Bartholomew 11 - The Mark Of A Murderer

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘I have a confession to make about that,’ said Wormynghalle, rather guiltily. ‘I am sorry, Dodenho: I am afraid it just slipped out.’

  ‘What slipped out of where?’ asked Dodenho uneasily.

  ‘Sheriff Tulyet was bemoaning the fact that he had not found evidence to prove Eudo and Boltone were thieves, and before I knew what I was saying, I had mentioned the fact that Weasenham had found a cache in the cistern, and that your astrolabe was among its treasures. I apologise, but my mind was so full of Ockham that I was not concentrating on the conversation. I did not mean to expose Weasenham, and I should have known better than to hold a discussion with a clever man like Tulyet when half my wits were occupied with kinematic inertia.’

  ‘Damn!’ cried Dodenho, annoyed. ‘Now I will have to pay full price for parchment!’

  Wormynghalle continued. ‘Once the secret was out, Tulyet plied me with all manner of questions. However, I did stress to him that you categorically declined to purchase the astrolabe at Weasenham’s much-reduced price, and I think he believed me. He said he was going to interrogate Weasenham, and I have the feeling that our stationer may think you told him what happened.’

  Dodenho grimaced. ‘Curse you and your loose tongue! You are worse than a woman, for chattering like a magpie.’

  ‘I shall pretend I have not heard this conversation,’ said Michael. ‘Blackmail and concealing stolen goods are criminal offences, but I am presently concerned with more serious matters. Dodenho, your astrolabe links you to a place where two men have been murdered – three, if we include Spryngheuse. You are also a Fellow of King’s Hall, where Hamecotes was found with a fatal wound similar to that of Okehamptone and perhaps Gonerby, and you were friends with Chesterfelde.’

  ‘What of it?’ snapped Dodenho, unsettled by the direction the discussion was taking. ‘It is coincidence, and you cannot use it to tie me to these deaths. What about Wormynghalle? It was his room-mate who was killed.’

  ‘But Wormynghalle did not know Chesterfelde, did he?’ asked Michael coolly.

  ‘Dodenho has nothing to do with these deaths,’ objected Wormynghalle, loyally speaking up for her colleague. ‘He is right: all the links you have listed are no more than coincidence.’

  ‘We should not forget that Dodenho studied in Oxford, either,’ said Michael, unrelenting.

  ‘So have I,’ Wormynghalle pointed out. ‘But it does not mean I was acquainted with Spryngheuse, Chesterfelde or Okehamptone. It is a large community, full of transients, who come and go with bewildering rapidity. You can conclude nothing from the fact that someone has been there.’

  ‘Then what about this astrolabe?’ demanded Michael, fixing Dodenho with a glare. ‘Explain that.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Dodenho, seeing the monk would not leave him alone unless he had answers. ‘I made a mistake. I thought it had been stolen, because I could not find it, but I was wrong.’

  ‘No,’ said Michael, raising his hand to prevent Wormynghalle from speaking in Dodenho’s defence again. ‘It is more complex than that. Tell me the truth, or I shall press charges of blackmail and dishonesty.’

  ‘All right, all right!’ snapped Dodenho. ‘I sold the thing to Polmorva and pretended someone had taken it. Hamecotes had a spare, you see – a better one than mine – and I hoped he might give it to me if he thought I had been the victim of a crime. He did not, and then Wolf thought my accusations were levelled at him. I saw I was in a fix, so I dropped the subject and hoped everyone would forget about it. Unfortunately, they did not, and the stupid thing ended up in a place where men have died.’

  Michael was unconvinced. ‘Well, we shall see, because I always uncover the truth, no matter how long it takes. Lying about a murder is a serious matter. Men have been hanged for less.’

  CHAPTER 10

  Michael was silent as he and Bartholomew continued their walk towards Michaelhouse, lost in speculation about how and why Dodenho should be involved with the men from Merton Hall. Bartholomew thought about Joan Wormynghalle, and her dedication to learning. She was insightful and intelligent, and he hoped she would be able to fool men over her sex for the rest of her life, and devote herself to something she loved – and at which she excelled. He was certain the discipline of natural philosophy would be the richer for her contributions, and felt it would be a pity if it were to be deprived because of an accident of birth.

