The Mark of a Murderer (24 page)

‘I can imagine,’ said Michael dryly, but still unconvinced. ‘Who is the witness? Not Abergavenny, or he would have told us,
surely?’

‘Would he?’ queried Langelee. ‘He lied to you about how Gonerby died, so why would he confess that he had witnessed the murder?
If it is true, then he will not want to bray it about, lest he become this maniac’s next victim.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Michael. He regarded Bartholomew’s pale face and haunted expression with raised eyebrows. ‘Do not tell me
you
believe this ridiculous tale? It is a fabrication invented by these merchants to lend credibility to the hunt for their colleague’s
murderer. And do not forget where Cynric heard this tale: the King’s Head, a tavern noted for the strength of its ale.’

‘Abergavenny
was
a tad drunk when he confided in me,’ admitted Cynric. He glared at Michael. ‘But he did not relate his story salaciously,
as he would have done had his intention been to shock or frighten. On the contrary, boy, he seemed shocked and frightened
himself.’

‘Then his witness – the man who saw this attack – must be a talented story-teller,’ said Michael. ‘He has ensured his account
is terrifyingly macabre, even when it is repeated by others. It did not originate with Gonerby’s wife, did it? She might have
invented a wild fable to ensure her husband’s friends really do track down his killer.’

‘The witness was Polmorva,’ said Cynric with satisfaction,
delighted when he saw the scholars’ surprise. ‘That is why he is here.’

Bartholomew gazed at him, facts and theories ricocheting about inside his mind like acrobats. None of them made sense, and
he could not have reasoned a pattern into them to save his life. Michael remained dismissive, however.

‘But Polmorva told us he came to escape the dangers of Oxford. And I have no reason to disbelieve him – he seems a cowardly
sort of man.’

‘He is,’ agreed Cynric. ‘He has not changed during the two decades since we last met.’

‘He is also a liar,’ mused Langelee. ‘I heard him dissembling myself, in the stationer’s shop last week. He told Weasenham
that a pen he had recently bought was defective, and demanded two in return, to compensate for the inconvenience it had caused
him. But I saw him break the thing himself. Weasenham obliged, of course, because Polmorva started speaking loudly about the
poor quality of the goods on sale in Cambridge, and Weasenham wanted to silence him before he lost customers.’

‘He cannot help himself,’ said Cynric. He addressed Bartholomew. ‘Remember when he told Duraunt that you spent the night with
a prostitute? He knew full well that the miller’s daughter was no whore, yet he landed you in a good deal of trouble with
that falsehood. Then there was the time—’

‘Thank you, Cynric,’ interrupted Bartholomew. ‘Suffice to say that he lies as easily as he breathes, and it does not surprise
me to learn he has another purpose in coming here. However, I suspect he has concealed his real intentions from Duraunt.’

‘Duraunt,’ said Michael, winking at the book-bearer to indicate he would have the story of the miller’s daughter later. ‘He
is not the saint you imagine, Matt.
First, there is the business about him being drunk to the point of oblivion when Chesterfelde died – and then denying it;
second, there is the business of the poppy juice; and third there is his friendship with Polmorva, a known deceiver.’

‘Duraunt is a good man,’ insisted Bartholomew. ‘He was kind to me in Oxford, and—’

‘That was years ago,’ interrupted Langelee. ‘Men change, and not always for the better. But Duraunt
does
drink heavily, as it happens. I saw him myself in the Cardinal’s Cap on Sunday, putting away enough strong claret to render
half of Michaelhouse insensible.’

‘No!’ cried Bartholomew, dismayed. ‘He encourages abstinence and moderation.’

‘Then he does not practise what he preaches,’ replied Langelee. ‘I know what I saw, Bartholomew, and I have no reason to mislead
you. Your old Warden is not the man you remember.’

‘How did Polmorva come to be a witness to Gonerby’s death?’ asked Michael, changing the subject when Bartholomew fell silent.
The physician could hardly point out that the Master tended not to stint himself when it came to alcoholic beverages, either,
and that large quantities of ale might have coloured his own perception of what he thought he had seen in the Cardinal’s Cap.
‘Cynric?’

