The Mark Of A Murderer

CHAPTER 8

‘I do not know whether to be relieved or alarmed,’ said Michael, as he and Bartholomew took their leave of the disgruntled Sheriff. ‘Without a body, we have no evidence of a crime, so I am not obliged to cram another investigation into my already busy schedule. However, assuming you did not imagine the entire incident and the corpse really does exist, then we have yet another mystery to look into: why did someone steal it?’

‘I hoisted it up easily enough,’ said Bartholomew. ‘So, anyone else could have done the same once word was out that Dick planned to drain the cistern. Eudo and Boltone could have reclaimed it before making their escape a second time.’

‘That assumes they put it there in the first place,’ Michael pointed out.

‘They must have done. Why fight us otherwise? It would not have been worth the trouble – or the risk. Boltone has a good job as Merton’s bailiff, while Eudo is a local man with friends who say he likes living here. Neither would willingly turn outlaw without good reason.’

‘Boltone is the subject of an enquiry. His life as a bailiff will never be the same, even if Duraunt deems him innocent, so perhaps he thought he had nothing to lose.’

‘Perhaps,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘It is a pity we do not know the dead man’s identity. He was youngish, because his teeth were white, but that is all I could tell you about him.’

Michael was thoughtful. ‘You should not be too convinced that Eudo and Boltone are responsible for this mysterious corpse. As far as I am concerned, he is Clippesby’s victim. I imagine he will be pleased to learn that the body could not be found.’

Bartholomew gave a triumphant smile. ‘And that is something to consider, Brother! If Clippesby killed this man and threw him in the cistern, then who pulled him out? The only person to benefit would be Clippesby, and he could not have done it, because he has been locked up at Stourbridge.’

‘Then what about all the times he escaped? He could easily have gone out, retrieved the body and been back before dawn, with no one any the wiser.’

‘How could he have known that Tulyet planned to drain the well?’

Michael sighed. ‘I imagine a robin or a weasel warned him. But I refuse to discuss this further until we have more information.’

‘And how do we get that?’

Michael tapped his temple. ‘By using our minds, as we have done on other occasions. We shall return to Michaelhouse, write down all we know, and analyse every eventuality until we see a pattern emerge. Are you prepared to spend a morning scribing for me? I do not trust anyone else.’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘And we will prove Clippesby is innocent.’

‘I see you intend to conduct the exercise with a suitably impartial mind.’

Since both had run out of parchment, they were obliged to visit the stationer’s premises, to buy more. The shop, strategically sited on the High Street, was a grand affair with a tiled roof and several spacious rooms. Weasenham, Alyce and their servants lived on the upper floor, while the lower chambers were where they manufactured their writing materials, scribed their exemplar pecia, and made their sales. Bartholomew liked the shop with its sharp, metallic aroma of ink, and the warm, rich scent of new parchment, although he was less keen on its gossiping owner. When he followed Michael inside, he saw business was good: the place was crammed full of scholars and clerks, some trying to read the exemplars without actually buying them, some passing the time of day with acquaintances, and others waiting to be served.

Weasenham himself stood at a table, where he showed two customers an array of pens made from swan feathers, demonstrating how much easier they were to sharpen than those made from the more traditional goose. Alyce was near the back of the shop, engrossed in a deep discussion with Langelee. She was laughing, and their conversation was clearly about more than the glue Langelee was pretending to inspect. When he saw his Fellows approach, Langelee left abruptly and somewhat furtively. Moments later Alyce followed, and Bartholomew glimpsed them both darting down the small lane that led to the rear of the house.

‘Weasenham will wonder where she has gone,’ he said, thinking the Master overly bold in his courting. By contrast, his own meetings with Matilde were the picture of discretion – he had certainly not frolicked with a married woman in broad daylight, and in her husband’s own back yard.

‘He is run off his feet with customers,’ said Michael, amused. ‘He will not know whether she is here or not, so it is an excellent time for Langelee to seduce his wife. Do not look so disapproving, Matt, given what you have been doing of late.’

