The Mark of a Murderer (20 page)

All too soon, Michael returned, and Wormynghalle reluctantly relinquished his guest. He walked with them to the gate, clasping
and unclasping his hands as he expounded a theory he had devised based around Grosseteste’s precepts
of geometry. While he listened, Bartholomew noticed again Wormynghalle’s downy moustache and the few bristles that sprouted
from the underside of his chin, and supposed he left them there to make himself appear older. He understood why, recalling
the frustration he had experienced himself when mature scholars had dismissed his ideas, simply because he was young.

When they reached the road, Michael found it hard to prise the two men apart. Each time he tried to draw their discussion
to a close, one would think of another point he wanted to raise. The monk was about to leave them to it, when his attention
was caught by three people walking down the High Street together.

‘What are they doing out, when I expressly forbade them to stray from their lodgings?’

Wormynghalle dragged his attention away from Bartholomew’s analysis of radiant lines, and followed the line of the monk’s
pointing finger. ‘It is the tanner – the one from Oxford who has the same name as me. But, Bartholomew, have you considered
the
pro contra
abstraction, which—’

‘Well?’ demanded Eu imperiously, directing his question at Michael and cutting across the King’s Hall scholar’s erudite exposition.
‘What have you learned about Gonerby’s murder?’

‘Gonerby?’ asked Wormynghalle the scholar in puzzlement. ‘I thought you said the dead man from Merton Hall was called Chesterfelde.’

‘Gonerby was an Oxford merchant,’ explained Abergavenny politely. ‘He died during the St Scholastica’s Day riots, and Brother
Michael has agreed to look into the matter for us.’

‘Only because he is afraid our questions will spark off civil unrest,’ said Eu nastily. ‘He does not want a war in progress
when the Archbishop is here.’

‘Of course he does not,’ said Wormynghalle the scholar sharply. ‘Only a fool would.’

Eu regarded him coldly. ‘You must be a fool yourself, for approaching my colleague here in the hope of discovering some common
kinship. He is a tanner, for God’s sake!’

The scholar’s eyebrows rose in surprise at the crude insult, but he clearly did not want to become embroiled in a row between
merchants. Before his namesake could frame a suitable response to the jibe, he made a tight bow, turned on his heel and marched
back inside King’s Hall, giving the impression that he had better things to do than to squabble with burgesses.

‘Are you sure you two are not kin?’ asked Eu archly. ‘You both have poor manners.’

‘I will kill any man who suggests I have ties to
that
ruffian!’ snarled Wormynghalle. ‘He wants to claim an association with me, so he can demand a donation towards his studies.
He probably assumed my name for that express purpose, but I will not be taken in by charlatans.’

‘He is not poor,’ said Bartholomew. Wormynghalle’s chamber was an expensive one shared only with one other man, and with a
private garderobe. In Michaelhouse such a large room would have been used as a dormitory for at least six.

‘Never mind him,’ said Eu impatiently. ‘I want to know about Gonerby.’

‘We have narrowed our list of suspects,’ replied Michael. ‘So, it is only a matter of time before we have your man.’

‘Good,’ said Eu, beginning to move away. ‘As we agreed, you have until the Visitation. If you do not have our culprit by then
we shall follow Wormynghalle’s advice and take this physician to Oxford for hanging.’

Michael glowered at their departing backs, although Abergavenny shot the Michaelhouse men an apologetic smile as he left.
‘Eu
is
a nasty piece of work. Perhaps Dick
was right, and he is the one in that unholy trio we should watch. But I still have a hunch about Abergavenny. Did you see
the way he leered at us just now?’

‘Not really,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Were you honest in the reply you gave them? Have you narrowed your list of suspects? Men
who were in Oxford in February, and who are now here?’

‘Yes,’ said Michael. ‘That was the absolute truth. However, I have eliminated so many of them with conclusive and incontestable
alibis, that I now have a very short list indeed.’

‘How many are left on it?’

‘None,’ replied Michael. He shot his friend a rueful grin. ‘I told you it was short.’

Bartholomew was worried that Michael had no suspects for Gonerby’s murder, since he thought that Eu might be as good as his
word, and try to abduct him if the real culprit was not produced. There was also a nagging anxiety that Langelee might just
let it happen, on the grounds that it would rid Michaelhouse of the embarrassing situation involving his relationship with
Matilde.

