The Bookseller's Tale (Oxford Medieval Mysteries Book 1)

by Ann Swinfen

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘I will see the carpenter in Ship Street, first, about making a coffin, then the sexton at St Peter’s. It should not take me above an hour.’

  ‘Come to the shop when you are done.’

  ‘You know,’ he said, as we walked back up the street, ‘we cannot be sure which side of the river he went in.’

  I stopped and looked at him. ‘You have the right of it! For some reason I have been imagining it was the far side, where the students go rabbitting, but it might just as well have been the nearside.’

  ‘Then we had better examine both.’

  When Jordain returned, just over an hour later, we set off. I had told Margaret that I would not be back in time for dinner.

  ‘The two of you should leave this matter well alone,’ she said. ‘It is no affair of yours. Let the constables and the coroners deal with it.’

  I shook my head. ‘As there is no trace of the attacker that they know of, they are inclined to regard the matter as closed. I think the coroners are weary after so many deaths and want to forget this one. As for the constables, what skills do they have to find William’s killer? They are ordinary townsmen, appointed for a year, and, if many are like Edric Crowmer, they undertake the duties simply for the pleasure of bullying their fellows for breaking curfew or brawling or lying drunk in the street. It gives them importance for a twelvemonth. They will not trouble themselves with pursuing an unknown killer when the coroners themselves have dismissed the matter.’

  She sighed, seeing that she could not persuade me to abandon the search for the truth about William’s death.

  ‘Very well, go if you must. I will make you up a parcel of food, since you will miss your dinner.’

  As we set off, I carried a bag slung over my shoulder with the food she had provided, while Jordain hooked a flask of ale on to his belt.

  ‘I think we should make our way up this side of the Cherwell first,’ Jordain said. ‘Starting at the bridge and following the bank upriver as far as the mill. Like you, I think William must have gone into the river below the mill, else his body would have been caught up in the sluice or the wheel.’

  ‘I suppose it might have gone over the weir,’ I said doubtfully.

  ‘Do you not think someone would have seen it? Either the miller or his men? There are always people about during the day, working there. Or farmers delivering grain, or folk buying flour. Besides, I think if he had been tumbled over the weir, there would have been some sign of it about the body. Torn clothes, or bruising.’

  ‘Do the dead bruise?’ I said. ‘I fear we are very ignorant, Jordain.’

  ‘Aye, we are.’

  We passed out through the East Gate and walked on past the row of small houses on the left before reaching the imposing front of St John’s Hospital.

  ‘We can cross the main channel of the Cherwell at the mill,’ I said, ‘but returning by the other bank we will need to cross some of the lesser branches. I remember one not far from the mill.’

  ‘Aye. I think we can wade that one, but here near the bridge several come together. It’s wide, isn’t it? We’ll need a boat. Or else we must retrace our steps.’

  We had reached the near end of the bridge and I stopped suddenly.

  ‘I have just thought. Suppose William’s body did not come down the main channel, but one of the others? The maze of waterways here is nearly as bad as the Thames ’tother side of the castle.’

  ‘Show me where you first saw him.’

  We walked on to the bridge until we reached the spot where I had been standing when I spotted the body in the river. I leaned on the wooden railing, then jumped back as it groaned and bowed outward under my weight.

  ‘This bridge is dangerous!’ I said in disgust. ‘The landowners responsible should be held to account.’

  ‘They will do nothing until the whole thing collapses,’ Jordain said with resignation. ‘’Tis pity it does not come under the jurisdiction of the town. Now, where was the body when you first saw it?’

  ‘There.’ I pointed to the bank on our left. ‘Just as I watched, it drifted into that patch of reeds, about halfway along St John’s wall.’

  We both studied the reeds. A duck and drake were swimming nearby. As we watched, a procession of small yellow ducklings emerged one by one from amongst the reeds.

  ‘There must be a nest there,’ I said.