  When they reached the corner where Weasenham’s shop was located, Michael stopped. Like most of the High Street businesses, Weasenham was doing his bit to make the town attractive for the Archbishop, and his apprentices had been released from their duties of scribing exemplars, making pens and preparing parchment, and were enjoying themselves with brushes and poles. The timbers were freshly treated with resin, to make them shiny and black, and the plasterwork had been washed in a delicate shade of amber. The front door was so new that two carpenters were still adding the finishing touches, and Alyce had placed pots containing colourful plants outside it.

  ‘She will have to get rid of those,’ said Michael disapprovingly. ‘The Archbishop will think we only buy pens and ink because we like looking at her flowers.’

  ‘He will not,’ said Bartholomew, laughing. ‘Besides, their scent is helping to disguise the stench from the river, so perhaps you should encourage other merchants to do the same.’

  ‘We need another word with Weasenham,’ said Michael, making for the door. ‘I want to know why he summoned you at the precise time when your services were needed as Corpse Examiner, thus almost bringing about a gross miscarriage of justice.’

  The shop was busy as usual and, without the help of his apprentices, Weasenham was overwhelmed with demands for pens, inks, sand, sealing wax, texts, vellum, parchment, and all the other clerkly supplies required by scholars. Bartholomew looked for Alyce, and was not particularly surprised to see her attention focused on a single customer, despite the fact that her husband was rushed off his feet. Langelee leaned close to her as she spoke, oblivious to all else.

  ‘And he accused me of indiscretion!’ muttered Bartholomew as he weaved his way through the throng towards his Master.

  Langelee jumped in guilty alarm. ‘I was just negotiating a better price for Michaelhouse’s ink,’ he gabbled. ‘Wynewyk uses such a lot when he writes the College accounts.’

  ‘I am sure he does,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You are always in here these days, and tongues will start to wag soon, just as they did with my visits to Matilde. You are carrying on your dalliance right under the nose of the biggest gossip in the town.’

  ‘My husband is hardly likely to begin rumours that he is a cuckold,’ said Alyce scornfully. ‘Besides, he is so busy talking about other people that he never notices anything I do. He says producing such tales encourages you scholars to patronise us.’

  ‘Is that why he does it?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘To improve his trade?’

  ‘Why else?’ asked Alyce with a shrug. ‘Surely you do not believe he is genuinely interested in who sleeps with whom, or who has the pox?’

  Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘Why not? It seems most of his customers are.’

  ‘Father William told him that Ralph here has a fondness for Agatha the laundress,’ said Alyce, amused. ‘Expanding that tale should keep him busy for a while.’

  ‘Have a care, man!’ breathed Michael to Langelee. ‘Do you know what will happen if Agatha learns she is the subject of such a story? Your life will not be worth living!’

  ‘She has heard already,’ said Langelee resentfully. ‘And she is being awkward – she is taking an age to launder my cloak, whereas she washed yours the same day. But they are right, Alyce; we should not linger here together. Thank you for the astrolabe. I shall treasure it.’

  ‘Astrolabe?’ asked Michael, when Alyce had gone to assist her beleaguered husband.

  Langelee produced a cloth from under his arm, and unwrapped what was inside. Sure enough, it was the instrument that Dodenho had sold to Polmorva, who had in turn sold it to Wo
rmynghalle, who had then lost it to Polmorva’s sticky fingers, before Weasenham had retrieved it from the cistern.

  ‘Well,’ said Michael, raising his eyebrows in surprise. ‘Now the thing comes to Michaelhouse.’

  ‘Not for long,’ said Langelee, lowering his voice. ‘It is useless, because the alidade is broken, but it is silver, and so worth a tidy sum. We need new guttering for the hall, and this will pay for it – and more besides. This little liaison of mine is not entirely detrimental to Michaelhouse.’

  ‘You just told Alyce that you would treasure it,’ said Bartholomew accusingly.

  ‘But I did not say for how long,’ replied Langelee.

  ‘I would not keep it for more than a few days, if I were you,’ advised Michael. ‘It is stolen property, although its list of owners is so convoluted that I have no idea who has the right to claim it.’

