Bartholomew 11 - The Mark Of A Murderer

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘Help is on its way,’ said Bartholomew, to calm him. ‘We do not have long to wait.’

  Michael twisted around to look at him. ‘Who? Not Eudo and Boltone. They want us dead.’

  ‘Dickon. He is fetching his father as we speak.’

  Michael was appalled. ‘Dickon? But he would love to see me perish. Indeed, I am surprised he is not here to watch. I suppose the garden wall is too high for him to scale.’

  Bartholomew said nothing. His legs were already beginning to ache from the effort of swimming, and he dared not ease his hold around the monk’s neck, for the instant he did so Michael would panic again.

  ‘Drowned in a latrine pit!’ muttered Michael, making a valiant attempt to control his hysteria by talking. ‘I can just imagine what my adversaries at the University will make of that.’

  ‘This is not a latrine pit,’ said Bartholomew, thinking of the other corpse that lurked under the murky surface, but deciding it was not a good time to mention it. In an attempt to ensure it did not slip out inadvertently, he changed the subject, then winced when he ended up saying something equally inappropriate. ‘If Dickon neglects to call his father, your enemies will never know what happened to you anyway. You will just fail to return home tonight, and that will be that.’

  ‘A mystery,’ said Michael weakly, spitting and fixing one meaty hand around Bartholomew’s arm. It was a grip of tremendous strength, and Bartholomew felt his own begin to slacken. He struggled to maintain it. ‘I have always hated water. Swim harder, Matt – we are sinking again.’

  ‘You are heavy,’ said Bartholomew breathlessly, aware that already his burning muscles were not obeying him as they should. ‘Try to float.’

  ‘A man of my girth does not float,’ stated Michael, with a trace of his habitual hauteur. He was silent for a moment. ‘What if help does not come?’

  ‘It will,’ said Bartholomew, trying to sound confident, and deciding not to point out that a three-year-old child could hardly be expected to understand the importance of what he had been asked to do. Dickon’s attention span was short and, even if he did go directly to his father and tell him the improbable story that the Senior Proctor and his Corpse Examiner were in his neighbour’s cistern, there was a good chance that Tulyet would not believe him.

  ‘Save yourself,’ said Michael, after what felt like an age. ‘Let me go and climb out. You are fit and strong. You will make it. Then come back for me later, being sure to present my corpse in its best light for mourners. All I ask is that you never tell anyone what really happened.’

  ‘What did happen?’ asked Bartholomew. He glanced at the sky, and strained his ears, but could hear or see nothing to indicate rescue was on its way. Michael slipped a little, and gagged as water slapped into his mouth. Bartholomew made a monumental effort to heave him up, and was horrified when he found he was barely able to do it. Without relinquishing his hold, he decided to see if they would fare better by swimming, than treading water. He leaned backwards and began to move. Michael screeched in horror.

  ‘Do not paddle away from the walls! The water is deeper in the middle than at the sides.’

  Bartholomew coughed. ‘It makes no difference when we cannot touch the bottom at either place. I think I can keep going longer this way than by staying still.’

  ‘But I do not like it!’ protested Michael. ‘Water is going in my ears.’

  ‘Well, you will just have to put up with it,’ said Bartholomew unsympathetically. ‘Talk to me. Tell me what happened with Eudo and Boltone.’

  ‘They wanted to kill us. And it was your fault. I tried to stop you from interrogating Eudo, because I could see the way it was going to end. He grabbed that hammer as soon as you came close to guessing what had happened to Chesterfelde, and I knew we would be hard pressed to defeat him once he was armed. You should have followed my lead, and …Matt, we are going under!’

  Bartholomew struggled to lift him. Time was ticking past, and he began to accept that help was not coming after all. The sun started to set, sending orange-red rays across the cistern wall, and he saw it would soon be night. He could not stay afloat much longer, and then he and Michael would be finished. Michael had been right: it was an ignominious way to die, and not one he would have chosen, especially given that he had spent most of his professional life warning people about the dangers of water – the diseases it harboured and the risks associated with swimming. He thought about the body he had found, hoping to distract himself from the agonising ache in his limbs. Had Eudo and Boltone put it there, after they had cut its throat? Or was there another killer?