  ‘Aye. But look, Nicholas. William’s body could not have come down that branch of the Cherwell yonder.’ He pointed to a wide side branch of the river to our right. ‘They meet almost at the bridge. The body would not have floated backwards, against the current, to reach the reeds.’

  ‘Nay, you have the right of it. So we may forget about that branch. There is still the other, just below the mill. I suppose he might have been thrown in there. That means we have much further to search, if we must follow up the banks of the branch as well as here. I do not know that we shall have time today.’

  ‘We had best make a start, then.’

  Jordain led the way back to the town end of the bridge, and we climbed down to the grassy slope which lay below St John’s wall.

  ‘It is as well the weather has been dry,’ I said. ‘I remember how slippery this used to be when we came swimming here.’

  ‘And I remember when Tom Winter slid into the river that time, before he had taken his clothes off.’

  We both laughed. Tom had found himself in trouble with the landlady of Tackley’s, when he had come home dripping all over her newly scrubbed floor. She was not a motherly creature and cared more for the state of her floors than for the chill that Tom caught as a result of walking home in his sodden clothes. He did not die then, but later, during the pestilence.

  The grass was dry enough now for us to make our way safely beside the hospital wall to where the ground opened up further along. This was an area of rough grass, where the town flock of sheep grazed. Some of the ewes lifted their heads and regarded us suspiciously, their legs planted firmly while they considered whether we were worth chasing. Their new lambs frolicked about, pretending alarm at the sight of us, until one or two of the bolder ones took a few steps toward us.

  ‘It cannot have happened here,’ I suggested. ‘Too near St John’s. Someone could easily have been looking out of a window. It must still have been daylight when he was stabbed.’

  Jordain agreed. ‘And the town shepherd might have been about. See, he has a hut over there. In lambing season he must always be here, and those lambs are not long born.’

  We continued, following the Cherwell north, the river on our right, a wide stretch of grazing land on our left, which ran all the way across to Longwall Street. Beyond that lay the southern end of the Canditch, in front of the town wall.

  ‘This all still seems too open to me,’ I said dubiously. ‘Wherever William was attacked, it must have been in the daylight. He was in my shop just before the dinner hour, and he was in the river as I walked back from Yardley’s farm. At that time of day, there are always people about, not only the shepherd back there with the lambs, but all along Longwall Street. Carts and packhorses going to and from the mill. People making their way further on, to St Cross’s church. Or even those going round the town, instead of through it, to the Augustinian Friary or Durham College. You can see how busy it is now.’

  Jordain nodded. ‘I agree. Apart from a few bushes, it is all meadowland here. Nowhere for a stealthy attack. And surely it must have been stealthy, for him to have been stabbed in the back like that.’

  I shuddered. ‘Unless it was someone he knew, and he turned his back, all unsuspecting.’

  Jordain rubbed his hand over his face and trudged on.

  ‘You know, I can shorten the time even more. William came to dinner in hall after he had visited your shop. I heard him go out later, perhaps an hour later, but I thought nothing of it. They come and go as they please, as long as they are present for morning prayers and meals, and are withindoors by nightfall.’

 
‘So it must have happened sometime after half past noon and before about five o’the clock, when I was crossing the bridge.’

  ‘Less than that, even. For he must have walked from Hart Hall to somewhere near the mill, let us say. Then there would have been the time that it took for his body to drift down the river to the bridge. Between one o’the clock and four, would you say?’

  ‘Aye, that sounds right.’ I shut my eyes briefly, visualising the way William would have gone. ‘He would go out through the Smith Gate, would he not? Then along Longwall Street until he came to the fork leading to St Cross on the left and the mill on the right. I think we have been wasting our time walking up this bank. He must have been heading for the other side of the river.’

  Jordain quickened his steps. ‘We should have realised that from the first. Come on, Nicholas. We need to cross the river.’

