Bartholomew 11 - The Mark Of A Murderer

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘Just trinkets,’ reiterated Weasenham, with an anxious glance at Dodenho. ‘It contained nothing any owners would want to see again, I assure you.’

  ‘He is lying,’ whispered Bartholomew. ‘Eudo would not have tried to kill us for trinkets.’

  ‘I do not believe you,’ said Dodenho. ‘Why would anyone hide a sack of rubbish?’

  Weasenham sighed in resignation. ‘I will show you, if you like. The dog was the only valuable piece, and you can have it – but only if you agree to say no more about the matter.’

  ‘No, thank you,’ said Dodenho with disdain. ‘I have no wish to possess stolen silver. My belongings are regularly searched by students desperate for my learned writings, and I do not want them to discover contraband in place of my erudite scribbling.’

  ‘What do you want, then?’ asked Weasenham. ‘My wife?’

  ‘Lord, no! She does not have the time,’ said Dodenho. Weasenham frowned, and Bartholomew was intrigued that the stationer should be observant in the affairs of others, but so blind in his own. ‘I want nothing more than a decent arrangement over parchment. It is expensive.’

  ‘I do not like this,’ said Wormynghalle uneasily. ‘I refuse to be involved in anything immoral, and—’

  ‘Quite right,’ agreed Weasenham. ‘You are a sensible man, sir. The King will not be pleased to learn that scholars from the hall his father founded submit poor merchants to extortion . . .’

  ‘I am not blackmailing anyone,’ said Dodenho smoothly. ‘I am asking for a mutually acceptable arrangement regarding the purchase of parchment. I go through a large amount of it when I pen my thoughts, and it would be of great benefit to the academic world if I did not have to worry about how much I consume.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Weasenham, defeated. He wrote a figure on a scrap of vellum.

  Dodenho shook his head. ‘If you want to keep the noose from your neck, I recommend you be a little more generous.’

  Weasenham wrote another figure. ‘And I will sell you this at a very reduced price,’ he said desperately, placing something on the bench next to the pen. ‘Every scholar should have one, and I hear you do not.’

  It was Dodenho’s missing astrolabe.

  It was not long before Alyce Weasenham returned to her duties, flushed and with her hair in disarray. Bartholomew saw Langelee through the window, making no attempt to hide the fact that he was adjusting his undergarments. Michael paid Weasenham for a small quantity of parchment and ink, and the two scholars escaped from the shop in some relief.

  ‘Lord, Matt,’ breathed Michael. ‘What a place! Did you see Dodenho’s face when Weasenham offered to sell him the astrolabe that was once his anyway? He looked as if it might bite him.’

  ‘Have you noticed how so many strands of this mystery lead back to Dodenho?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘He knew Chesterfelde – they laughed together in his chamber. He was in Oxford on St Scholastica’s Day, and I am under the impression he is a fairly frequent visitor there.’

  ‘He is – and he foists himself on Merton, to be precise. It is in our University’s records; all applications to study away must be ratified by the Chancellor, as you know. However, the foray he made in February was unofficial, because there is no copy of a request, although we know he went: we heard him admit as much ourselves. And now there is the curious business of his astrolabe.’

  ‘He accused his colleagues of stealing it,’ recalled Bartholomew. ‘Wormynghalle – and Clippesby – said Wolf may have disappeared as a result of the complaint, because he did not like being called a thief. Then Dodenho abruptly dropped the claim, and the astrolabe appeared in the hands of the tanner at Merton Hall. Then it was in Eudo’s hoard at the cistern, and now it is offered to Dodenho again.’

  ‘Can we be sure it is Eudo’s cache?’ asked Michael. ‘Could it belong to someone else?’

  ‘Such as who?’

  Michael shrugged. ‘Dodenho? But he is not the only member of King’s Hall who has aroused my suspicions. Clippesby said Wolf fled because he was accused of theft, but Dodenho claims he was at Stourbridge with the pox, while Norton maintains he disappeared because he could not pay his debts. Who is right?’