  ‘Not Dodenho,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He sold it to Polmorva. And not Polmorva, either, because he sold it to Wormynghalle – before stealing it back.’

  Langelee was not very interested. He cocked his head to one side. ‘There go the bells to announce the midday meal. I will walk back to Michaelhouse with you.’

  ‘I want words with Weasenham first,’ said Michael. ‘The Visitation looms ever closer, and my solution to these crimes does not. Food will have to wait.’

  Langelee and Bartholomew gaped at him. ‘You are willing to miss a meal?’ asked Bartholomew in disbelief. He became concerned. ‘Are you ill?’

  ‘I am perfectly healthy,’ snapped Michael haughtily. ‘At least, I think so, although it appears others do not. Thomas unnerved me yesterday with his predictions of my early death, and I have resolved to eat a little less from now on.’

  Langelee looked pleased. ‘That should help the College finances. Will you be applying these new resolutions to wine, too?’

  ‘No,’ said Michael shortly. ‘Wine is good for a man, because it increases the amount of blood in his veins. It is only green vegetables that make him fat, especially peas, because they adhere to his liver. I shall forgo those completely, and in a couple of weeks I shall be as lean as Matt here.’

  ‘I think it might take a little longer than that,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘And peas do not . . .’

  But Michael was already walking away, unwilling to hear that his dietary plans might be flawed. Bartholomew followed him to where the stationer was enjoying a brief respite from his labours. Most scholars preferred to be served by Alyce, particularly when they were in a hurry, because she fetched the goods they wanted, accepted their money and let them leave, whereas Weasenham waylaid them with chatter. With the Visitation only two days away, people were too busy to gossip, so while Alyce had a queue, Weasenham was temporarily at ease.

  ‘I have a question,’ said Michael, marching up to him. ‘Who told you to summon Matt for your toothache on Ascension Day? He came at the expense of fulfilling certain obligations to me.’

  ‘Then I am sorry, although it was hardly my fault. I sent for Rougham, but he was unavailable, so I asked Bartholomew instead. That is how these things work: if one man cannot help you, then you send for his rival. I was very satisfied with Bartholomew, in fact, although I will not hire him again because he is too friendly with you – and with that lecherous Langelee.’ Weasenham glowered at the Master, who was wrestling with the door but failing to open it because he was exchanging smouldering simpers with Alyce.

  ‘Why should his association with me be considered a negative?’ asked Michael archly.

  ‘You blackmail people, Brother,’ said Weasenham coldly. ‘I do not want Bartholomew giving you details of my ailments, which you can then use to expose me to ridicule.’

  ‘I would never do such a thing,’ objected Bartholomew, affronted by the insult to his professional integrity.

  ‘I do not know what you might do,’ snapped Weasenham. ‘How can I trust the word of a man who visits a prostitute night after night? And now you have led Doctor Rougham astray, too! I saw him sitting in Matilde’s window this morning, while his colleagues are under the impression that he is with his family in Norfolk. I suppose he will pretend to arrive home today, claiming he has been working for Gonville’s good, and all the while he has been enjoying himself here.’

  ‘You will say nothing about Rougham, unless you want me to tell folk that Langelee has made a cuckold of you,’ said Michael coldly. ‘Then you will learn first-hand how hurtful such chatter can be.’

  Weasenham regarded the monk with such glittering hatred that Bartholomew was alarmed. He wondered to what lengths the stationer might go to avenge himself on the College that was home to his wife’s lover and the man who so brazenly subjected him to extortion.

  ‘You have not answered my question,’ said Michael. ‘Who told you to summon Matt? He says your case was not urgent, and that you could have waited until your regular physician was free – or even visited an apothecary for a remedy.’

  ‘It was urgent,’ insisted Weasenham. ‘I was in pain. And, as I have told you, I summoned him when my first choice of physicians was unavailable.’

  ‘Who told you Rougham was unavailable?’ asked Michael. ‘The Gonville porters? The messenger you used? Who?’

  ‘A customer,’ replied Weasenham. ‘He offered to fetch Rougham, because he said he had nothing else that was pressing. I rewarded him with a pot of my best green ink for his kindness, and thought no more about it.’

  ‘Who?’ insisted Michael.

