A Bone of Contention хмб-3

by Susanna GREGORY

  Michael shook his head. ‘I am merely trying to ensure that I overlook nothing. As Davy has just noted, Jamie and the skeleton were found in the same area within a few hours of each other.’

  Davy frowned. ‘We have only been studying here for a year. Jamie was the first of his family to acquire learning – he constantly joked that he was the first of his clan to step on English soil without intending to steal the cattle. The skeleton cannot be any of his forebears. ‘

  ‘What will happen to us?’ asked Ruthven in a low voice, as Michael prepared to leave.

  ‘You will remain in the hostel, and you will not leave it unless you are in the company of a master,’ said Michael. ‘If I hear that any of you has disobeyed me, I will arrest you at once.’

  He turned abruptly and left the room, waiting for Father Andrew and Bartholomew to follow him into the corridor. As Father Andrew closed the door behind them, they heard Stuart Grahame begin to cry again, while Fyvie and Ruthven’s voices immediately rose in a clamour of questions and self-recriminations.

  Father Andrew shook his head wearily, and leaned against the door. ‘I am so sorry, Brother. I had no idea they would be so stupid as to assist one of their number to spend nights out with his paramour. I should have realised that they would not be subdued as easily as they pretended to be. Do you know who killed Jamie? Was it these friars they mentioned, the ones with whom they brawled yesterday?’

  ‘We do not know yet,’ said Michael. ‘His killer may have been a friend. Can you be certain that all four were here last night?’

  Father Andrew nodded. ‘I saw them into the dormitory.

  I was still furious with them – if we Scots are seen brawling in the streets, the townspeople may take reprisals. You probably noticed our new door? We were forced to buy that when our last one was kicked to pieces following an argument between the Principal and a baker about underweight loaves. People here still resent the Scots’ victory over the English at Bannockburn in 1314, you know – some of the older townsmen were even in King Edward the Second’s army at the time. Anyway, suffice to say that our intention is to remain aloof from conflict at all costs. It would not do if our landlord refused to rent us this building next year because we had earned a reputation for fighting.’

  Michael gave him a sympathetic smile. ‘I appreciate that maintaining a distance from brawls might prove difficult for these fiery lads,’ he said. ‘And I appreciate your efforts in attempting to control them. The continued good reputation of your hostel is even more reason why we must resolve James Kenzie’s death as quickly as possible. We should take a quick look at his belongings to see if he left some clue regarding the identity of his killer. Where did he sleep?’

  Father Andrew led the way up a narrow wooden staircase to the dormitory. Bartholomew saw that, as was the case in many hostels, the dormitory was converted into a common room during the day, when the straw mattresses that served as beds were rolled up and stacked against one wall. The room was reasonably tidy, although there was a strong smell of dirty clothes. Two large chests stood at one end of the room in which the students could store their few belongings.

  Two mattresses were still out. A young man tossed feverishly on one, while another student sat anxiously at his side. The other mattress held nothing more than cunningly bundled clothing. Father Andrew clicked his tongue in disapproval.

  While Michael conducted his search of the upper floor, Bartholomew went to the ailing student and rested his hand on the boy’s forehead. It was burning hot, but the bed was heaped with blankets. The room was stuffy, too, and a quick glance around told Bartholomew that the poor lad was provided with nothing to drink to ease his fever. He sent for fresh water, and set about making him more comfortable. He prescribed a potion to ease the ague, and showed the student’s anxious brother how to keep him cool. Dismissing Father Andrew’s grateful thanks with a nod, he went to join Michael who was waiting at the door.

  ‘Well, neither of them is the culprit,’ said Bartholomew in a low voice, indicating the two lads in the dormitory.

  ‘One would have been too sick, and the other has not left his brother’s side.’

  ‘And the mullions on the windows are so close together that I doubt even a slender student could squeeze through,’ whispered Michael. ‘The other room on the upper floor is where the masters sleep, and has similarly narrow windows. There is no back door: ergo, the only way out is through the front. And Kenzie was the only one who has been absent since last night, if we can believe what we have been told. I would guess they have been honest with us.’

  He and Bartholomew left the hostel with relief, still conscious of Stuart Grahame’s wails of grief, and the voices of his friends trying to offer him comfort.