  ‘You mean in here with us?’ asked Michael. ‘Who is it?’

  With a shock, Bartholomew realised he must have spoken aloud. ‘I did not recognise him,’ he said, bracing himself for the panicky flailing he was sure was about to begin.

  ‘Another of Eudo and Boltone’s victims?’ Michael showed admirable self-restraint, however, and, although the pincer-like grip on Bartholomew’s arm increased, he held himself in check. ‘It must have been. They are using this cistern as their personal charnel house.’

  Bartholomew barely heard him, although he sensed the monk was talking; the voice was a buzz in the back of his consciousness. Then, just when he thought he was truly doomed and could continue paddling no longer, a silhouette appeared in the rectangle of darkening sky above.

  ‘God’s blood!’ breathed Tulyet. Dickon stood behind him, still gripping his tiny bow. ‘What are you two doing down there?’

  Tulyet was a decisive, resourceful man, and it was not long before he had organised the merchants and scholars from Merton Hall to form a rescue team. With the help of a rope, they hauled first Michael, then Bartholomew to safety. Duraunt, too elderly and frail to assist with the physical labour, dropped to his knees and prayed for their well-being, while the three merchants, Spryngheuse and Polmorva managed the heavy work.

  By the time Bartholomew and Michael were out of the cistern and on to solid ground again, they were covered in the green ooze that coated the walls. It stank foully, and Polmorva made a point of telling them so, adding as an aside to Bartholomew that only a fool would willingly leap into such a place, no matter how honourable his intentions. He jumped away in alarm when the physician rounded on him with a murderous expression in his eyes.

  ‘There is a bucket,’ said Tulyet, thrusting a leather pail at Polmorva with one hand, while he held Bartholomew back with the other. ‘Bring water from the river to wash Michael’s face. Matt, this is no time for fighting. See to your friend.’

  Giving Polmorva one last, furious glower, Bartholomew went to where Michael, exhausted by his ordeal, lay with his eyes closed and an unnatural pallor to his face. The physician was alarmed, seeing the incident had had a more serious effect on him than he had appreciated, and began to consider the unpleasant prospect of a seizure. When Polmorva handed him the bucket, he carefully dribbled water over Michael’s cheeks, rubbing away the more stubborn marks with his hand. Wordlessly, he shoved the pail back at Polmorva, indicating he was to fill it a second time. Polmorva obliged, but when he returned, he up-ended the pail over Michael himself. The monk shot upright, spluttering and gagging, while Bartholomew launched himself at Polmorva. This time, Tulyet could not stop him, and he managed to land two solid punches before Polmorva sat down hard on the ground with his legs splayed in front of him. It was a satisfying moment, and Bartholomew was surprised at the depth of feeling that had festered for so many years.

  ‘Enough, Matthew,’ said Duraunt, standing between them. Intervention was no longer necessary, though, because Bartholomew’s anger had dissipated the moment Polmorva had toppled backwards in an inelegant sprawl. ‘He meant no harm.’

  ‘I was trying to help,’ said Polmorva resentfully, raising one hand to his split lip. ‘And I did. Your friend is sitting up now, having regained his wits. You could have dabbed delicately all night and not had the same effect.’

  ‘I did not want him to leap up like that,’ snap
ped Bartholomew. ‘Sudden shocks are bad for the heart after this kind of event, especially in the obese. You might have killed him.’

  ‘Well, I did not,’ said Polmorva, gesturing to where Michael was being helped to his feet by the three merchants. They struggled under his immense weight, and at one point he managed to haul all three down on top of him. Tulyet stepped in and offered to show them the method he employed for raising pregnant mares. ‘He is perfectly all right.’

  ‘You lied to us, Polmorva,’ said Bartholomew, aware that the strain of the last few hours was depriving him of his self-control. ‘First, you said you had all slept deeply the night Chesterfelde died, and only later admitted that you had enjoyed some claret. But we have since learned that you were all so intoxicated that the sounds of your merriment could be heard on the far side of the river.’

  ‘I was not inebriated,’ said Polmorva indignantly.

  ‘Not you, perhaps,’ said Bartholomew, deliberately not looking at Spryngheuse. ‘But everyone else was. You included.’ He rounded on Duraunt.

  The elderly Warden was taken aback. ‘We had a sip of wine, but we were certainly not drunk!’