‘Abergavenny said Polmorva was out with his sword during the unrest, intending to add to the mischief. Polmorva always did
like a riot – remember how he was always first on the streets when the bells sounded the alarm? Anyway, he found himself in
an area controlled by townsmen, rather than scholars, so decided to hide until it was safe to come out. It was then, as he
peered through the window to assess the situation, that he saw this devil approach Gonerby and bite out his throat.’

‘And Gonerby let him do it?’ asked Michael archly. ‘Polmorva did not try to intervene?’

Cynric shrugged. ‘I only repeat what Abergavenny said. I had to loosen his tongue with a fair amount of ale before he confided
that much in me, but it was worth the expense. It will make an excellent tale for Christmas, when we sit by the fire and frighten
each other with accounts of demons and their evil doings.’

‘It was a demon who inflicted this fatal wound, was it?’ asked Michael, rubbing his thin, brown hair with a piece of sacking
to dry it. ‘Not a person?’

‘Of course,’ said Cynric, who was always matter-of-fact where diabolical powers were concerned. Bartholomew was sure he believed
far more strongly in the wicked potency of Satan than he did in the good teachings of the Church. ‘No sane fellow eats the
neck of another person, so it must have been a fiend – one who looks like a man. And he fled here, to Cambridge, to escape
justice.’

‘Does Abergavenny know where to find this creature?’ asked Michael, more concerned that such a mission might result in civil
disorder than by the prospect of confronting a supernatural foe. No townsman would stand idle on hearing the news that there
was a demon at the University who liked to chew people’s throats, while masters and students would fight to prove their school’s
innocence.

‘He knows he must look among the scholars,’ said Cynric. ‘He and his friends were in the King’s Head again today, asking after
any students who have arrived here since February. They also enquired whether there have been any peculiar deaths or injuries
recently.’

‘The man in the cistern,’ said Michael to Bartholomew. ‘You said he had a wound in his throat. Could that have been caused
by a bite?’

‘I do not know,’ replied Bartholomew unhappily. ‘It might have been.’

‘We shall know soon enough,’ said Michael, donning clean clothes and stepping out from behind his screen a new man. ‘Dick
promised to dredge the well, and we shall see what emerges. This case has suddenly turned nasty, but there is nothing more
we can do tonight, and I am tired. We shall interview the merchants tomorrow and demand to know why they misled us about Gonerby’s
death. And we shall have words with Polmorva, too. I detest a liar, and he has told more than his share.’

‘And Duraunt,’ suggested Langelee. ‘Do not omit him from your enquiries just because Matt says he was pleasant, kind and abstemious
twenty years ago.’

That night, Bartholomew lay on his bed and watched the stars through the open window, thinking about Chesterfelde, Gonerby
and the body in the cistern. Were the three deaths connected, or were they independent examples of human violence? He considered
the various questions that had arisen since he had inspected Chesterfelde.

First, and most disturbing, was Duraunt and his relationship to Polmorva. When Bartholomew had been a student, Duraunt had
defended him many times against his rival, but now Duraunt and Polmorva were friends – or, if not friends, then allies – and
Duraunt was happy to allow him to stay in Merton property. Why? Was Polmorva blackmailing Duraunt, perhaps about his drinking
or weakness for soporifics? Or was there genuine affection between the two that had flourished after Bartholomew had left?
And what was Polmorva’s purpose in visiting Cambridge? To escape Oxford’s unrest, as he claimed, or because he was witness
to the very murder the merchants had come to solve? If the latter was true, then did it mean Duraunt was also involved in
Gonerby’s death, and his decision to confront Boltone about dishonest accounting was incidental?

Mention of the bailiff brought other questions surging into his mind. The fact that Boltone and Eudo had been working near
a cistern that contained a corpse was an odd coincidence, and Bartholomew was fairly sure, from the amount of blood at the
pit, that Chesterfelde had died there. The stains had not come from the unidentified body, because that had been dead for
much longer, and recent rains would have washed away any remaining spillage. There was also the curious fact that Chesterfelde
and Eudo both had wounds on their arms. Eudo attributed his to staggering home from a tavern, while Chesterfelde was alleged
to have been drunk. Did
that
hold any significance, or did it just mean a lot of powerful drink had been imbibed that night?