  Bartholomew had no answer, and he and Michael were silent for a while, each engrossed in his own thoughts. Bartholomew considered the body in the cistern, pondering who might have salvaged it and why – and what might have happened to it later. The easiest way to dispose of an inconvenient corpse was to toss it in the river with a rock attached to its feet, and if that had already happened, then the chances of retrieving it were slim. He suspected Tulyet would not be prepared to dredge any more expanses of water in search of elusive cadavers, especially with the Visitation looming ever closer.

  Michael was more concerned with the living, and was considering Wolf and Hamecotes. The gossiping stationer was not a man who allowed truth to interfere with his stories, and Michael was inclined to dismiss his tale about Hamecotes as groundless gossip. But Wolf was a different matter. How ill had his pox made him? Bartholomew had more or less confessed to spotting him at Stourbridge at the beginning of Clippesby’s incarceration, but had not seen him since. Michael frowned. Poxes could be disfiguring, so it was possible the man had taken the scars of his shame to some remote manor until he was fit to be seen, but it was equally possible that he was still somewhere in the town – or even that he was the corpse in the cistern.

  ‘I think we should revisit Merton Hall before we begin our written analysis,’ said the monk, when no answers were forthcoming. ‘I want to see whether I can catch any of that Oxford rabble in an inconsistency when I ask each one to repeat his story. Will you come and make notes on what they say? Or do you find the prospect of a morning with Polmorva too unappealing?’

  * * *

  At Merton Hall they were shown into the solar by an elderly servant. All the Oxford men were there, with the exception of Spryngheuse, who was in the garden. Bartholomew was surprised, having been under the impression that the soft-spoken Mertonian seldom went out alone, on the grounds that someone might try to kill him. The three merchants were eating nuts, while Duraunt and Polmorva were engaged in a debate. Duraunt was pleased to have visitors. Polmorva was not.

  ‘What are you discussing?’ asked Michael, sensing the debate had gone further than academic sparring and was moving to the point where feelings might be hurt.

  ‘Yesterday we attended a lecture by a man named Dodenho,’ said Polmorva. ‘I thought it original and entertaining, while Duraunt maintains the central thesis was purloined from someone else’s work. I believe he is mistaken, and we have been arguing about it ever since.’

  ‘I attended that event, too,’ said Michael. He explained to Bartholomew. ‘It was about the dispute between Bonaventure and Aquinas on the notion of individuation: if matter is common to all bodies, and forms are objects of concepts, then what gives specific items their individuality?’

  ‘Bonaventure argued – and I believe him to be correct – that it is the conjunction of matter and form that gives objects their individuality,’ said Polmorva. He gave one of his patronising sneers. ‘Let me give you an example, to help you understand, Bartholomew: imagine a ball of wax, which is then stamped with a seal. The conjunction of wax and seal thus makes an individual object – an imprinted disc – that is separate from either wax or seal, because of its form.’

  ‘Bonaventure then went on to make an analogous statement,’ said Michael, to show he was perfectly well acquainted with the debate and its issues. ‘That human individuality is assured only in the union of body and soul – and he considered the soul to comprise spiritual matter and spiritual forms.’

  ‘But Aquinas disagreed,’ said Bartholomew, placing parchment and ink on a table and preparing to take notes. ‘He maintained that although the form of the spirit is shared by other members of the same species, a particular object is unique by virtue of its determinate quantitative extension in space and time. And, in knowing form, the mind knows matter only in
general terms. Ergo, reason cannot know singulars directly.’

  Duraunt clapped his hands in delight. ‘I see you have not forgotten what I taught you all those years ago, Matthew. But you did not come here to debate the question of corporeal substances.’ His expression was wistful. ‘Or did you? Such a discourse would make an old man very happy.’

  ‘That is not why we are here,’ said Michael, although whether he referred to academic polemic or to pleasing Duraunt was unclear. ‘We have come – yet again – to unravel the web of lies that has been spun at Merton Hall. First, there were untruths about Chesterfelde, then about Gonerby, then about Okehamptone, and now there is a fourth corpse to consider – one that has mysteriously disappeared.’

  ‘That had nothing to do with us,’ said Eu. ‘We have been too busy trying to solve Gonerby’s murder. Of course, that would not be an issue if your University was even remotely competent at deciding which of its members slaughters innocent merchants in alien cities.’