  Bartholomew did not know whether to believe him. Tulyet was not a man given to exaggeration, but he claimed to have heard the revelry, and Bartholomew knew they were unlikely to have made such a racket had they been sober. So, was Duraunt lying about the amount he had imbibed, and if so, why? To protect his own reputation, or because he did not want Oxford men accused of murder in a rival University town? Meanwhile, Spryngheuse refused to meet his eyes. Was it because he had overstated the extent of their sottishness, or was he was afraid his tale-telling would annoy his colleagues? Or was he simply appalled by the blunt interrogation, since Michael had promised discretion?

  ‘Do not try to pit your meagre wits against killers, Bartholomew,’ said Polmorva disdainfully, still fingering his damaged mouth. ‘Stay with what you know best – examining urine and lancing boils – and leave the investigation of crime to those who know what they are doing.’

  ‘This bitterness between you two must stop,’ said Duraunt, stepping forward to take their hands in his own. ‘The affair with the Benedictines and the metal teeth is long forgotten, and it is time you ended this ridiculous feud.’

  ‘I have not forgotten it,’ said Polmorva frostily. ‘He accused me of bringing about a death.’

  ‘But you did bring about a death,’ argued Bartholomew, equally cold. ‘You knew the teeth were making men ill, but you continued to rent them to the greedy and gullible. Had you stopped when I asked, none of those monks would been laid low and the sub-prior would not have died from a surfeit of beef.’

  ‘He ate that of his own free will. Do not blame me for what he did to himself.’

  ‘But you provided him with the means to do it. You knew what was likely to happen, and you should accept some responsibility for the tragedy.’

  ‘The sub-prior was a grown man; he made his own decision.’ Polmorva’s face was dark and dangerous. ‘But there is a question that has been nagging at me for years, and I would like an honest answer: did you steal my fangs after he died? They disappeared, and I was deprived of a valuable source of income. You took them once before – you no doubt recall how I found them on the ground outside your window. Did you make off with them a second time?’

  ‘Of course he did not,’ said Duraunt firmly. ‘He could not have done.’

  ‘You seem very sure of that,’ said Polmorva suspiciously.

  ‘I am – because I took them,’ said Duraunt. Both men gaped at him. ‘Matthew was right: they were a danger to incautious old men. But you were also right: borrowing them conferred great pleasure. So, seeing the conundrum was insoluble, I decided it would be best if they simply ceased to exist. I carried them to the nearest forge, and watched the blacksmith melt them into nothing.’

  Polmorva was astounded. ‘Why did you not tell me this at the time? I have believed Bartholomew to be a thief for nigh on two decades.’

  ‘Because I was afraid of your temper. But all this happened a long time ago, and it is high time it was set right. Clasp each other’s hands, and consign your differences to the past.’

  ‘No,’ said Polmorva, dragging his arm away. ‘I have endured too many insults, and I am no hypocrite, smiling falsely at men I hate. But tend your fat friend, physician. He is reeling like a drunkard. Perhaps that is the reason he toppled inside the cistern, and this claim about bowmen and hammers is the invention of an intoxicated mind.’

  Bartholomew did not dignify him with an answer. He freed his hand from Duraunt, sorry to see the sadness on the old man’s face. Duraunt was right: to continue a youthful argument for twenty years was foolish, but even setting eyes on Polmorva reminded Bartholomew of how much he had despised the fellow and his selfish schemes, and he discovered he was equally unforgiving. The strength of the emotion surprised him; he had not known he was the kind to bear grudges.

  ‘Eudo?’ muttered Michael, glancing around as if he imagined the tenant might still be lurking. He clutched Eu for support, making the man gasp and sway under the weight. Wormynghalle chuckled as Eu’s legs began to buckle, and it was left to Abergavenny to try to relieve his beleaguered colleague. ‘And that slippery Boltone? Where did they go?’

  ‘Well away from this town, if they know what is good for them,’ said Tulyet grimly. ‘Your beadles will be after their blood for what they did to you, while my soldiers do not take kindly to men being left to drown in cisterns, either – not even scholars.’

