Bartholomew 11 - The Mark Of A Murderer

by Susanna GREGORY

  He turned on his heel and stalked out. Paxtone and Bartholomew followed, and the physician noticed that a number of Weasenham’s customers had listened to the reprimand. As he closed the door behind him, a babble of excited conversation broke out, and he wondered if Michael had done more harm than good. In a few moments the door opened again, and Lee sidled out.

  ‘Weasenham is not the only one who has been predicting unrest,’ he volunteered helpfully. ‘There was talk among the townsfolk in the Market Square this morning, because of Eudo.’

  ‘Eudo?’ asked Michael. ‘The absconded tenant of Merton Hall, who robs the good citizens of Cambridge and hides his booty in a cistern?’

  ‘Not according to him. He says he is innocent, and that the University fabricated the evidence against him because we are all corrupt and love to treat townsmen badly. He fled from the Square before the Sheriff could catch him, but he was very vocal in his denials.’

  ‘Damn!’ muttered Michael. ‘This is not good news – not so close to the Visitation. I have a bad feeling Weasenham’s predictions might be right, and someone really is trying to harm us.’

  ‘Never mind the Archbishop,’ said Bartholomew, worried. ‘If rioting does occur, then people are going to be killed or maimed. I do not want that to happen, whether Islip is here to see it or not.’

  ‘Polmorva,’ said Paxtone uneasily. ‘Is he trying to destroy us? Oxford has already been brought low, and if we are suppressed for violence, it means his new university will have a better chance of success. Winchester and Haverhill are lovely places, but I do not want them to flourish at our expense. Something must be done to stop him.’

  ‘If it is him,’ said Michael unhappily. ‘We have no evidence, other than the suspicion that he would like to found a rival studium generale, which is hardly damning. What do you think, Matt? Is he the kind of man to destroy two towns for personal gain?’

  ‘Yes,’ answered Bartholomew without hesitation. ‘But that does not mean to say he has actually done it.’

  ‘I must go,’ said Lee, edging away. ‘Rougham sent word that he will arrive home from Norfolk soon, and I need to clean his clyster pipes. He will be angry if they are not spotless.’

  ‘His imminent return is good news, Lee,’ said Paxtone pleasantly. ‘You must miss him.’

  ‘Actually, I prefer it when he is not here,’ said Lee baldly. ‘But he is coming back, and there is not much I can do, except make sure his pipes are shiny. I do my best, but he is never satisfied.’

  ‘I can imagine,’ said Bartholomew wryly. ‘I have the same experience with him myself.’

  Lee strode away, while Paxtone invited Bartholomew and Michael to King’s Hall for a cup of wine before the requiem mass, saying he had something he wanted to discuss. Michael accepted before Bartholomew could decline, and Paxtone took them to the refectory, where a pot of ale mulled over a brazier. He poured goblets for his guests, then led them to a table where some of the other Fellows sat. Dodenho was among them, holding forth on some aspect of philosophy that he claimed to have developed, while Wormynghalle was trying to look interested. She brightened when Paxtone, Bartholomew and Michael arrived.

  Bartholomew grinned conspiratorially. ‘You are looking especially manly this afternoon,’ he said in an undertone.

  She smiled. ‘I rubbed oil into my hair to make it look greasy, and invested in a roll of material to bind my body. Now no one will feel what lies beneath when I slip on wine and a well-meaning physician dives forward to save me.’

  ‘I am pleased to be here,’ said Michael, settling on a bench and shaking his head when Paxtone offered him a plate of pastries. Bartholomew wondered whether he was unwell. ‘I want to talk to you all about something.’

  Dodenho looked pleased. ‘You want me to give another University Lecture. My last one was very well received, and a number of people have asked when the next will be.’

  ‘So they can avoid it,’ whispered Wormynghalle to Bartholomew. ‘But he is so convinced of his scholarly prowess that he does not realise they are insulting him. Duraunt from Merton Hall said his lecture was enough to make the angels weep, and Dodenho interpreted it as meaning the heavenly hosts would shed tears of admiration at the power of his arguments!’

  ‘Is he really so stupid?’ asked Bartholomew, regarding the preening scholar wonderingly. ‘Or is it all an act, and he is actually more clever than we think?’