‘You know what I have been doing,’ said Bartholomew, offended. ‘And it is not-’

Michael nodded towards the stationer. ‘Weasenham’s current customers are Dodenho and Wormynghalle. Dodenho is fussy and pompous, and will keep him busy for hours with his exacting demands, while Wormynghalle probably takes his pens as seriously as he does the rest of his studies. Langelee is a genius to choose now to seduce Alyce.’

Bartholomew craned his neck to peer through the freestanding shelves, and saw the stationer was indeed serving the two scholars from King’s Hall. He could hear Dodenho’s braying voice as he demanded the best quality equipment, anxious that everyone should know him to be a man of means and good taste. Wormynghalle gave her full, quiet attention to the task in hand, and her face was intense as she considered the writing implements Weasenham displayed. Bartholomew saw that the incident in Paxtone’s room had unnerved her, because she had been to even more trouble to render herself masculine. She had dirtied her clothes to emulate her more slovenly colleagues, and there was grime under fingernails that had previously been clean. She also had a brazenly feminine silk glove tucked into her belt, proclaiming to all who saw it that she kept a female lover. Michael saw it, too, and Bartholomew was certain it would result in a fine.

A group of Bartholomew’s students were on the premises, too, under the loose supervision of Deynman and Falmeresham. They were assessing the cost of vellum, to use for the short treatises they were obliged to produce by the end of the term. Deynman had already purchased the most expensive kind, no doubt hoping that its superior quality would detract from the poor standard of what was written on it. The atmosphere was jovial, with light-hearted banter that resulted in a lot of laughter.

After a moment, the door rattled open and several Gonville Hall scholars bustled in. Bartholomew recognised their leader as William of Lee, Rougham’s most senior student, who took his master’s classes when he was away. Lee looked more like a wrestler than a physician, and would have done better as a surgeon, where brute force was useful for setting bones and sawing off damaged limbs. When he saw the Michaelhouse lads, he swaggered towards them.

‘Now there will be trouble,’ muttered Michael uneasily.

‘Stop it, then,’ suggested Bartholomew, searching the shelves for the parchment he wanted. ‘You are the Senior Proctor.’

‘I will wait and see what happens. I do not want Lee to accuse me of heavy-handedness. He is quick to take offence, and if he insults me, your boys will rally to my defence with their fists.’

He edged closer, taking care to keep himself well concealed behind the labyrinth of storage furniture that displayed Weasenham’s wares. Bartholomew followed, not to help, but because the type of parchment he was hunting for had been moved since the last time he had visited the shop.

‘I am surprised to see you here,’ said Lee tauntingly to Falmeresham. ‘I did not think you could afford decent supplies.’

‘You are right,’ replied Falmeresham pleasantly. ‘I do not come from a wealthy family, but Deynman is buying it for me, as payment for the help I have given him with his studies this year.’

‘Then he is a fool,’ said Lee contemptuously. ‘Only an ass would waste money on such a stupid exercise.’

‘Stupid exercise?’ echoed Falmeresham innocently. He appealed to Lee’s cronies, who were ranged in a pugilistic line behind him. ‘Take heed, gentlemen. Lee thinks helping friends is a “stupid exercise”. You should ask yourselves whether he is someone worthy of your companionship.’

‘That is not what I meant,’ snapped Lee, irked by the way his words had been twisted. ‘I meant he is squandering his gold by buying vellum for the likes of you. I heard you are a bastard.’

Michael stiffened, readying himself to intervene, while Wormynghalle tore herself away from the pens and listened to the burgeoning argument with an expression of alarm. She started to edge towards the door, unwilling to be implicated in an incident that might draw unwanted attention. Dodenho, however, was more interested in holding forth about quills, and Weasenham was too intent on securing a sale to notice the quarrel brewing under his roof.

‘What is a waste of money,’ said Falmeresham lightly, ‘are lessons from Doctor Rougham.’

‘True,’ muttered Michael to himself. ‘But this is not a good time to mention it.’

Lee’s brows drew together. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean he is never here,’ replied Falmeresham, who had meant nothing of the kind and was obviously enjoying playing with the slow-witted Lee. ‘He has been gone for more than two weeks – in the middle of term and when his students need him most.’