  ‘That is comforting,’ said Michael. He reached out and seized the sniggering Wormynghalle when he found Eu unequal to the task of supporting him, snagging the ugly sheep’s head pendant as he did so. The amusement disappeared from the tanner’s face as he tried to prise it free.

  ‘I kill him,’ said Dickon, brandishing his bow in happy satisfaction.

  ‘You took a long time to do what I asked,’ said Bartholomew, somewhat ungraciously, since the boy had saved his life.

  ‘That was not his fault,’ said Tulyet defensively. ‘He came long before dusk to tell me what he had seen, but I did not believe him. Only the fact that he refused to sleep until we had visited the cistern together brought me here.’ He raised his hands. ‘You must admit it sounds unlikely – you two playing a game with Eudo, which culminated in a leap down the well.’

  ‘I kill him,’ repeated Dickon with unseemly relish, leaving Bartholomew in no doubt as to what he considered the highlight of the whole affair.

  ‘Did he?’ asked Tulyet in a low voice. He had ordered lamps brought from the hall, and had been inspecting the ground while Michael recovered. ‘Only there is a lot of blood here.’

  ‘That is probably Chesterfelde’s,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And perhaps some of it belongs to whoever else is in the pit.’

  ‘The man you did not recognise,’ mused Tulyet. ‘How long has the body been down there, do you think? A day? A week? A year?’

  ‘Not a day and not a year,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Somewhere in between.’

  ‘Can you not be more specific?’ asked Michael, releasing the merchants and standing unaided at last. They backed away fast, to make sure they were not manhandled a second time. ‘People often go missing, and I do not want to trawl through a year’s reports to identify him. Neither will Dick.’

  ‘Pull him out, and I will try to narrow it down,’ offered Bartholomew. ‘I only glimpsed him for a moment, but he may yield more information after a proper examination.’

  ‘I suppose I can arrange for the well to be drained,’ said Tulyet unenthusiastically. ‘Not tomorrow – I am too busy with preparations for the Visitation – but perhaps the day after.’

  ‘I kill him,’ insisted Dickon, determined to have their attention and stamping his small foot to get it. ‘He kill one man, so I kill him. Like my father.’

  Bartholomew frowned, wondering whether from the vantage point of the wall the boy had witnessed other acts of violence. ‘What exactly
did you see, Dickon?’

  ‘I saw him kill,’ replied Dickon impatiently, as though Bartholomew had not been paying proper attention. ‘And I kill him.’

  ‘When?’ pressed Bartholomew, aware that Tulyet was more anxious than ever. He imagined it would not be pleasant to have an infant son so eager to commit murder with his toys. ‘Today? When you saw those two men fighting with Michael and me?’

  ‘No,’ said Dickon, as if it were obvious. ‘When I played with my dog.’

  ‘Before yesterday, then,’ said Tulyet. ‘That was when his dog died.’

  ‘The dog died ?’ repeated Bartholomew uneasily. ‘Did he shoot it?’

  ‘He says not,’ said Tulyet. He grasped another solution like a drowning man with a straw. ‘Eudo must have done it, intending to aim at Dickon! Lord! What kind of man shoots at a child?’

  ‘One whom that child is attacking,’ suggested Bartholomew. He had seen for himself that Dickon was a fair shot, so it was entirely possible he had honed his skills on people.

  Tulyet knelt next to his son. ‘This is important, Dickon. What did you see?’

  ‘The big one has blue eyes and a little knife. He was splashing in the water. Pow!’

  ‘He means Eudo,’ surmised Michael. ‘Eudo is tall with blue eyes. And Eudo’s victim must be the body in the cistern, not Chesterfelde, because Chesterfelde was never in the water. If he had been, he would have been left there, not fished out and dumped in the hall.’

  ‘I kill him!’ insisted Dickon, stamping his foot again when the adults insisted on ignoring him.

  ‘Who?’ asked Tulyet, becoming exasperated. ‘The man with the blue eyes?’

  Dickon nodded proudly, and Tulyet looked troubled.

  ‘He did shoot Eudo,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘He wounded him, but not seriously, although it was enough to make him think he was under attack by beadles.’

  ‘God save us,’ muttered Tulyet, rubbing his eyes. ‘I have told him never to shoot at people, but the moment he disobeys me, he saves the life of two friends. And he knows it. He thinks he has done the right thing. What shall I do?’