  ‘Then what about you?’ asked Michael, swinging around to Polmorva. ‘You have had plenty of time to drop corpses in cisterns and fish them out again, because you have not had the burden of identifying a killer, like these poor burgesses. Or have you? Since you witnessed Gonerby’s death, you are probably more than eager to see his murderer caught – so he does not try to silence you, too.’

  Polmorva gave a tight smile. ‘I saw nothing to identify the culprit, and I can defend myself anyway. Brawling with Bartholomew as a young man allowed me to hone my martial skills.’

  ‘If you fight as poorly as Matt, then you should consider hiring a bodyguard,’ advised Michael. ‘But the body missing from the cistern is not my only concern today. I have recently learned that Eudo is a thief, and that he has been storing his ill-gotten gains on Merton property.’

  ‘That is no surprise,’ said Polmorva. ‘The man lived here, for God’s sake. Where else would you expect him to keep his loot? But this does not mean that you can charge us with his crimes.’

  ‘We shall see,’ replied Michael enigmatically. ‘One of the objects recovered from his hoard was an astrolabe. A silver one.’ He looked hard at Wormynghalle, who sat fiddling with his sheep-head pendant, although whether his restless twisting resulted from boredom, anxiety or a guilty conscience was impossible to tell.

  ‘That was Polmorva’s,’ said Eu. ‘But, not being brass, it did not work, so he sold it to our tanner.’

  ‘Why did you sell it, Polmorva?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Are you short of funds?’

  Polmorva stared at him with glittering hatred. ‘No, I am not,’ he snarled. ‘How dare you – with your patched tabard and frayed tunic – accuse me of poverty. Do I look poor, when my clothes are the best money can buy, and Queen Philippa herself uses me as her occasional confessor and rewards me accordingly? And how could I buy silver astrolabes, if I were impecunious? Your question is foolish as well as impertinent.’

  ‘It is also unanswered,’ said Michael. ‘Why did you sell it?’

  Polmorva turned his glower on the monk. ‘Because it did not work – the alidade sticks. I should have given it to Bartholomew, who would not know the difference between a good instrument and a bad one, and who will never own such a fine thing unless someone makes him a gift of one.’

  ‘Matthew was always better than you at astrological calculations,’ said Duraunt softly. ‘Do not accuse him of poor scholarship in an area where he excelled.’

  ‘Why did you buy it in the first place?’ asked Michael, while Polmorva reddened at the reprimand. ‘Or do you make a point of purchasing inferior goods with your unlimited wealth?’

  The look Polmorva shot him was supremely venomous. ‘I have a liking for unusual objects – how many silver astrolabes have you ever seen? – and Dodenho asked a very reasonable price. Then Wormynghalle took a liking to it, and since it did not work well enough to be useful, I sold it to him. At a handsome profit.’

  ‘How handsome?’ demanded the tanner, not liking the notion he had been fleeced.

  ‘And why did you buy a defective astrolabe?’ demanded Michael, rounding on him.

  ‘Because he thought owning one would make him appear erudite,’ said Eu with a superior sneer. ‘He buys anything he thinks will raise him in the opinion of his peers.’

  Wormynghalle came to his feet, his thick features flushed with rage. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘You heard,’ said Eu, leaning back in his chair and stretching his legs in front of him in an attitude that screamed disdain. ‘No amount of good cloth and expensive jewels can change the fact that you hail from a ditch. You should have claimed a kinship with that grubby scholar from King’s Hall, because even he would have improved your pedigree.’

  ‘You vain cockerel—’ began Wormynghalle, making towards Eu with a murderous expression on his face. Michael interposed his substantial bulk between them and Wormynghalle almost lost his footing when he cannoned into him and bounced off again.

  ‘Now, now, gentlemen,’ said the monk. ‘I did not come to hear you quarrel. I want answers about this astrolabe. It belonged to Polmorva, who sold it to Wormynghalle. Then what?’

  ‘It was stolen,’ said Wormynghalle sullenly. He clutched his sheep-head pendant so hard that his fingers were white, and Bartholomew had the feeling he would dearly love to bludgeon Eu with it. It was heavy enough to do serious damage, and the physician made a mental note to check it for bloodstains, if Eu was ever murdered. ‘And I know exactly who took it.’

  ‘Who?’ demanded Michael. ‘Eudo? Boltone?’