  There was only one place where we could cross the Cherwell, without retracing our steps to the bridge, and that was by Holywell Mill. I remembered that I had told Alysoun I would ask the miller if he would take one of the puppies, but as we neared the mill, a large farm cart drawn by a yoke of oxen pulled up in front of it. The miller and one of his men began to help the farmer unload sacks of grain. They were clearly too occupied to be troubled by such a request, and besides, Jordain was hurrying toward the river.

  The great water wheel was turning, driving the grinding stones within the mill, with such a clatter of machinery and such a roar of falling water that we could not speak. There was no bridge here, only a very narrow wooden walkway above the mill pool and over the sluice, so that the miller could reach the sluice gates. The miller was known for his hostility to those who used his walkway to cross the river, but had no power to stop the foot traffic. There was nowhere else to cross from one side of the Cherwell to the other unless you walked a good deal further upriver.

  Once over the walkway, we stepped down into the water meadow which lay all down the east side of this branch of the Cherwell. Underfoot the ground felt spongy, still waterlogged from the winter rains which fill the river and overflow every year into this low-lying patch of ground. With the flood water now drained away, the meadow was a riot of colour, like the patched quilts Margaret made painstakingly from the scraps of worn clothing. Marsh marigolds opened their golden cups to the sun, lady orchids thrust up their tight-packed spears of pale purple flower heads, while the chequerboard bells of snake’s head fritillaries bobbed in a breeze which blew unimpeded across this flat meadowland.

  We turned to walk down river, on the far side of the Cherwell from the town. Apart from the mill, there was no building overlooking this bank of the river, and it was too far from Longwall Street to be observed. Moreover, willow trees grew here and there along the bank, their roots half in and half out of the water, the new leaves on their trailing branches a pale delicate yellow green. It was a quiet place, more lonely and deserted than I remembered. There were no sounds but the gurgle of the river and a constant hum of bees amongst the wild flowers of the meadow. A sudden flash of iridescent colour caught my eye as a kingfisher plunged from one of the willows into the river like a flighting arrow.

  ‘I have not been here for years,’ I said.

  ‘Nor I. It cannot be here that the lads come for rabbits.’

  ‘Nay. Too wet. They must go to the higher ground, further away from the river.’

  We had hardly walked any distance when we met the main obstacle to our progress – another branch of this maze of waterways which make up the Cherwell, parting and joining and parting again. This branch of the river was almost as wide as the one we were following, though not nearly as deep, for it did not carry enough water to drive a mill.

  ‘We must wade across, I suppose,’ Jordain said.

  ‘Aye.’ I sat down on a clump of marsh grass and pulled off my shoes and hose. Jordain did the same. Then he drew up his knees and rested his chin on them.

  ‘Do you think it is possible William could have gone into the river up there?’ he said, waving a hand toward the upper part of the branch.

  ‘It is certainly possible. I do not know how far it goes. I have never been that way. Do you think there is time to follow it today?’

  He squinted at the sun and shook his head. ‘Let us complete our examination of this bank today, and come back tomorrow if we find nothing.’

  I nodded. ‘Let’s wade over to the other side, then eat this food Margaret has given us. I am tired of carrying it.’

  We edged our way cautiously into the water, and both gasped at the cold. Although it only came a little above our knees, it was fast flowing and there were humps and hollows in the river bed which made it a treacherous crossing. Once on the far side, we sat on the grass and ate our food, while our legs dried. Margaret had given us a cold pie as well as the usual bread and cheese. The ale we drank straight from the flagon, passing it back and forth.

  ‘I feel guilty,’ Jordain said, lying back with his arm over his eyes. ‘William killed here two days ago, and yet this seems like a holiday, as if we were boys again.’

  ‘Aye,’ I said. ‘I feel the same. But we needed to come. I do not believe anyone else cares to look further into William’s death.’

  ‘I hope we may find something – anything – to tell us what he was doing with those pages, and whether it had anything to do with his death.’

  I pulled on my hose and tied my points. ‘Tomorrow I thought I might call at Merton. I can make it my excuse that I have come to collect the monies they owe me, then visit their librarius. Ask if I might look at the Irish Psalter.’