  ‘Well?’ said Bartholomew. ‘What now? It looks as though none of Kenzie’s friends killed him. Do we go to see the friars?’

  ‘We do indeed,’ said Michael, his expression serious. ‘Because, for one thing, I still have not spoken to their Principal about their behaviour in the High Street yesterday, and for another thing, they are members of Godwinsson Hostel, where Kenzie’s lover is also the Principal’s daughter.’

  Godwinsson’s door was answered by a gangling Welshman called Huw, who conducted them into a small, but comfortable, solar that glowed red with the last of the setting sun. The windows were glazed, an extravagance that had not been considered necessary for most of the house, which had only shutters to exclude winter winds and summer flies.

  Bartholomew began to prowl restlessly as they waited for the Principal to see them. The steward had explained that Principal Lydgate lived with his wife in the adjoining house, while the students and other masters lived at the hostel proper. Godwinsson was a more pleasant house than David’s – it was larger, cleaner, and did not smell of burning cabbage.

  ‘It is odd how Lydgate’s name has occurred so often of late,’ said Michael, speaking mainly to distract Bartholomew, who was becoming impatient. ‘First, two of his students are involved in a disturbance of the peace; then you reveal his childhood secret; and finally, it is his daughter who was receiving the attentions of the murdered man.’

  ‘Lydgate was no child when the barn was fired,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He was at least eighteen: almost as old as Kenzie. But we should not speak of this, especially here. It will do no good to unturn such a stone, and he would probably deny it anyway.’

  ‘Deny what, Bartholomew?’

  Bartholomew jumped at the sound of Lydgate’s voice so close behind him. The Principal of Godwinsson had not entered by the same door through which Bartholomew and Michael had been shown, but from a second door in the opposite wall that Bartholomew had assumed was a cupboard. Glancing through it, he could see that it connected Lydgate’s family house next door with the hostel. Had this been the route James Kenzie had used to meet Lydgate’s daughter: either him to sneak to her room, or her to slip out to him? ‘We are here to investigate the death of a student from David’s,’ said Michael, recovering from his surprise faster than Bartholomew, who was wondering, uncomfortably, how much of their conversation Lydgate had overheard.

  ‘A student of David’s is no concern of mine,’ said Lydgate, shifting his small, hard blue eyes from Bartholomew and fixing them on Michael.

  ‘The brutal murder of a member of the University should be the concern of every scholar,’ Michael retorted superiorly. ‘Especially now, in this climate of unease.’

  ‘Who has been murdered?’

  Bartholomew thought he had detected a shadow in the interconnecting corridor between the two houses, and so the unannounced entry of Lydgate’s wife into their conversation did not startle him as Lydgate’s had done.

  ‘A David’s student, Mistress,’ said Michael, bowing politely to her. ‘He was last seen alive yesterday evening at seven o’clock, and was found dead this afternoon.’

  ‘Not one of our boys?’ asked Cecily Lydgate. She sniffed dismissively. ‘Then this has nothing to do with us.’ She went to her husban
d, placing a proprietary hand on his arm. With undisguised irritation, he shrugged it off.

  Bartholomew remembered the marriage of Cecily to Thomas Lydgate some twenty years or more before. It was not a love match, but a union designed to bring together two adjoining manors in Trumpington. When both fathers had died, Lydgate sold the Trumpington land within a week, and bought himself a pair of handsome houses in the town centre.

  The physician studied Cecily Lydgate with interest.

  Although she had lived in the town for many years, he had seldom seen her. She had servants who did her shopping, and daily trips to church and the occasional outing to a fair or a banquet apparently satisfied any ambitions she had for entertainment outside her home.

  Lack of exercise and fresh air, however, were beginning to take their toll, for although her clothes were evidently made of cloth that was expensive, they did little to disguise the plumpness underneath. A fiercely starched wimple kept every hair from her face, making her eyes appear bulbous and her teeth too large.

  By contrast, her husband had aged well, and still retained his hulking figure, although it was beginning to turn to fat around his waist. His hair remained jet black, with no traces of grey, and his clean-shaven face made him appear much younger than his wife, although Bartholomew knew they were the same age. Bartholomew had had nothing to do with Lydgate since his own studies had taken him to Peterborough, Oxford, and Paris, but dislike for the man, suppressed for many years, began to resurface, as fresh and crystal clear as when he had wronged Norbert.