  ‘Bartholomew,’ said Wormynghalle, pointing an accusing finger at the physician. ‘I wanted to report him to the Chancellor, but Duraunt persuaded me to overlook the matter, on the grounds that I can buy a better one in Oxford anyway.’

  ‘Of course it was him,’ said Polmorva, so Bartholomew knew exactly who had planted the seed of that particular accusation. ‘As I said, he will never earn enough to buy one for himself, so theft was his only recourse.’

  ‘I do not want us associated with any more disagreeable matters,’ explained Duraunt to Michael. ‘And if Matthew needed an astrolabe, then I could not find it in my heart to take it from him.’

  ‘I did not steal it,’ objected Bartholomew, amazed Duraunt should think he had. A charge from Polmorva was one thing, but to have his old teacher convinced of his guilt was another altogether.

  ‘You were the only one we saw looking at it,’ said Duraunt. ‘If it was not you, then who was it?’

  ‘It was him,’ snapped Wormynghalle. ‘He is poor and of course will covet such a lovely thing – especially knowing it had once been the property of his rival.’

  ‘But I do not want an astrolabe,’ objected Bartholomew indignantly. ‘I have no time for calculating pointless horoscopes that are of no use to man nor beast.’

  ‘Matthew!’ exclaimed Duraunt, shocked. ‘You are a physician: you cannot manage without the calculations that tell you how and when to treat your patients. It would be grossly negligent.’

  ‘He probably relies on the Devil to tell him what to do,’ said Polmorva.

  Bartholomew did not deign to reply, suspecting that anything he said would be twisted and given a sinister meaning. Suddenly he wished Polmorva and the whole Oxford contingent would just go home, taking their petty disputes and unfounded accusations with them. He was tired of them all, even Duraunt, and regretted agreeing to accompany Michael to Merton Hall.

  ‘But if you did not swipe it, then who did?’ demanded Wormynghalle.

  ‘I imagine it was someone here,’ replied Michael. ‘Polmorva told us he purchased it because it was unusual, and he is an astute man, who would have tested the thing before parting with his gold. Ergo, he knew it was defective when he bought it, and so would not have sold it for that reason, as he has just claimed.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ demanded Polmorva, anger flashing in his eyes. Bartholomew saw something else, too. Alarm. Michael was coming close to the truth.

  Mic
hael shrugged. ‘I was just thinking about one of the Sheriff’s cases, where a man sold a horse, and then stole it back again to sell a second time. He was unable to resist the lure of a “handsome profit”, you see. But suffice to say that the astrolabe was taken from Wormynghalle, and ended up in the cache recovered from the cistern, along with other stolen property.’

  ‘The cistern?’ asked Abergavenny. ‘You mean the one that was emptied here? We have not been told about any cache. To whom did it belong? Eudo, I suppose. That must be why he fled with Boltone.’

  ‘The astrolabe’s travels are very confusing,’ said Duraunt, while Polmorva scowled and Wormynghalle looked as though he was not sure what to think. ‘It was originally Dodenho’s, but it went missing from King’s Hall before reappearing again. Dodenho sold it to Polmorva, Polmorva passed it to Wormynghalle, then . . .’ he hesitated, not sure how to phrase the next part.

  ‘…then it was removed from Wormynghalle,’ said Michael smoothly, ‘and found its way to the cistern hoard, and it is now in the care of Weasenham the stationer.’

  ‘Then Weasenham will restore it to its rightful owner,’ said Duraunt with a pleased smile. ‘And we need say no more about the matter.’

  ‘That is me,’ said Wormynghalle, ‘although I am not sure I want a defective instrument. I will offer to sell it to him – for a “handsome profit”.’ He glared at Polmorva.

  Polmorva was outraged with Michael. ‘You have accused me of the vilest of crimes. Me! A one-time Chancellor of Oxford University and a Fellow of Queen’s College! I demand an apology.’

  While Polmorva was ranting, Bartholomew had been gazing out of the window, thinking about the astrolabe and wondering whether its travels between various murder suspects were significant. He could see the cistern in the distance, surrounded by muck from its recent dredging. As he stared, he became aware of something else, too. He frowned, and looked harder.

  ‘Spryngheuse,’ he said, interrupting Polmorva’s tirade. ‘When did he go out?’