The Mark of a Murderer (16 page)

‘Walter Spryngheuse.’ The man began to gabble, and Bartholomew sensed he would say anything to prevent Michael from telling
Polmorva and Duraunt about the
incident on the bridge. ‘And you are here to look into Chesterfelde’s murder. I cannot believe someone killed him. He was
good company and everyone liked him.’

‘Someone did not,’ Michael pointed out.

Spryngheuse’s eyes became watery. ‘I miss him. He was a Balliol man and I am from Merton, but we were friends nonetheless.
I wish he had not died.’

‘We all do,’ said Duraunt comfortingly. ‘But he has gone to better things.’

Spryngheuse pulled himself together. ‘Duraunt has been telling me about you, Bartholomew.’

‘Not very accurately,’ said Polmorva nastily. ‘He has been far too kind in his reminiscences.’

‘And you have been too harsh,’ said Spryngheuse immediately.

‘Your tongue
is
overly sharp, Polmorva,’ agreed Duraunt, leading Bartholomew to wonder what the man had been saying.

‘Meanwhile, I have learned that
you
like to drink and argue,’ said Michael to Duraunt, preventing the physician from responding with some reminiscences of his
own. ‘You were making so much noise on the night Chesterfelde died, that you disturbed your neighbours.’

Duraunt was astounded. ‘Really? It was quite unintentional, I assure you, and I shall apologise to them at once. We were discussing
Bradwardine’s mean speed theorem, and it was so exciting that we may have been a tad raucous.’

‘Chesterfelde had interesting opinions,’ explained Spryngheuse shyly. ‘He was an amusing debater, so we laughed a lot. We
did not mean to annoy anyone, though.’

‘It was the merchants’ fault,’ said Polmorva testily. ‘They were the ones guffawing at Chesterfelde’s inanities. Debates are
not meant to be funny – they are serious expressions of philosophical ideals, and I disapproved very strongly when you all
made that one into a joke.’

‘Do not be so ready to frown,’ admonished Duraunt mildly. ‘There is nothing wrong with laughter. Indeed, I am glad we were
merry that night, since it was Chesterfelde’s last. At least he died after a lovely evening in pleasant company.’

‘Mostly pleasant,’ said Bartholomew, suspecting Polmorva had been a terrible misery.

‘You drank plenty of wine,’ fished Michael. ‘It made you sleep more deeply than usual.’

‘We did not imbibe that much,’ objected Duraunt. ‘And I seldom sleep well these days. It is one of the curses of old age.’

‘Is that why you take poppy juice?’ asked Bartholomew.

Duraunt stared at him. ‘I do not dose myself with poppy juice or any other kind of soporific. When I am restless, I pray,
and eventually sleep overtakes me.’

‘Then what about the tincture you bought from the apothecary?’ asked Michael. ‘You claimed Matt had recommended that you swallow
a strong dosage, but he has done no such thing.’

‘He did,’ said Duraunt firmly. ‘Twenty years ago, when I had stomach pains, he recommended poppy juice at a specific strength
that cured them instantly. I have used his remedy ever since on rare occasions, particularly when I undertake long journeys.
My digestion is adequate at home, where I am used to the food, but it occasionally misfires when I travel and am obliged to
eat unfamiliar fare.’

‘You have been taking concentrated poppy juice for two decades?’ asked Bartholomew in horror.

A note of genuine irritation crept into Duraunt’s voice when he replied. ‘You are not listening, Matthew. I said I take it
on rare occasions when I travel
. But Okehamptone’s death upset me, and I felt the need for a dose. I thought I had brought some with me, but I could not
find it, so I
purchased more from the apothecary. And now you know everything about my stomach and its sporadic irregularities. Does that
satisfy your morbid and unwarranted curiosity?’

‘I am sorry,’ said Bartholomew, startled and hurt by the reprimand. He was aware of Polmorva’s smirk. ‘But it
is
odd that you all slept through Chesterfelde’s murder, and that a dose of strong medicine was added to your wine is not an
unreasonable conclusion to draw.’

‘Especially since we found some in your bag,’ added Michael.

But it was Bartholomew who bore the brunt of Duraunt’s outrage. ‘You
searched
my possessions? Without my permission?’ He shook his head and there was a hard, unforgiving look in his eye that cut the
physician to the quick. ‘I expected better of you, Matthew. I do not know what you have become here in Cambridge, but I do
not like it.’