  Michael, uninvited, sat on the best chair in the room, and indicated, with an insolent flick of his hand, that Lydgate and his wife should sit on a bench opposite him.

  Lydgate declined, and went to stand with his back to the last sunlight that streamed in dark gold rays through the window. A clever move, Bartholomew noted, for it was difficult to see his face with the light behind him.

  ‘So, Brother. You have told me a David’s scholar is dead. What would you have me do about it?’ Lydgate asked coldly.

  ‘Yesterday he was seen quarrelling in the street with two friars who live here,’ said Michael, easing himself back comfortably in his chair, and folding his hands across his stomach.

  Lydgate’s response was aggressive. ‘Rubbish,’ he said, with a contemptuous toss of his head. ‘Whoever claimed to have seen this was lying to you.’

  ‘Really?’ said Michael, with a pleasant smile. ‘Then you will have no objections to us speaking to Brothers Edred and Werbergh.’

  ‘I most certainly do have objections,’ said Lydgate vehemently. ‘You have no authority to come here harassing my students on the word of some lying townsman.’

  ‘Oh? And who do you think has been lying to us, Master Lydgate?’ probed Michael softly, raising his eyebrows and tapping one hand gently on the other.

  ‘Labourers or guildsmen, they are all the same,’ said Lydgate. He walked to the door and hauled it open to indicate that the interview was over. When Michael and Bartholomew did not move, Lydgate made an impatient gesture with his hand. ‘I am a busy man. That is all, gentlemen.’

  ‘I do not think so, Master Lydgate,’ said Michael, standing to stroll casually across the room and close the door. ‘You see, the witnesses you are so certain were lying are Doctor Bartholomew and me.’ His tone lost its silkiness. ‘I want to speak to Brothers Werbergh and Edred, and I want to do it now. And I can assure you that the authority I own was invested in me by the Chancellor from the King himself. If you do not consider the King’s authority sufficient to answer my questions, tell me so, and I will relay the message to His Majesty myself.’

  Disconcerted by Michael’s sudden force of will and by the none too subtle threat of treason, Lydgate hurriedly sent his steward to find the friars, and fought to regain moral superiority by bluster.

  ‘I will complain to the Chancellor about your attitude,’ he said hotly. ‘The King’s authority does not give you the right to be offensive.’

  Cecily Lydgate joined in with her nasal whine. ‘You have been most rude.’

  Michael rounded on her fiercely. ‘How so, Madam? By requesting to speak to two men who were seen quarrelling with a student the day before he was brutally murdered? Do you have something to hide from me?’

  ‘No! I…’ protested Cecily, flustered. ‘I have done nothing…’

  ‘Then kindly refrain from meddling in University affairs, Madam,’ said Michael in his most icy tones. ‘Neither the Chancellor nor the King will be pleased if they hear that Godwinsson proved unhelpful – obstructive even – during the course of my inquiries into the foul murder of a member of the University.’

  By the time Huw had ushered the friars into the solar, Lydgate and his wife were sitting side by side on the bench, while Michael stood in front of them, allowing his own considerable bulk to dominate them, as Lydgate had attempted to do to him.

  ‘Where were you last night?’ Michael snapped at the wary friars. ‘Ah! Do not look at each other for the answer! Where were you? Come on, come on. I do not have all day!’

  ‘Here,’ ventured Werbergh, watching Michael fearfully.

  ‘Here!’ sneered Michael. ‘Doctor, would you take Brother Werbergh into the corridor and ask him for his movements since his quarrel in the street yesterday? I will talk to Brother Edred here, and then we will see whether their accounts tally.’

  Bartholomew took Werbergh’s arm before he had the chance to exchange the slightest of glances with the sullen Edred, and guided him outside, closing the door behind them. Huw the steward scuttled away from where he had evidently been listening through the keyhole.

  Werbergh looked terrified, which was no doubt what Michael had intended. Bartholomew waited in silence for Werbergh to bare his soul. The physician had learned from Michael that uncomfortable silences frequently served to make people gabble, and, in gabbling, they often revealed more than they intended.