‘He will not,’ said Michael, when he voiced his concerns. ‘As I said before, he is fond of you. Besides, I shall soon have
their man and, if worse comes to worst, I intend to fob them off with a tale about their culprit fleeing to London – send
them chasing phantoms while Islip is here.’

‘And what if they catch someone innocent? They will execute him.’

‘Perhaps, but there is no point worrying about that yet, since we have several days to uncover the truth.’ Michael was silent
for a moment, thinking. ‘I have the feeling that Abergavenny was right when he mooted the possibility that the murders of
Gonerby and Chesterfelde might be related.’

‘What makes you think so?’

‘One man is murdered, then a second is killed and his body dumped in the presence of those avenging the death of the first.
I dislike such coincidences. However, since I
will
have Chesterfelde’s killer before the Visitation, hopefully that means I shall have Gonerby’s, too.’ Michael scratched his
chin. ‘I need to know more about Boltone and Eudo and their dishonest dealings. The best solution would be to learn that they
were
in Oxford in February, and once we have proved they murdered Gonerby, we can encourage them to confess to Chesterfelde’s
killing.’

‘The merchants said it was a scholar who made an end of Gonerby. Eudo and Boltone are not members of any university.’

Michael shrugged. ‘Gonerby was dying, and dying men do not always make good witnesses – even assuming these merchants have
been scrupulous in repeating his alleged last words. Is that Spryngheuse over there, wearing his grey-hemmed cloak, despite
the sunshine? He looks dreadful.’

Bartholomew agreed: Spryngheuse’s eyes were red-rimmed, there were dark pouches under them, and his face had an unhealthy,
waxen appearance. ‘What is wrong?’ he asked as their paths crossed. ‘Are you ill?’

Spryngheuse’s voice was hoarse when he replied. ‘Remember that Benedictine I told you about – the one Polmorva claims does
not exist? I saw him last night, lurking in the garden.’

‘Did you speak to him?’ asked Michael. ‘Did he say what he wanted?’

Spryngheuse shook his head. ‘I told the others to come and look, but by the time they reached the window, he had gone. Polmorva
told them I imagined it. I detest that man.’

‘I understand why,’ said Michael. ‘He is sly and spiteful. But will you tell me what your friend Chesterfelde thought of Polmorva?
Did you ever discuss him together?’

Spryngheuse regarded him unhappily. ‘You want to
know whether Polmorva is Chesterfelde’s killer. Well, he is certainly bold enough to do such a thing, especially since he
knew he could.’

Michael frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

Spryngheuse sighed and massaged his temples, eyes tightly closed. ‘Ignore me – I meant nothing. I am speaking nonsense, because
I am so tired. I do not sleep well these days.’

‘I know how that feels,’ said Bartholomew wryly. ‘But if you know something about Chesterfelde’s death, please tell us. We
would like to see his killer brought to justice.’

Spryngheuse swallowed, and for a moment looked as though he might weep, but he pulled himself together. ‘Very well. Polmorva
declined to drink much wine the night Chesterfelde died – unlike the rest of us. He abstained in a discreet way – often raising
his goblet, but seldom drinking.’

‘Why did you notice that?’ asked Bartholomew curiously.

Spryngheuse’s expression was grim. ‘I have become much more observant since the riots – terror of reprisal does that to a
man. Also, you told us Chesterfelde was murdered somewhere other than in the hall, so perhaps he was killed when he went to
the latrines. He had imbibed copious amounts of liquid, and would have needed to relieve himself, while Polmorva has an unusually
small bladder and is often obliged to get up in the night. It is not impossible that they were out there alone together.’

‘So, you were all intoxicated except Polmorva?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Does that include Chesterfelde?’

Spryngheuse gave a sad smile. ‘He was used to wine, and could drink a lot without his head swimming, but he was merry, too,
that evening. It just made him laugh a lot – giggle, rather.’

‘Interesting,’ said Michael. ‘We must have words with Polmorva.’

Spryngheuse paled. ‘Please, no! He will know it was I who told you about his deception with the wine, and life is bad enough
without having him after me with his sharp tongue.’

‘Better that than with his sharp knife,’ Michael pointed out. ‘But I will ensure he does not know you are our source. Besides,
he may even confess once he learns I have him trapped.’

