Bartholomew 11 - The Mark Of A Murderer

by Susanna GREGORY

  Bartholomew had no answer, and was grateful the child was not his to mould into a sane and law-abiding adult. He considered Paxtone’s contention that Tulyet was not Dickon’s father – that the Devil had had something to do with it – and began to think his colleague might be right.

  ‘You should go home,’ said Abergavenny, indicating the slime adhering to the scholars’ clothes. ‘If you hang around smelling like that, you will have half the dogs in the county slathering after you.’

  ‘That is good advice,’ said Duraunt. ‘It is chilly, so you can borrow my cloak and . . .’ He looked around for a suitable candidate ‘…and Polmorva’s to keep you warm until you reach your rooms.’

  ‘Not mine,’ objected Polmorva. ‘I do not want it smelling like a latrine, thank you.’

  ‘You can buy another,’ said Spryngheuse. ‘Give it to them.’

  Polmorva’s expression was disdainful. ‘If I lent it to Bartholomew, it would come back ruined. I remember how he treated his clothes in Oxford, and he has not changed.’

  Spryngheuse removed his own, with its hem of coarse grey fur. ‘Take mine, then. We are not all uncharitable, and I am happy to be of service to the men who will catch Roger de Chesterfelde’s killer.’

  Reluctantly, Michael stripped off his filthy habit, revealing baggy silken underclothes that would have had most of the women in the town green with envy; he was a man who knew how to cater to his earthly comforts. They, too, were stained, but he declined to remove them, despite Bartholomew’s assurances that no one was very interested in what lay beneath.

  ‘He will make an exception for the occasional whore, I imagine,’ Bartholomew heard Polmorva mutter to Eu. ‘I do not see a fellow like that depriving himself when the mood so takes him.’

  Bartholomew set a cracking pace through the darkening streets to Michaelhouse, and when he arrived, he led Michael straight to the lavatorium, a sturdy structure behind the stables. It comprised woven twig walls, a thatched roof, and a stone floor inlaid with drains. Thick beams supported suspended leather buckets that contained water, so that bathers could stand under a trickle of water while they washed. An oversized hearth in the middle of the shed not only supplied warmth on winter days, but allowed water to be heated, too.

  Bartholomew decided vigorous scrubbing was the only way to deal with the unpleasant aroma that clung to him, and for some time his Welsh book-bearer Cynric was occupied with stoking up the blaze and fetching pail after pail of water from the well. The night porter, amused by the notion of two Fellows trapped in a well, repeated the tale to anyone who would listen, and it was not long before Michael had an audience of scholars and servants, eager to hear the details of his latest daring encounter with dangerous criminals. Even Agatha was present, despite the fact that the lavatorium was strictly out of bounds to the College’s only female employee. She stood with her powerful hands on her hips, shaking her head in disapproval of the attack, and even Master Langelee was not brave enough to point out that she should not be there.

  ‘Please, Brother,’ urged Suttone. He was fond of a good story, especially one that might be adapted to fit with his predictions about the return of the plague – and what better example of human depravity than the attempted murder of two University officials? ‘Tell us again how you came to be hurled into the cistern, and how you spent hours whispering words of encouragement to Bartholomew, to keep him swimming.’

  ‘Go away,’ ordered Michael imperiously. The massive silken under-tunic concealed most of his bulk, leaving only a pair of sturdy white calves for the curious to view. ‘All of you. A man’s ablutions are his own affair, and not to be carried out in front of a crowd.’

  ‘We are here to make sure you do them properly,’ said Agatha. ‘After all, I am the expert on washing things around here.’ She raised her chin and gazed around challengingly, and no one had the courage to point out that her expertise was limited to their clothes, and that their persons were entirely outside her jurisdiction. She took a step towards him.

  ‘Stay back, madam,’ shrieked Michael, clutching a piece of sacking to his chin like a reluctant maiden on her wedding night.

  ‘You have nothing I have not seen a thousand times before,’ said Agatha contemptuously. ‘Besides, I like men with a bit of meat on them, not skin and bone like you.’

  There were a number of awed glances, as scholars and servants alike contemplated the kind of suitor favoured by Agatha, if Michael was ‘skin and bone’ by comparison. Bartholomew’s imagination reeled, and he found himself reviewing the medical problems that would be associated with such elephantine proportions.