  Wormynghalle considered. ‘No,’ she said eventually. ‘He really does believe he is Cambridge’s answer to Roger Bacon. And speaking of Bacon, what do you think of his contention that—?’

  ‘My question does concern King’s Hall,’ said Michael to the others, loud enough to distract her. ‘But it is not about public lectures – it is about Hamecotes, who abandoned his duties without permission, and went to buy books. He claims to have purchased Heytesbury’s Regulae from Merton. However, Duraunt informs me that Merton never sells its books, because they are too valuable a commodity. Hamecotes was lying.’

  ‘We know,’ said Paxtone, taking the wind out of Michael’s sails. ‘It is why I asked you to come here and share a cup of wine with us.’ He swallowed uneasily, and glanced at his two companions. ‘We had hoped to keep the matter quiet, given the disgrace it might bring to our College, but you are a sensible man and I am sure we can rely on your discretion.’

  Michael narrowed his eyes. ‘Why do I sense I am going to hear something I will not like?’

  ‘Probably because you are,’ said Wormynghalle softly. She grimaced, as if the subject was painful for her. ‘You see, Hamecotes is not in Oxford. He is here.’

  ‘Here?’ asked Michael, startled. ‘Well, I have written his absence in the University records now, and I cannot erase it. When did he return? Or are you going to tell me he never went?’

  ‘We do not know whether he went,’ said Wormynghalle. ‘Although he sent us those letters, so I am inclined to believe that he stopped there briefly, even if it was not his intended destination. We discovered him an hour ago, which is why we have not yet had time to do anything official.’

  ‘Send him to see me,’ said Michael sternly. ‘He owes two marks for being absent without leave, and we could do with the money before the Visitation.’

  ‘It is not that simple,’ said Wormynghalle. She looked at Paxtone and Dodenho. ‘I do not know how to explain this.’

  ‘I do,’ said Paxtone. He stood and indicated that Michael and Bartholomew should follow him. ‘The easiest way is to show—’

  ‘No!’ cried Dodenho, also coming to his feet. ‘Do not make the situation worse than it is! Just tell them in a few words. They do not need all the grisly details.’

  ‘I will not lie,’ said Paxtone wearily, as if they had debated the matter too long already. ‘We must do what is right, and Brother Michael is the Senior Proctor. I do not want King’s Hall to become the centre of rumours and speculation when we have done nothing wrong.’

  ‘King’s Hall is not what I am worried about,’ said Wormynghalle unhappily, indicating that Paxtone was to sit again. ‘It is Hamecotes. I am obliged, as his room-mate, to protect him . . .’

  ‘I am more concerned with the impact it might have on my scholarly musings,’ said Dodenho. ‘People might not want to read texts scribed by a man whose College …well, you know.’

  ‘I do not,’ said Michael loudly. ‘What has Hamecotes done that is so dreadful?’

  ‘It is better just to show him,’ said Paxtone, raising his hand to quell the objections of his younger colleagues. ‘Michael and Matt are friends, and will help us resolve this unfortunate matter quietly and discreetly. Besides, they will not tell anyone else, because of the Visitation.’

  Dodenho sighed. ‘Very well, but you had better be right. If this misfires, I shall be cross.’

  ‘Cross?’ cried Wormynghalle in disbelief. ‘Well, in that case we had better redouble our efforts. Hamecotes may be disgraced and the College shamed, but it would be worse if you were cross!’

  Paxton
e laid a sympathetic hand on her shoulder that made her flinch, while Dodenho merely looked bemused, as if he could not imagine what he had said wrong. Bartholomew and Michael followed Paxtone to the door, the physician doing so reluctantly, not sure he wanted to know what was about to be revealed.

  ‘You are right to be uneasy,’ whispered Wormynghalle. ‘Do not allow yourself to become embroiled in this, Matt. Let Michael do it – this sort of thing is why he is paid such a princely salary.’

  ‘I want him with me,’ said Michael, overhearing. ‘Where are we going, anyway?’

  Paxtone did not reply, but walked into the yard, where he passed a number of buildings before reaching a disused stable block at the far end of the vegetable plots. It was near the river, and Bartholomew was aware of the water’s dank fumes. Paxtone approached a ramshackle shed, and opened a door that creaked rustily. Everyone waited in silence while he took a lamp from a hook on the wall and set about lighting it.

