse and dived again, concentrating on the area where he had seen Michael’s habit.

  He felt something bulky that moved when he touched it, and struck out for the surface yet again, dragging the body with him and praying it was Michael and not another cadaver, because time was running out. He was relieved when he recognised the thin, brown hair and beefy features, and pressed his ear against his friend’s chest. A faint hammering told him the monk was alive. He opened Michael’s mouth and breathed hard into it, as he had been taught to do by his Arab master in Paris. Immediately, Michael gagged. His eyes fluttered open and he began to flail, strong arms made even more powerful by panic.

  ‘Keep still,’ Bartholomew ordered, ducking to avoid being hit. Michael was weighty, even when buoyed up by water, and his struggles would make keeping him afloat difficult. ‘Or you will have us both under.’

  ‘I cannot swim!’ shrieked Michael, grabbing him around the throat.

  Bartholomew went under, desperately trying to dislodge the monk’s vicelike grip. They both started to sink, and one of Michael’s knees struck him under the chin. He kicked his way free and surfaced some distance away. This time, he approached the monk from behind and hauled him up backwards, so he would not be able to drag them down a second time. Michael struggled frantically, and Bartholomew was hard-pressed to maintain his hold.

  ‘Stop!’ he shouted, when he could speak without water sloppin
g into his mouth. ‘You are not going to drown. I have you. But you must trust me. Relax.’

  ‘Relax?’ screeched Michael. ‘What an inane thing to say to a drowning man!’

  ‘Well, try,’ snapped Bartholomew. ‘And stop making so much noise or you will have Eudo and Boltone back. We are sitting ducks inside this thing.’ He coughed, and the rhythm of his treading water was momentarily broken.

  ‘We are sinking!’ howled Michael, at once embarking on a new bout of struggles. ‘Water is going up my nose. I cannot breathe!’

  ‘Then stop splashing and making waves,’ gasped Bartholomew. ‘I will not let you go, I promise.’

  Michael went rigid, every muscle in his body straining with the effort of keeping still. His breath came in short, shallow hisses, and he screwed his eyes tightly closed, so he would not be able to see the slick green walls and the rectangle of sky above him. Bartholomew admired his self-control, not sure he could have complied so readily, if the situation had been reversed.

  ‘No,’ whispered Michael after a few moments. ‘This will not work. You are not strong enough to keep us both afloat. Let me go.’

  ‘I cannot,’ said Bartholomew caustically. ‘As soon as I release you, you will grab me and we will drown together.’ He paddled towards one of the walls, hoping to find a handhold that Michael could take, and ease some of the weight. There was nothing.

  Michael retched as he scrabbled at the stones, trying in vain to hold himself up. ‘My feet are nowhere near the bottom,’ he squeaked. ‘And the sides are as slippery and as smooth as ice.’