  ‘She must like them immobile,’ he heard Deynman whisper to his friend Falmeresham. ‘Brother Michael is so fat he can barely walk, so anyone bigger must be unable to move at all.’

  ‘Probably so they cannot escape,’ Falmeresham whispered back. ‘Poor bastards!’

  ‘I do not care how you like them, madam,’ snapped Michael haughtily. He glared at Deynman. ‘And I am not fat; I just have big bones. But I am not going to wash with you watching me like cats with a mouse. Go away, or I shall fine the lot of you for …for pestering.’

  ‘Pestering,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘That sounds a useful charge for a Senior Proctor’s armoury.’

  Deeply disappointed that they were to be deprived of an evening’s entertainment, the onlookers drifted away, speculating about what might have happened to culminate in Michael falling inside a cistern. Bartholomew heard Suttone suggesting to William that Oxford men might have orchestrated the attack, and closed his eyes wearily, suspecting that William would repeat this as fact, and it would not be long before gossips like Weasenham the stationer began to spread the rumour. He hoped it would not result in Cambridge scholars accusing their Oxford rivals of trying to spoil their attempts to impress the Archbishop, sure it would be the first step in a violent altercation if they did. Polmorva would not pass up an opportunity to exchange inflammatory remarks, and then the situation would spiral out of control, just as it had done on St Scholastica’s Day. Soon everyone had gone except Langelee and Cynric, who were stoking up the fire. And Agatha.

  ‘You, too, madam,’ said Michael coolly. ‘I cannot do anything with a woman gazing at me.’

  ‘I am here to help,’ Agatha declared, waving a bag of lavender. ‘I do not want my scholars smelling like latrines – imagine what that would do for my reputation as laundress.’

  ‘My cloak desperately needs your attention,’ intervened Langelee diplomatically, removing the garment and handing it to her. It was a handsome thing, with rabbit fur around the neck. ‘Would you be so kind? The sooner you wash it, the sooner I can have it back.’

  ‘It is grimy,’ agreed Agatha, inspecting it. She yawned, to make the point that Langelee was asking her to work rather late that evening. Then she left, making for the area behind the kitchens where she usually pummelled the life out of the scholars’ clothes. Michael tiptoed to the door and peered around it, to make sure she had gone. Satisfied she was not lurking in the shadows, longing for a glimpse of his flabby nakedness, he returned to his hot water.

  ‘Use this,’ said Langelee, proffering a block of hard fat that was strongly scented with mint and rosemary. ‘It can disguise the most rank of odours. Chancellor Tynkell gave it to me.’

  ‘Then it does not work,’ said Bartholomew, declining to take it. ‘Besides, I do not want to “disguise” the smell. I want it gone.’

  Prudishly, Michael retreated behind a screen before divesting himself of his under-tunic, then began to smear the bar all over himself, flapping and splashing like a beached whale, so Langelee was obliged to retreat or risk being soaked.

  ‘I had the pleasure of speaking Welsh today,’ said Cynric as he brought more water for the monk to fling around. It was the first civil word he had spoken to Bartholomew for two weeks. He was hurt and indignant that his master should visit Matilde at night, and risk moving around the dark streets without an escort. Cynric prided himself on his skil
l with stealth, and resented the fact that he was ordered to remain at home when he felt his role was that of nocturnal protector.

  ‘With whom?’ asked Bartholomew, dunking his head and repelled by the slime that still rinsed from his hair. ‘Warden Powys of King’s Hall?’

  ‘William of Abergavenny, a visiting merchant from Oxford,’ replied Cynric, hurling a bucket of water at Bartholomew before he was ready and making him splutter. ‘We met when I was your book-bearer in Oxford some twenty years ago, although I did not expect to see him here. We recognised each other in the King’s Head this afternoon.’

  ‘That villain,’ said Michael disapprovingly. ‘He is travelling with a spicer and a tanner, but he is the one I regard as the most dangerous.’

  ‘You are probably right,’ said Cynric. ‘He has a cunning mind, make no mistake about it. It comes from living among the English for so long.’

  ‘Did he tell you anything about the case he is here to investigate?’ asked Bartholomew. He did not point out that Cynric also spent a lot of time in England.