  ‘After we… after you saved us from the Scots, Edred and I went to St Botolph’s Church for vespers. We came straight home then, because the Senior Proctor told us to. We had to go out in the evening for compline, and after that I came back here. I walked home with Mistress Lydgate. You can ask her. She likes one of us to take her arm when she goes to church. Prefers us to her husband, I would say,’ he added, with a sly grin at Bartholomew.

  ‘What are you saying, Brother?’ asked Bartholomew coldly, not liking the way in which the pale-faced friar was trying to ingratiate himself by taletelling.

  Werbergh began to talk quickly again, Bartholomew’s hostility making him more nervous than ever. ‘Mistress and Master Lydgate are not the loving couple they seem, and she prefers younger scholars to his company.’

  ‘What has this to do with where you were last night?’ asked Bartholomew, making no attempt to hide his disgust at the friar’s transparent obsequiousness. Any fool could see that relations between the Lydgates were far from rosy, and Bartholomew resented Werbergh’s attempt to distract him from his inquiries by plying him with malicious gossip. Mistress Lydgate could seduce all the young scholars she pleased, and it would be none of Bartholomew’s business – unless she set her sights on any of his own students, but they were all perfectly capable of looking after themselves in that quarter, probably far more so than Bartholomew would be.

  The student shook his head miserably, his attempt to distract Bartholomew in tatters. ‘I escorted Mistress Lydgate to her house and then followed the other students here. It was already getting dark, so most of us went to bed.’

  ‘And what of Edred? Where was he?’

  Werbergh licked dry lips. ‘I did not notice where he was. We do not go everywhere together, you know,’ he added with a spark of defiance. ‘But I have been with other people from the moment we returned from our quarrel with the Scots until now. You can check.’

  ‘Do you have any idea why we might be asking you this?’ asked Bartholomew, watching the student carefully.

  Werbergh shook his head, but two pink sp
ots appeared on his cheeks, and the way in which his eyes deliberately sought and held Bartholomew’s was more indicative of guilt than honesty.

  ‘It is surely against the rules of your Order to lie?’ said Bartholomew softly.

  Werbergh’s eyes became glassy, and the redness increased. ‘Yes,’ he said finally, tearing his gaze away, and studying his sandalled feet instead. ‘I can guess why you are asking me these questions. But I was afraid such an admission might make you assume my guilt. You think Edred and I may have stolen his ring.’

  ‘Ring?’ echoed Bartholomew, taken off-guard.

  Werbergh looked at him with an expression of one who has played cat-and-mouse for long enough. ‘The Scottish student’s ring,’ he said wearily. ‘He was waiting for us when we came out of compline. He accused us of stealing his ring while we were pushing at each other in the High Street.’ He paused for a moment, oblivious to Bartholomew’s confusion. ‘He was very upset; I almost felt sorry for him. We professed our innocence, and he left quietly.’ He looked up and met Bartholomew’s eyes a second time, but this time with truthfulness. ‘That is why you have come, is it not? Because he has accused us of stealing his nasty ring?’

  ‘It is not,’ said Bartholomew. ‘James Kenzie was murdered last night. And if what you say is true, you may have been the last ones to see him alive, with the exception of his killer.’

  Blood drained from Werbergh’s face, leaving him suddenly white and reeling. Bartholomew, genuinely concerned that the friar might faint, took his elbow and sat him on a chest. Werbergh stared ahead of him blankly for a moment, before looking up at Bartholomew with eyes that were glazed with shock.

  ‘You would not jest with me on such a matter?’ he asked in a whisper. He studied Bartholomew’s face. ‘No. Of course you would not. What can I tell you? The Scot had been waiting in the churchyard, and he beckoned Edred and me to one side. Mistress Lydgate saw, I think. He sounded more hopeful that we might give his ring back to him, than angry that we might have stolen it. When we denied having it, he left. As I said, I felt almost sorry for him, even though he was so offensive earlier. He was alone – at least, I saw no one with him. I did not see anyone following him when he left.’ He screwed up his face in what Bartholomew assumed was a genuine attempt to remember anything that might help.