‘I doubt it,’ said Bartholomew, knowing the monk would need more than speculation to corner the likes of Polmorva. ‘But we
need to speak to Eudo and Boltone first. Are they at home?’

‘In the garden,’ replied Spryngheuse. ‘There is a cistern, which provides fresh water for the house, and they are repairing
its pulley. They have been fiddling with it all day.’

Bartholomew and Michael walked through Merton Hall’s neat vegetable plots to where they ended in a small arm of the River
Cam known as the Bin Brook. The manor cultivated turnips, cabbages, onions, peas and beans using labour hired by the bailiff,
although no one was working there that day. It was a pleasant garden. Walls and trees protected it from the wind, and the
paths that wound through it were attractive and peaceful. Bartholomew took a deep breath of air laden with the scent of earth
soaked by the morning’s shower, and paused to admire the line of red-tiled roofs belonging to the houses on Bridge Street.
He recalled that Merton Hall and Tulyet were neighbours, their grounds separated only by the stream and the Sheriff’s Dickon-proof
wall.

At the very bottom of the toft was the cistern. It comprised a huge, stone-walled chamber that was sunk into the earth, like
a deep, square well. Its walls rose above the ground to knee height, and a massive wood and metal lid fitted snugly across
them to prevent animals and leaves
from dropping inside and contaminating its contents. An intricate system of drains and sluices allowed river water to enter
it, and it was invariably at least half full, even in times of drought. Merton Hall thus always had a source of fresh water,
albeit at times a murky one.

‘This design is clever,’ said Bartholomew, impressed as always by skilful feats of engineering. ‘Its builders have ensured
that, as long as the Bin Brook is flowing, there will always be water. It is deep, too – two or three times the height of
a man.’

‘Then I would not like to fall in it,’ said Michael with a shudder. ‘I cannot swim.’

‘You would not get out, either,’ elaborated Bartholomew, oblivious to the monk’s uncomfortable reaction to this news. ‘At
least, not easily. The walls are too slick, and there are no handholds for climbing. That is why the lid remains in place
at all times – a hatch can be opened when anyone wants to draw water, but the lid is always closed. I suppose it is possible
to tumble through the hatch, but you would have to be very careless.’

‘Fascinating,’ said Michael, wishing he would stop. Even the thought of deep, stone vaults filled with water was enough to
make his stomach churn, and the notion of being trapped inside one made him feel sick. ‘But I am more interested in the men
mending it.’

As they came closer, they heard the sound of a hammer, and saw Eudo swinging furiously at the mechanism that allowed buckets
to be raised and lowered, looking as if he was more intent on destroying it than fixing it. His handsome face wore a vicious
scowl, while Boltone stood to one side with his arms folded, watching dispassionately. To belie Bartholomew’s recent statements,
the gigantic lid of the cistern had been raised for the occasion, and was flipped back, so that one edge rested in the grass;
its opposite side was attached to the wall by massive iron hinges.

‘Having trouble?’ asked Michael mildly.

Eudo glared at him. ‘The pulley has jammed, and I have been playing with the damned thing all day to no avail. Whoever built
it is an imbecile.’

‘You will not repair it by attacking it like a maniac,’ said Boltone, earning himself a foul look. ‘I have been telling you
for hours that a contraption like this needs coaxing, not brute force.’

Eudo shoved the hammer into his belt. As he did so, Bartholomew noticed the cut on his arm had almost healed, and probably
would not even scar.

‘You do it, then,’ Eudo snapped, sweaty and irritable. ‘You have been giving advice and making suggestions all afternoon,
but nothing has worked. I am tired, hot and my wrist hurts.
You
do it.’

‘Never mind that for now,’ said Michael, raising one hand to prevent Boltone from accepting the challenge. ‘We have come to
ask about this unpleasant business at Merton Hall.’

‘
We
did not kill anyone,’ said Boltone firmly. ‘Duraunt claims I falsified the accounts – which is untrue, as I shall demonstrate
when I have devised a way of doing so – but we had nothing to do with Chesterfelde’s demise.’

‘No?’ asked Michael, throwing down the gauntlet in the frail hope of learning something by unnerving them. ‘Prove it.’

Eudo gave an insolent shrug. ‘We do not need to prove it: we are innocent, and that is that. We are not obliged to explain
ourselves to you or to any other man.’