‘He is on leave,’ replied Lee. ‘We had a letter saying he has gone to visit his family.’

‘Then I hope he returns as good a teacher as when he left,’ said Falmeresham ambiguously.

Lee scratched his head as he considered the statement, and Falmeresham lost interest in baiting him. It was too easy; he preferred someone who provided more of a challenge. He doffed his hat in an insulting manner, then turned back to the vellum. His friends followed his lead, and were soon engaged in a good-natured debate that filled the room with ringing voices and boisterous laughter. Lee did nothing for a moment, but then moved to the back of the shop, where he and his cronies began to discuss whether Rougham would prefer his remedies book copied in brown or black ink.

Michael heaved a sigh of relief. ‘That was close! Lee was determined to fight, but Falmeresham was too clever for him.’

‘He is clever,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘And I doubt he will forget what Lee said to him today – no man likes being called illegitimate. Those remarks will cost Gonville dearly in time.’

But Michael was not paying attention. He was leaning forward to eavesdrop on the discussion between Weasenham and the King’s Hall men. Now the danger of a spat was over, Wormynghalle was back at the counter, fingering the glove in the hope that the stationer would notice it and begin a few rumours about her masculine lechery. Weasenham and Dodenho had agreed a price, and the stationer was regaling his customers with some post-sale gossip. The Michaelhouse students’ cheerful banter was enough to mask any sound Michael might have made with his muttered asides, but was not sufficiently loud to drown out the words of the chattering scholars. The situation was perfect for the monk to listen unobserved, and he intended to make the most of it, keen to hear for himself whether the stationer was spreading lies about the Oxford murders.

‘Gonville students are the worst,’ Weasenham was saying. ‘They are not too bad when Rougham is here, because he uses his sharp tongue to keep them in line, but now he is away, they are a menace.’

‘When will he return?’ asked Wormynghalle. She did not sound very interested in the answer and gave the impression she had asked only to be polite.

‘No one knows.’ Weasenham’s voice dropped to a salacious whisper so that Michael had to strain to hear him. ‘They say he has gone to enjoy himself with his lover.’

* * *

‘His lover?’ asked Dodenho, regarding Weasenham doubtfully. ‘I doubt he has one. No woman would want him near her, when there are men like me to oblige.’

Michael scowled at Bartholomew when he started to laugh and almost gave away the fact that they were close by. ‘I want to hear this,’ he hissed irritably.

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew, still amused. ‘You know it is rubbish – Rougham’s lover is a woman he pays every first Monday in the month, and he is definitely not enjoying himself with her now. Weasenham is a vicious-tongued snoop, and his stories are invariably lies.’

‘Rougham’s lover is no woman,’ said Weasenham, snagging Michael’s attention back again. Bartholomew peered through a gap in the shelving and saw the stationer’s face was bright with malice, lips pressed firmly together in sanctimonious disapproval.

‘It is not Chancellor Tynkell, is it?’ asked Dodenho. ‘I have heard he is a woman, and that is why he never washes – he does not want anyone to know what lies beneath his tabard.’

‘Do not be absurd,’ said Wormynghalle scornfully. ‘That story came from Bartholomew’s student – Deynman – and there are no grounds to it, other than his own ludicrously twisted logic. Of course the Chancellor is not a woman.’ Her fierce words made Dodenho take a step back in alarm.

‘You are getting away from my point,’ said Weasenham crossly. He was not interested in ancient rumours when he had new ones to spread. ‘Rougham’s lover is someone you know: it is Hamecotes. Do not believe the tale that he is in Oxford collecting books. It is not true.’

‘It is true!’ cried Wormynghalle, outraged by the aspersions cast on her room-mate. ‘I had a letter from him only this morning, telling me he has secured a copy of Regulae solvendi sophismata. It comes from Merton College, and he says it is annotated with notes in Heytesbury’s own hand.’ She glared at Weasenham, waiting for him to be suitably impressed. Bartholomew certainly was, and wondered whether King’s Hall would allow him to study it.