  ‘Green ink,’ said Bartholomew, turning to Michael. ‘Who do you know who uses green ink?’

  ‘No one,’ said Michael. ‘It would be an odd thing to do when brown and black are available.’

  ‘Hamecotes,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Hamecotes had a penchant for green ink.’

  * * *

  ‘Hamecotes,’ said Michael as they left the shop. ‘We know he left Cambridge – perhaps heading for Oxford – on or just after Ascension Day. All his King’s Hall colleagues agree on that point.’

  ‘And it was on Ascension Day that he offered to fetch Rougham to tend Weasenham’s toothache,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Rougham was with Matilde by then, so could not have obliged, but Hamecotes did not summon him anyway. We know this for a fact, because Rougham’s students recorded all the consultations he missed, and Weasenham’s name is not on their list.’

  ‘He fetched you instead, so you would not be available to inspect Okehamptone. When I arrived – with the inept Paxtone in tow – the Oxford scholars harried me to be brief. They wanted to be done with Okehamptone’s body, so they could go about the far more important business of praying for his soul. Meanwhile, the Oxford merchants had some guild meeting they were desperate to attend. They were not the only ones rushing me: Tynkell did, too. He told me to be quick, because he did not want trouble between us and Oxford so close to the Visitation. I should have resisted them all.’

  ‘You probably thought Tynkell was right at the time,’ said Bartholomew soothingly. ‘You had no reason to think otherwise.’

  ‘That will teach me to bend to the will of others in an attempt to be placatory. I should have waited for you to become available. But let us go back to this tale. Hamecotes ensured you were out of the way, probably hoping I would dispense with the services of a Corpse Examiner altogether. I did the next best thing, which was to secure Paxtone’s help, not realising that he has an aversion to cadavers, and Okehamptone went to his grave unexamined.’

  ‘You have left something out. The evening before Okehamptone died, Rougham went to Merton Hall to visit him. He saw his friend through an open window, and said that although Okehamptone might have become ill later, he was healthy at that point. In other words, Rougham did not think he was on the brink of contracting a fatal fever.’

  ‘And Polmorva, who answered the door to Rougham, declined to let him in. So, is Hamecotes our killer? Did he murder Gonerby in Oxford, then do away with Okehamptone here? We know he had Oxford connections.’

  ‘And then bit out his own throat,
before tying a rope around his legs and hurling himself in the cistern?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I do not think so!’

  ‘Was it suicide, then? Because he was overcome with remorse?’

  ‘Can you reach your throat with your own teeth, Brother? Of course not: it is impossible. But the fact that Okehamptone, Gonerby and Hamecotes were killed in a similar – if not identical – manner means there is certainly a connection between them. Still, at least this exonerates Clippesby.’

  ‘It does not. All it does is demonstrate that Hamecotes did not want Okehamptone’s death investigated. Clippesby might still be our man – or perhaps he was in league with Hamecotes.’

  ‘We cannot prove they even knew each other, let alone conspired to kill together,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘And all along you have been saying there is an Oxford dimension to these deaths. Clippesby has no links to Oxford. He loathes the place, and never goes there.’

  ‘So he says, but we only have his word that he visited his father in Norfolk when he went missing in February. He may have gone to Oxford and lied about it.’

  ‘So, after Hamecotes kindly helped Clippesby to conceal Okehamptone’s murder, Clippesby killed him, too?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘That does not make sense.’

  Michael sighed. ‘Clippesby is mad, so of course he will not act in a way we can understand. But perhaps I was wrong about this Oxford association. Hamecotes must have been taking orders from a Cambridge accomplice when he summoned you to Weasenham, because no Oxford stranger would know you are a diligent Corpse Examiner.’

  Bartholomew scratched his head, uncertain. ‘Yes and no. Rougham knows I am careful, and may have mentioned the fact to Okehamptone, probably as an example of the kind of colleague he is obliged to endure. Then his friend Okehamptone may have told others – Polmorva and the merchants.’

  ‘Rougham,’ mused Michael. ‘That would explain why he was attacked, too. Rougham is fat, with plenty of flesh to be gnawed through before a throat can be reached, whereas Okehamptone was thin. It is possible that Clippesby’s fangs were thwarted by Rougham’s lard.’