  Cynric grinned. ‘He cannot keep secrets from an old countryman like me. He was glad to be speaking the tongue of princes, you see, and barely stopped talking the whole time we were together. He is here to look into the murder of a merchant called Gonerby, who died during the Oxford riots.’

  ‘That is no secret,’ said Michael. ‘He and his friends have been quite open about what they came here to do.’

  ‘The secret is this,’ said Cynric, enjoying the fact that he had information Michael did not. ‘This Gonerby died not from a sword wound, as the tanner told you, but from a bite. They lied about what caused his death.’

  ‘A bite?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘From a dog?’

  ‘No,’ said Cynric. ‘Because then Abergavenny would have had an easy task in solving the murder: just find a man with a vicious pet. But no dog killed Gonerby. The bite was inflicted by a devil in the guise of a man: Gonerby’s throat was torn out.’

  Bartholomew gazed at his book-bearer in horror, while Langelee started to laugh at such a ludicrous notion. Michael paused in his scrubbing to regard Cynric sceptically.

  ‘Someone bit Gonerby to death? But that is not possible! Is it, Matt?’

  ‘Apparently, it is,’ said Cynric stiffly, not liking the way his information was being received by the scholars, and replying before Bartholomew could speak. ‘He was bitten in the throat, which severed some important vessel. He bled to death.’

  ‘Can this be true?’ asked Michael, turning to Bartholomew. ‘Can a human bite kill like that?’

  ‘Possibly,’ replied Bartholomew, his thoughts tumbling in chaos. Michael regarded him oddly before turning his attention back to the book-bearer.

  ‘How does Abergavenny know this? Were there tooth marks on Gonerby’s neck? Did someone actually see what happened?’

  ‘Both, apparently,’ said Cynric. He looked pleased, gratified that Michael was sufficiently intrigued to ask questions. ‘Abergavenny saw the rips himself, and said they matched those of a person’s teeth in all respects. He said the wound was a terrible thing to behold.’

  ‘I can imagine,’ said Michael dryly, but still unconvinced. ‘Who is the witness? Not Abergavenny, or he would have told us, surely?’

  ‘Would he?’ queried Langelee. ‘He lied to you about how Gonerby died, so why would he confess that he had witnessed the murder? If it is true, then he will not want to bray it about, lest he become this maniac’s next victim.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Michael. He regarded Bartholomew’s pale face and haunted expression with raised eyebrows. ‘Do not tell me you believe this ridiculous tale? It is a fabrication invented by these merchants to lend credibility to the hunt for their colleague’s murderer. And do not forget where Cynric heard this tale: the King’s Head, a tavern noted for the strength of its ale.’

  ‘Abergavenny was a tad drunk when he confided in me,’ admitted Cynric. He glared at Michael. ‘But he did not relate his story salaciously, as he would have done had his intention been to shock or frighten. On the contrary, boy, he seemed shocked and frightened himself.’

  ‘Then his witness – the man who saw this attack – must be a talented story-teller,’ said Michael. ‘He has ensured his account is terrifyingly macabre, even when it is repeated by others. It did not originate with Gonerby’s wife, did it? She might have invented a wild fable to ensure her husband’s friends really do track down his killer.’

  ‘The witness was Polmorva,’ said Cynric with satisfaction, delighted when he saw the scholars’ surprise. ‘That is why he is here.’

  Bartholomew gazed at him, facts and theories ricocheting about inside his mind like acrobats. None of them made sense, and he could not have reasoned a pattern into them to save his life. Michael remained dismissive, however.

  ‘But Polmorva told us he came to escape the dangers of Oxford. And I have no reason to disbelieve him – he seems a cowardly sort of man.’

  ‘He is,’ agreed Cynric. ‘He has not changed during the two decades since we last met.’

  ‘He is also a liar,’ mused Langelee. ‘I heard him dissembling myself, in the stationer’s shop last week. He told Weasenham that a pen he had recently bought was defective, and demanded two in return, to compensate for the inconvenience it had caused him. But I saw him break the thing himself. Weasenham obliged, of course, because Polmorva started speaking loudly about the poor quality of the goods on sale in Cambridge, and Weasenham wanted to silence him before he lost customers.’