‘Besides,’ added Dodenho, equally affronted, ‘Hamecotes is not inclined towards men. He prefers women – and so does Rougham, if Yolande de Blaston is to be believed.’

‘Yolande is a whore,’ said Weasenham nastily. ‘She will say anything once she is shown the glitter of silver. Doubtless Rougham pays her to tell everyone he is a rampant and manly lover.’

Michael sniggered softly. ‘Poor Rougham! After all he has been through to keep his dalliance with Yolande a secret, here is Weasenham telling people that it cannot be true because he is in love with Hamecotes!’

‘Why pick on Hamecotes?’ demanded Wormynghalle icily. ‘Because he is away, and therefore cannot defend himself against these wicked fabrications?’

‘Wolf is away, too,’ said Weasenham, unperturbed by her ire. ‘Perhaps he is Rougham’s lover.’

‘Wolf has a pox, caught from dalliances with unclean women,’ confided Dodenho. ‘That is why he cannot be seen around the town this term, and why he cannot be Rougham’s lover. I should know, because I shared his room before he took himself off to the hospital at Stour . . .’ He stopped speaking and bit his lip, aware that he had said something he should not have done.

‘Now that is interesting,’ breathed Michael. ‘Here is something our friends at King’s Hall did not deign to mention before.’

‘You cannot blame them for that,’ Bartholomew whispered back. ‘Having Fellows with the pox is not something I would tell the Senior Proctor, either.’

‘Well, it is a pack of lies anyway,’ said Michael. ‘Wolf is not at Stourbridge, or you would have told me so when he first abandoned his duties. You have been there often enough recently, to visit Clippesby.’ He glanced sideways. ‘Right?’

‘Wolf is not there now,’ replied Bartholomew vaguely. He shook his head at Michael’s exasperation. ‘It is not my business to discuss the ailments of other scholars, Brother. That would make me as bad as Weasenham, and besides, who will hire a physician if he is the kind of man to spread embarrassing stories about his patients? It would not be ethical or proper.’

Weasenham’s eyes gleamed with interest at Dodenho’s slip, while Wormynghalle regarded her colleague in disbelief at his indiscretion. Weasenham was not so rash as to press Dodenho for details while she stood glowering, so he changed the subject back to Hamecotes.

‘I asked those Oxford men about Hamecotes and his alleged visits to the Other Place,’ he said snidely. ‘And they said no self-respecting college would sell scripts to a rival university. Then Polmorva told me that Hamecotes must be using book-buying as an excuse to enjoy his lover with no questions asked. So I put two and two together and . . .’ He raised his hands, palms upwards in a shrug, to indicate there was only one conclusion.

‘And made five,’ said Wormynghalle in disgust.

‘Hamecotes and Rougham are not lovers,’ said Dodenho, rallying too late to his colleague’s defence. ‘No self-respecting scholar would choose Rougham as a paramour.’

‘Because he could have you instead?’ asked Wormynghalle archly.

‘Quite,’ said Dodenho comfortably, thus telling anyone listening that he considered himself an excellent choice as a lover for people of either sex.

Wormynghalle grimaced in distaste at the conversation, and her expression echoed Bartholomew’s own opinion. The physician started to move away, wanting to leave them to their nasty speculations. What he heard next stopped him dead in his tracks.

‘Rougham is not the only scholar to have a secret lover,’ said Dodenho, trying to make amends for his lack of loyalty by attacking someone else. ‘Bartholomew of Michaelhouse is seeing Matilde, who lives in the Jewry. He is quite flagrant about it.’

Michael’s expression hardened, and Bartholomew held his breath, wondering whether Weasenham would be able to resist the opportunity to tell what he knew. If he did, then he was certain Michael would act on his promise to ruin him.

‘I know nothing of that,’ said the stationer stiffly, after a transparent battle between desire and self-preservation. Michael grinned in satisfaction, while Bartholomew was simply relieved that he and Matilde were no longer a target for the man’s spiteful tattle. ‘They are honourable people, and I do not see him flouting University rules.’