  ‘What are you doing?’ came an appalled voice from behind them. It was Norton. ‘Are you mad?’

  ‘We have no choice,’ said Paxtone, busy with the wick.

  ‘You should have waited,’ shouted Norton furiously. ‘This should be for the Warden and all the Fellows to decide, not just you three. You have no right.’

  ‘I do not care,’ said Paxtone. ‘I have seen what happens when men try to deceive their way out of difficult situations. They always end up in deeper trouble. It is better this way.’

  ‘I am not sure I want to remain here any longer,’ said Norton coldly. Bartholomew saw unease and fear under the shell of anger. ‘It is not how I imagined it would be. It is all gossiping in Latin and eating too much. I shall resign at the end of term.’

  ‘Good,’ said Wormynghalle, as Norton stalked away. ‘At least something good has come out of this. That man has no right to present himself as a scholar. It is an insult to those of us with minds.’

  Once the wick burned, Paxtone led the way inside the stable. Bartholomew could make out very little in the gloom, other than that it was dusty and dry.

  ‘Here is Hamecotes,’ said Paxtone, carrying the lamp to a table that stood in the centre of the room and tugging away a rug to reveal a body. It was swollen and black, and should have been in its grave days before. Michael gasped in shock, and backed away so fast that he collided with Dodenho. Bartholomew simply stared at the sorry sight in front of him.

  ‘We found him here this morning,’ explained Wormynghalle, putting her hand over her mouth and averting her eyes. Bartholomew saw she was struggling not to betray herself by fainting or being sick. Dodenho was not so iron-willed. He shoved his way past her to reach the fresh air outside, where he stood rubber-legged and breathing heavily.

  ‘He has been dead a lot longer than that,’ said Michael, stating the obvious. ‘When did you say he left for Oxford?’

  ‘The morning after Ascension,’ replied Wormynghalle shakily. ‘Fifteen days ago.’

  ‘And how long has he been a corpse?’ asked Michael, as Bartholomew studied the grisly spectacle.

  ‘Less than fifteen days, but probably more than five. It is impossible to be precise.’

  ‘I said farewell to him that morning, and he told me he was looking forward to his journey,’ said Wormynghalle, fighting back tears. She turned away abruptly, and hurried to stand outside with Dodenho, staring up at the sky and blinking hard as she fought to regain control of herself.

  Paxtone went to put a paternal arm around her shoulders, and Bartholomew saw her struggle not to recoil from his touch. ‘I know this is hard,’ Paxtone said kindly. ‘You were friends as well as room-mates, and he thought very highly of your scholarship.’

  Wormynghalle gulped and tears began to flow freely. ‘He said that?’

  Paxtone nodded. ‘Many times. He said you were the cleverest man in the College, and boasted that he was the room-mate of the Fellow destined for widespread academic acclaim.’

  Wormynghalle turned away in a flood of grief, while Dodenho straightened himself carefully. ‘Surely you are mistaken,’ he said. ‘He must have meant me.’

  ‘Never mind that,’ said Michael. ‘If Hamecotes died between the time he left for Oxford and five days ago, does it mean he fulfilled his book-buying duties and came back? Or did he not go at all – in which case who wrote the letters purporting to be from him?’

  ‘They were in his writing,’ said Wormynghalle in a muffled voice. She took a deep breath and entered the shed again, Paxtone and Dodenho following. ‘You can see them, if you like. I retained them because I intended to scrape the parchment and reuse it later. Perhaps I will keep them now, to remind me of his friendship.’

  ‘I wonder if he wrote them before he left, as a ruse,’ mused Michael. ‘That would have given him a few free days to go about his business – whatever that was. Was he with Wolf, do you think, looking after him at Stourbridge?’

  ‘Possibly,’ replied Paxtone. ‘But Wolf was reasonably fit when I saw him a few days before he went missing himself – he had a summer chill, but we all suffer those from time to time. He stayed a day or two at the hospital, but he was malingering, medically speaking.’

  ‘No sign of the pox, then?’ asked Michael bluntly.

  Paxtone did not like his supposedly celibate colleagues being accused of contracting sexually transmitted diseases. ‘No,’ he said shortly.

  Michael turned back to the body, forcing himself to look at it. ‘So, how did Hamecotes come to be in this building? Who found him?’