  ‘He cannot help himself,’ said Cynric. He addressed Bartholomew. ‘Remember when he told Duraunt that you spent the night with a prostitute? He knew full well that the miller’s daughter was no whore, yet he landed you in a good deal of trouble with that falsehood. Then there was the time—’

  ‘Thank you, Cynric,’ interrupted Bartholomew. ‘Suffice to say that he lies as easily as he breathes, and it does not surprise me to learn he has another purpose in coming here. However, I suspect he has concealed his real intentions from Duraunt.’

  ‘Duraunt,’ said Michael, winking at the book-bearer to indicate he would have the story of the miller’s daughter later. ‘He is not the saint you imagine, Matt. First, there is the business about him being drunk to the point of oblivion when Chesterfelde died – and then denying it; second, there is the business of the poppy juice; and third there is his friendship with Polmorva, a known deceiver.’

  ‘Duraunt is a good man,’ insisted Bartholomew. ‘He was kind to me in Oxford, and—’

  ‘That was years ago,’ interrupted Langelee. ‘Men change, and not always for the better. But Duraunt does drink heavily, as it happens. I saw him myself in the Cardinal’s Cap on Sunday, putting away enough strong claret to render half of Michaelhouse insensible.’

  ‘No!’ cried Bartholomew, dismayed. ‘He encourages abstinence and moderation.’

  ‘Then he does not practise what he preaches,’ replied Langelee. ‘I know what I saw, Bartholomew, and I have no reason to mislead you. Your old Warden is not the man you remember.’

  ‘How did Polmorva come to be a witness to Gonerby’s death?’ asked Michael, changing the subject when Bartholomew fell silent. The physician could hardly point out that the Master tended not to stint himself when it came to alcoholic beverages, either, and that large quantities of ale might have coloured his own perception of what he thought he had seen in the Cardinal’s Cap. ‘Cynric?’

  ‘Abergavenny said Polmorva was out with his sword during the unrest, intending to add to the mischief. Polmorva always did like a riot – remember how he was always first on the streets when the bells sounded the alarm? Anyway, he found himself in an area controlled by townsmen, rather than scholars, so decided to hide until it was safe to come out. It was then, as he peered through the window to assess the situation, that he saw this devil approach Gonerby and bite out his throat.’

  ‘And Gonerby let him do it?’ asked Michael archly. ‘Polmorva did not try to intervene?’


  Cynric shrugged. ‘I only repeat what Abergavenny said. I had to loosen his tongue with a fair amount of ale before he confided that much in me, but it was worth the expense. It will make an excellent tale for Christmas, when we sit by the fire and frighten each other with accounts of demons and their evil doings.’

  ‘It was a demon who inflicted this fatal wound, was it?’ asked Michael, rubbing his thin, brown hair with a piece of sacking to dry it. ‘Not a person?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Cynric, who was always matter-of-fact where diabolical powers were concerned. Bartholomew was sure he believed far more strongly in the wicked potency of Satan than he did in the good teachings of the Church. ‘No sane fellow eats the neck of another person, so it must have been a fiend – one who looks like a man. And he fled here, to Cambridge, to escape justice.’

  ‘Does Abergavenny know where to find this creature?’ asked Michael, more concerned that such a mission might result in civil disorder than by the prospect of confronting a supernatural foe. No townsman would stand idle on hearing the news that there was a demon at the University who liked to chew people’s throats, while masters and students would fight to prove their school’s innocence.

  ‘He knows he must look among the scholars,’ said Cynric. ‘He and his friends were in the King’s Head again today, asking after any students who have arrived here since February. They also enquired whether there have been any peculiar deaths or injuries recently.’

  ‘The man in the cistern,’ said Michael to Bartholomew. ‘You said he had a wound in his throat. Could that have been caused by a bite?’

  ‘I do not know,’ replied Bartholomew unhappily. ‘It might have been.’

  ‘We shall know soon enough,’ said Michael, donning clean clothes and stepping out from behind his screen a new man. ‘Dick promised to dredge the well, and we shall see what emerges. This case has suddenly turned nasty, but there is nothing more we can do tonight, and I am tired. We shall interview the merchants tomorrow and demand to know why they misled us about Gonerby’s death. And we shall have words with Polmorva, too. I detest a liar, and he has told more than his share.’