‘How dare you malign Bartholomew!’ snarled Wormynghalle, so white-faced with rage that Dodenho jumped in alarm. ‘He is a good man.’

Michael’s eyebrows shot up and he began to cackle. ‘You have an admirer – Wormynghalle has taken a fancy to you. You should take care you are never alone with the man, or Weasenham will be spreading rumours that half the Fellows in the University are in love with each other.’

Bartholomew said nothing, but was touched that Wormynghalle had come to his defence. After a few moments, she busied herself with selecting pens, while the stationer wrapped the ones Dodenho had already chosen. Dodenho looked around, then lowered his voice conspiratorially, although it was still loud enough to be audible to the eavesdroppers. ‘Have you heard the news from the Castle?’

‘Tulyet dredged Merton Hall’s cistern,’ said Wormynghalle flatly, attempting to stall yet more idle chatter by showing she already knew the tale. ‘Looking for a corpse. But he never found one, and there are rumours that it was never there in the first place.’

‘I do not mean that,’ said Dodenho, and Bartholomew saw him fixing the stationer with very beady eyes. Weasenham shifted uncomfortably. ‘But I think you know what I am talking about, Master Stationer.’

‘But I do not,’ muttered Michael, peeved. ‘I hope they do not go all obtuse on us.’

‘I have no idea what you mean,’ said Weasenham, slapping a wrapped pen on to the table to indicate that the sale – and the discussion – was over.

Dodenho had other ideas. He leaned forward and placed his hand over pen and the fingers that held it, making sure he had Weasenham’s full attention. Wormynghalle looked from one to the other in confusion, while the stationer was visibly alarmed by the grip that pinned him to the bench.

‘When Tulyet saw there was no body in the well, he abandoned his search,’ whispered Dodenho. ‘But a small crowd had gathered to watch the proceedings, and some folk lingered, disgruntled because they were deprived of the spectacle of a bloated corpse. One hovered longer than most, and eventually approached the cistern and had a poke around for himself.’

‘You were watching me!’ exclaimed Weasenham accusingly. ‘Where were you?’

‘Nearby,’ replied Dodenho vaguely. ‘I am not a man for obvious gawking, but I have no objection to witnessing such events from a discreet distance.’

‘I do not think that is a very nice thing to-’ began Wormynghalle uncomfortably.

Dodenho ignored her. ‘I saw this onlooker fish about with a hook for some time before he snagged something of interest. He took his find – a waterlogged sack – to some bushes, where he thought he could inspect it unseen.’

‘What do you want?’ asked Weasenham wearily. ‘Half of what I found? You are welcome. Most of it comprised baubles that I shall toss into the river as soon as I have a free moment.’

‘Blackmail!’ cried Wormynghalle, looking at Dodenho in horror. He took no notice and fixed all his glittering attention on the unhappy merchant.

‘There was a little silver dog. I saw it being made for mad Master Clippesby of Michaelhouse. That was no mere bauble.’

‘It was a gift from Clippesby to Matilde,’ said Weasenham. His expression became gleeful as he saw a way to change the subject. ‘For services rendered.’

‘For her kindness to an injured cat,’ corrected Wormynghalle sharply. ‘Clippesby is besotted with animals, and she helped one that was hurt. She is a good woman and he wanted to show her his appreciation, so do not make it sound sinister, Master Weasenham, when we know it was innocent.’

Bartholomew warmed to her even more, admiring her for speaking out in defence of two people whose reputations were currently compromised in the unforgiving little town.

‘The dog was stolen from Matilde,’ said Dodenho. ‘There are rumours that Eudo took it, but the Sheriff found no trace of the thing when he searched Merton Hall. Now we know why. Eudo – aided by Boltone – kept his stolen goods submerged in the cistern, where no one would ever think to look. Tulyet’s men missed them, because they were looking for a body, not a sack of treasure. But you did not.’

‘I see,’ murmured Bartholomew. ‘Eudo and Boltone did not attack us because they were concealing a murdered corpse, but because they were protecting stolen goods. They had been working on the pulley when we confronted them, either because they wanted it mended so they could retrieve the sack, or because they had acquired new treasures that needed to be hidden.’