‘I did not like what he was before,’ said Polmorva. ‘I am not surprised to learn he is the kind of man to go through our belongings.
It would also not surprise me to learn that
he
killed Chesterfelde, since he seems to have developed a talent for skulking and prying.’

‘I would not go that far,’ said Duraunt, his faded blue eyes still fixed unblinkingly on the physician. ‘But the next time
you want to know something, Matthew, you can ask. You will
not
rifle through my bags. Is that clear?’

Bartholomew nodded, feeling like an errant schoolboy, and fumed at the gloating expression on Polmorva’s face.

‘Good,’ said Duraunt, leaning back in his chair. ‘Then we shall say no more about the matter. Why are you here? Was it just
to ask about the poppy juice, or do you have another purpose?’

‘We came to inform you that we have been busy with Chesterfelde’s case,’ said Michael. ‘And that progress has
been made. We would also like to ask Spryngheuse some questions, since he is the only one we have not yet interviewed.’ He
turned to the man. ‘Why did you come to Cambridge?’

‘I told you that yesterday,’ said Polmorva. ‘Did you not listen?’

Michael rounded on him. ‘I am not talking to you, so keep your answers to yourself until you are asked for them. Spryngheuse?’

‘I fled because I was afraid for my life,’ replied Spryngheuse. He hung his head. ‘It is disconcerting to arrive at another
university, only to have your closest friend murdered within days.’

Michael included Duraunt and Polmorva in his next question. ‘You did not come because you know the Archbishop is due to visit,
and you hope to ensure he founds his new College in Oxford?’

Duraunt was appalled by the accusation. ‘Of course not! What a terrible thing to say! No wonder Matthew has turned bad, if
he listens to men like you.’

‘Now, just a moment,’ said Michael indignantly. ‘Oxford is in a state of turmoil – and under an interdict. It is not so far-fetched
to imagine someone might take steps to make Cambridge appear similarly uneasy, to ensure we do not gain Islip’s patronage
at your expense.’

‘It
is
far-fetched,’ insisted Duraunt angrily. ‘None of us are so low-minded.’

‘Really,’ said Michael, giving Polmorva a stare to indicate he thought otherwise. ‘But let us return to Chesterfelde, and
who might have wanted him dead. Spryngheuse, do you have any ideas?’

Spryngheuse was thoughtful. ‘Chesterfelde visited Cambridge several times, but he was not here long enough to make enemies.
He only had friends – not like in Oxford, where he and I are shunned and hated.’

‘That is the price of instigating a riot that left hundreds dead,’ said Polmorva unpleasantly.

Bartholomew stared at Spryngheuse. ‘
Chesterfelde
was one of the scholars who began the argument in the Swindlestock Tavern?’

‘He was,’ said Polmorva, before Spryngheuse could speak. ‘And Spryngheuse was another.’

‘Let me explain,’ said Spryngheuse tiredly. ‘We were in the alehouse, happy and good humoured, when this Benedictine attached
himself to our party. We had never seen him before, but were too polite to send him away. I wish to God we had. He seemed
to know Chesterfelde had a quick temper, and needled him with inflammatory statements until he reacted with violence – against
Croidon the landlord. It was the monk who started the fight, not me and not Chesterfelde, although we are the ones being blamed.’

‘But it was Chesterfelde who smashed the pot over Croidon’s head,’ said Polmorva. ‘And it was
you
who shot the mason. No one – except you – recalls this elusive Benedictine.’

‘Our friends did,’ objected Spryngheuse. ‘The two others who were with us.’

‘But they were killed,’ said Polmorva. ‘Of the original party, only you and Chesterfelde survived – other than this monk,
of course.’ He turned to Michael. ‘I am sure many Benedictines enjoy a good riot, but they are innocent of inciting this one.
I made enquiries among the Oxford brethren myself, and this mysterious monastic does not exist.’

‘Is this true?’ asked Michael of Duraunt, his voice cold and angry. ‘Why did you not mention it before? If Chesterfelde was
responsible for bringing about these riots, then there is probably an entire city full of people who would like to see him
dead.’

‘I did not tell you for two reasons,’ said Duraunt calmly. ‘First, because Spryngheuse and Chesterfelde have always maintained
their innocence.’ Here Spryngheuse nodded and Polmorva made a sceptical moue. ‘And second, if they do have enemies, then they
are in Oxford, not here.’