Bartholomew considered Chesterfelde further. He and Spryngheuse were accredited with starting the St Scholastica’s Day riot,
although Spryngheuse denied the charge. Was it possible the unrest had been deliberately engineered, to create an opportunity
for Gonerby to be bitten? But then why had the affair come to Cambridge? Were the merchants right, and the killer was a Cambridge
scholar? Or was he an Oxford man who had fled to Cambridge to escape the hue and cry after Gonerby’s murder? Or was he from
neither university, and his intention was to strike at both institutions? Not everyone thought scholarship was a good thing,
and some folk believed it had been academic probing of matters best left to God that had encouraged Him to send the plague.

Bites. Bartholomew closed his eyes and hoped with all his heart that what Abergavenny had told Cynric was wrong. He recalled
the gaping wound in the throat of the corpse in the cistern and knew it could have been caused by something tearing at it
– including teeth. He wished he could have confided in Michael, but he had sworn to keep his silence, and so was condemned
to struggle with
his fears alone; he dared not even discuss them with Matilde. He thought about her, and smiled despite his agitation, then
eased quietly off the bed, hoping his colleagues were asleep so he could leave without awkward interrogations. Lights burned
in the chamber where William lived, so he forced himself to wait until they were doused. Of all the Fellows, William would
be the one to issue a direct challenge if he caught someone leaving in the middle of the night, and the physician was far
too tired to prevaricate convincingly.

Eventually, all candles were extinguished, and he left with the liripipe wrapped inexpertly around his head in the hope that
the ruse devised by his sister would work. It was drizzling and, since his own cloak was being laundered, he donned Spryngheuse’s
instead, hoping the Merton man would not mind. He crept through the sleeping College and slipped out through the orchard door,
careful to leave it unlocked, although he predicted he would find it barred from the inside by the time he returned.

He trotted along the empty streets to the Jewry, ducking into doorways in a feeble attempt at stealth. He saw no one watching
him, but was painfully aware that his wits were dulled from exhaustion. His best hope was that the hated liripipe would do
its work. It was scratchy, restrictive and uncomfortable, and he determined that if anyone recognised him that night he would
never wear the thing again.

At last he reached Matilde’s house, where he knocked softly. The door opened almost immediately, indicating she had been waiting
for him. He stepped inside, then saw who was sitting on the bench near the hearth.

‘Good evening, Matt,’ said Michael, sipping from a goblet of wine. His eyes were irresistibly drawn upwards. ‘Nice hat.’

* * *

‘You could have trusted me,’ said Michael reproachfully, as he sat with Bartholomew and Matilde in her tiny house later that
night. They had spent at least three hours talking softly, ironing out all the misunderstandings that had accrued over the
last fortnight. Bartholomew was indescribably relieved, and felt as if a great burden was lifted from his shoulders. Some
of his tiredness began to dissipate, too, and he realised his nocturnal duties had placed him under more strain than he had
appreciated.

‘It was not my decision to make,’ he replied, sipping the wine Matilde had poured him. It was sweet and pale, and he felt
it warming him through to the stomach.

‘It was bad enough placing Matthew in such an awkward position,’ explained Matilde. ‘I could not justify doing it to you,
as well. You are a monk, and it would do your reputation no good at all to be seen coming out of my house at questionable
hours.’

‘It has not done much for his, either,’ Michael pointed out. ‘I bullied the Weasenhams into silence, but it is like using
a twig to dam a river. The rumours are rife, and his refusal to deny them has made tongues wag all the harder.’

‘We shall have to concoct an explanation that will restore our good names when this is over,’ said Matilde unhappily. ‘Folk
respect Matthew, and will not believe ill of him for long.’

‘People are fickle,’ countered Michael. ‘They may well like him, but that will not stop them from turning on him like wild
animals, if properly incited.’ He saw his friends wince at his choice of similes, and spread his hands in apology.

‘How is our patient?’ asked Matilde, indicating the upper chamber of her house with a nod of her head. ‘You said last night
that you thought he might be on the mend, Matthew.’

‘His fever has lessened, and the wound does not burn so fiercely. I think he will survive now.’

Matilde heaved a sigh of relief. ‘Thank God! I do not know what we would have done if he had died. We would have gone to the
gallows.’