  ‘He is not very friendly, you say.’

  ‘He is not. But as a licensed stationer and bookseller for the university, I can express a natural interest.’ I thrust my feet into my shoes.

  Jordain was twisting around, tying the points at his back. ‘But if we should want to come back here tomorrow–?’

  ‘I will go to Merton in the morning, while you are at the Schools.’

  ‘I have forgot. I have arranged the funeral for tomorrow afternoon.’

  ‘Then we must return here the next day.’

  It was as I picked up the bag which had held our food that I caught sight of something white, snagged on the protruding root of a bushy willow that grew just out of the water where the side branch met the Cherwell.

  ‘Jordain, there is something . . .’ I knelt on the bank and reached out. It was a fragment of white cloth, caught on a spike sticking out from the root. In freeing it I would have fallen headlong into the river, had Jordain not grabbed me by the belt and hauled me back.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Nothing but a piece of cloth. It is probably not important.’

  He reached out his hand for it.

  ‘I noticed that there was a tear in William’s shirt, but I cannot say whether this is a match.’

  I stood up and studied the two sections of the river.

  ‘Even if it is from his shirt, I am not sure that it tells us much. The body could have floated down either branch. See, there is a kind of eddy where they meet. The body could have been washed against that tree root from either direction and caught, then dragged free again. The river was flowing with some force when I was struggling to pull him ashore.’

  ‘Aye.’ He studied the piece of cloth, flattening it out on the palm of his hand. ‘I cannot say. I must look again at his shirt. I am not sure the tear was as large as this. It may be nothing to do with William.’

  ‘We have seen nothing between the mill and here,’ I said, ‘though it is no great distance. Could he have been stabbed so close to the mill? There would have been plenty of folk about in the afternoon.’

  ‘I suppose there are some hidden spots behind the clumps of trees.’ Jordain looked doubtful. ‘But what I cannot see, is why? Why should someone stab a decent, studious boy like William, in broad daylight, and throw him in the river? It makes no sense.’

  ‘That is not the only thing that makes no sense,’ I said. ‘Why was
he here? Usually, he would have been at his studies, would he not? At that time in the afternoon? Why come here at all? Was he meeting someone? Someone who then drew a knife when his back was turned? Who would have such anger or fear or hatred of that boy to do such a thing?’

  Jordain covered his face with his hands. ‘I lie awake at night, turning those questions over and over in my mind, and I cannot fit together any answers.’

  ‘Come,’ I said. ‘We will do no good lingering here. It is probably true that it cannot have happened between the mill and this spot. I think the first thing we must do is go back and see whether that scrap has indeed been torn from William’s shirt. If it has not, it tells us nothing. If it has, then my guess is that he went into the river further up this side branch. There is no time to explore it today. Let us make our way back down the main channel to the bridge, but keep our eyes open in case there is anything else to be seen. Then, if that is part of William’s shirt, we will come back tomorrow – nay the day after tomorrow – and study every inch of the way from here up to the head of this branch. I think it must flow across from that great bend in the river over to the east, at the foot of the rising ground.’

  ‘You are right,’ he said, folding up the damp piece of cloth and stowing it in his scrip. ‘Let us make our way down to the bridge.’

  We followed the east bank of the Cherwell from that point all the way downriver to the bridge, our eyes on the ground and the fringes of the water, but we found nothing unusual, save a child’s worn shoe.

  When the bridge rose before us, we were in something of a quandary, for at this point the other branch flowed in, the one we had rejected as we set out, so that we had come to what was, in reality, the tip of an island, with no way of reaching either the bridge ahead of us or the solid ground beyond either branch of the river.

  ‘I do not care for the idea of walking all the way back to the mill again,’ Jordain said. ‘It is getting late.’

  ‘If we follow this other branch upstream a little way,’ I said, ‘there is a fisherman who keeps a boat on the further bank. We can hail him, if he is there.’