‘Not necessarily,’ said Michael. ‘How do you know one of your three merchant friends did not exact revenge? After all, it
was the riot Chesterfelde started that saw their friend Gonerby murdered.’

Duraunt shook his head. ‘If that were true, then the killer would have struck during the journey to Cambridge, when there
were better opportunities.’

Michael was unconvinced. ‘Perhaps that is what we are supposed to think. Personally, I shall reserve judgement until I have
more evidence.’

‘So, what
have
you learned so far?’ asked Polmorva, in the kind of voice that indicated it would be nothing of significance.

‘I never compromise my investigations by indulging in idle chatter with suspects,’ said Michael haughtily. ‘But I have finished
with you for now. Tomorrow I shall have another word with Boltone and Eudo, and see what they can tell me about rowdy debates
that kept half the town awake.’

‘My bailiff,’ said Duraunt, closing his eyes. ‘A landlord cannot be held responsible for the character of his tenant, so I
disclaim anything Eudo might have done. But I confess to appointing Boltone. He and Eudo have been stealing from us regularly,
as became obvious when I examined their records this morning. I have known for some time that our Cambridge estate was not
yielding the income it should, but I was ready to trust Boltone’s explanation that times were hard. After all, there was the
plague to consider: many properties became unprofitable after the Death, and I saw no reason to suppose this manor was not
one of them.’

‘So what made you suspicious of him all of a sudden?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘The losses have grown steadily larger, and a few months ago, Okehamptone – the clerk who died of fever here recently, and
who had friends in Cambridge – suggested I should review Bolton’s sums. When I followed his advice, I discovered inconsistencies
that required clarification.’

‘What did Boltone say when you confronted him?’ asked Michael. ‘When we first met, he did not seem overly concerned by the
fact that he was under investigation by the Warden of Merton.’

Duraunt shrugged. ‘I think he believed he had covered his tracks well enough to deceive me, and that he had nothing to worry
about. But I pointed out one or two problems today, and I think it has finally dawned on him that he may be in trouble.’

‘He is now extremely concerned,’ agreed Polmorva with satisfaction. ‘Had he been my bailiff, I would have dismissed him at
once, but Duraunt has given him an opportunity to acquit himself.’

‘He says there has been a mistake,’ said Duraunt tiredly. ‘It is difficult to find reliable men these days, and I have known
him for years. I have decided to give him the benefit of the doubt, and allow him to prepare a considered defence.’

‘Was he – or Eudo – sufficiently angry about the accusations to kill?’ asked Bartholomew. While Boltone claimed that killing
Duraunt would not solve his problems, Bartholomew was not sure that Eudo was equally rational, especially after numerous jugs
of ale. He thought it entirely possible that Chesterfelde might have been the victim of mistaken identity, as Polmorva claimed,
and the real target was the man who was in the process of exposing a collaborative dishonesty.

‘No,’ said Duraunt immediately. ‘That was the first thing
that crossed my mind when we found Chesterfelde. But Eudo or Boltone are not the kind of men to kill.’

‘Any man can kill,’ said Polmorva, looking at Bartholomew in a way the physician found disturbing. ‘All he needs is enough
incentive.’

Bartholomew was angry with Michael for putting him in an awkward position with his former teacher and earning him a reprimand
that stung. It was, after all, not he who had rifled through Duraunt’s belongings. Michael pointed out that by keeping watch
Bartholomew had made himself an accessory to the crime, and was just as much to blame. Since they could not agree and Bartholomew
was too tired to argue, they returned to Michaelhouse in silence.

The physician turned the facts about Chesterfelde over in his mind. Was the death a case of mistaken identity – something
hard to believe, given the strange mode of execution – and Eudo or Boltone responsible? Or had he been murdered as retribution
for starting a riot that had left hundreds dead and Oxford ablaze? Answers were not forthcoming, even when he lay on his bed
in the comparative peace of his room and gave the matter all his attention.

Later that evening, Michael was summoned by his beadles to quell trouble brewing at the King’s Head. The monk was unsettled
by the notion that what had happened in Oxford might be repeated in Cambridge, and was inclined to regard any symptom of unrest
with more than his customary concern. The fact that the St Scholastica’s Day trouble had exploded from a relatively minor
incident made him feel as though he should be on his guard at all times. Meanwhile, Bartholomew dozed in his room until every
light had been extinguished in the College, then set out to see Matilde.