  ‘I did,’ said Dodenho hoarsely. ‘I like to practise my lectures here, because it is more private than my room. I came on Tuesday evening – he was not here then – and I found his body today. Therefore, he must have brought himself here during the last two and a half days.’

  ‘He did not come under his own power,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He has been dead too long.’

  ‘I told you that,’ said Paxtone to Dodenho, rather pompously for someone who knew so little about the dead. ‘He was put here: he did not walk to this building on his own.’

  ‘But who would do such a thing?’ asked Wormynghalle in a small voice. ‘And how did he die? Did he drown? I see from his clothes that he has been wet, and I know he cannot swim.’

  ‘He may have been in the river,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But that is not what killed him. This is.’ He eased away Hamecotes’s liripipe to reveal a slashing gape across the throat, ragged and uneven, as if some blunt, crude implement had been used to inflict the damage.

  Dodenho shot from the room, pushing past Wormynghalle and almost knocking her off her feet. Paxtone reeled back with his hand to his mouth, while Michael inhaled sharply at the sight.

  ‘And that is not all,’ said Bartholomew softly. ‘This is the man whose body was in the cistern in Merton Hall.’

  Michael gazed at Bartholomew in the darkness of the dilapidated stables. The physician could hear Dodenho retching outside, while Wormynghalle and Paxtone stood well back, so they were not obliged to see the horror on the table. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes. I recognise the shape of his nose and the moss-coloured liripipe.’

  ‘He often wore that,’ said Wormynghalle in a cracked voice. ‘He liked green clothes.’

  ‘You told me that when I wrote Dodenho’s prescription, and you gave me his emerald ink to use by mistake,’ recalled Bartholomew. ‘I should have put the facts together sooner, because I remember this garment quite clearly from the well.’

  ‘But how did he come to be here?’ demanded Michael.

  No one could answer, and Bartholomew went back to his examination. He quickly established for certain that the throat wound was the cause of death, and ascertained from the state of the body that it had been immersed in water for some time. There was only one other thing that was pertinent: a rope around the corpse’s feet, which had been cut. He supposed it had been attached to stones and used to weight Hamecotes down, to prevent him from floating. It explained why the body had been so heavy when he ha
d pulled it to the surface in the belief that it was Michael. He realised it would have remained hidden indefinitely, had Michael not had the misfortune to fall in with it. He told the others his conclusions.

  ‘But Sheriff Tulyet said there was no body in the cistern,’ said Paxtone, bewildered.

  ‘Obviously, it was moved before he conducted his search,’ replied Michael impatiently. ‘And now we know where it went, although I cannot imagine why. Did Hamecotes know Eudo or Boltone?’

  ‘Not as far as I am aware,’ replied Paxtone. ‘But Boltone is sometimes obliged to travel to Oxford to present his accounts, and Hamecotes has …had friends there. Perhaps they had mutual acquaintances. It was because of his Oxford connections that we were not surprised when Hamecotes wrote to say he had gone there – we were annoyed and inconvenienced, but not worried.’

  ‘He did know Boltone,’ said Wormynghalle. She rubbed her mouth on her sleeve and Bartholomew saw that her hands were shaking. ‘Boltone’s brother was bailiff on a manor owned by Hamecotes’s sister, or some such thing. They were not friends, but they passed the time of day when they met by chance on the street.’

  ‘Boltone,’ said Michael in satisfaction. ‘This explains a good deal. It tells us why he tried to beat our brains out when we ventured too near the place where he had hidden Hamecotes’s body. And Eudo must have helped him – either with the murder itself, or with disposing of the corpse.’

  ‘Hamecotes died in exactly the same way as Okehamptone,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Do you see these indentations? They are tooth marks. I saw similar damage on Okehamptone’s neck. Also, note the way the flesh is torn here, which is indicative of a puncture caused by a sharp canine . . .’

  He trailed off. Was his analysis correct? Were the faint bruises caused by human fangs, or had he allowed Rougham’s claims of being gnawed by Clippesby to influence his conclusions? He found he was not sure. Then he became aware that Paxtone was regarding him with some shock.

  ‘But Okehamptone died of a fever. I saw the body myself.’

  ‘You did not,’ said Michael tartly. ‘You prayed over it, but you did not examine it. You missed the fact that there was a wound on Okehamptone’s throat that was identical to this one.’