‘Interesting,’ mused Michael. ‘So, the bailiff and his tenant had nothing to do with the dead man. That particular corpse simply had the misfortune to be stored in the same place as Eudo’s loot.’

Bartholomew reconsidered. ‘Although we should not discount the possibility that they killed him because he discovered their hoard. Also, we should not forget that Chesterfelde probably died near the cistern – of a cut wrist. And Eudo also has a damaged arm.’

‘Eudo would not have let you examine his injury if he thought it would lead you to connect him with Chesterfelde’s death. The two gashed hands are coincidence, and the “connection” will mislead us if we pay it too much attention.’

‘What else was in the sack?’ demanded Wormynghalle of Weasenham, clearly disgusted by the stationer’s dishonest activities. ‘I assume you intend to return it all to its rightful owners?’

‘Just trinkets,’ reiterated Weasenham, with an anxious glance at Dodenho. ‘It contained nothing any owners would want to see again, I assure you.’

‘He is lying,’ whispered Bartholomew. ‘Eudo would not have tried to kill us for trinkets.’

‘I do not believe you,’ said Dodenho. ‘Why would anyone hide a sack of rubbish?’

Weasenham sighed in resignation. ‘I will show you, if you like. The dog was the only valuable piece, and you can have it – but only if you agree to say no more about the matter.’

‘No, thank you,’ said Dodenho with disdain. ‘I have no wish to possess stolen silver. My belongings are regularly searched by students desperate for my learned writings, and I do not want them to discover contraband in place of my erudite scribbling.’

‘What do you want, then?’ asked Weasenham. ‘My wife?’

‘Lord, no! She does not have the time,’ said Dodenho. Weasenham frowned, and Bartholomew was intrigued that the stationer should be observant in the affairs of others, but so blind in his own. ‘I want nothing more than a decent arrangement over parchment. It is expensive.’

‘I do not like this,’ said Wormynghalle uneasily. ‘I refuse to be involved in anything immoral, and-’

‘Quite right,’ agreed Weasenham. ‘You are a sensible man, sir. The King will not be pleased to learn that scholars from the hall his father founded submit poor merchants to extortion . . .’

‘I am not blackmailing anyone,’ said Dodenho smoothly. ‘I am asking for a mutually acceptable arrangement regarding the purchase of parchment. I go through a large amount of it when I pen my thoughts, and it would be of great benefit to the academic world if I did not have to worry about how much I consume.’

‘Very well,’ said Weasenham, defeated. He wrote a figure on a scrap of vellum.

Dodenho shook his head. ‘If you want to keep the noose from your neck, I recommend you be a little more generous.’

Weasenham wrote another figure. ‘And I will sell you this at a very reduced price,’ he said desperately, placing something on the bench next to the pen. ‘Every scholar should have one, and I hear you do not.’

It was Dodenho’s missing astrolabe.

It was not long before Alyce Weasenham returned to her duties, flushed and with her hair in disarray. Bartholomew saw Langelee through the window, making no attempt to hide the fact that he was adjusting his undergarments. Michael paid Weasenham for a small quantity of parchment and ink, and the two scholars escaped from the shop in some relief.

‘Lord, Matt,’ breathed Michael. ‘What a place! Did you see Dodenho’s face when Weasenham offered to sell him the astrolabe that was once his anyway? He looked as if it might bite him.’

‘Have you noticed how so many strands of this mystery lead back to Dodenho?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘He knew Chesterfelde – they laughed together in his chamber. He was in Oxford on St Scholastica’s Day, and I am under the impression he is a fairly frequent visitor there.’

‘He is – and he foists himself on Merton, to be precise. It is in our University’s records; all applications to study away must be ratified by the Chancellor, as you know. However, the foray he made in February was unofficial, because there is no copy of a request, although we know he went: we heard him admit as much ourselves. And now there is the curious business of his astrolabe.’

‘He accused his colleagues of stealing it,’ recalled Bartholomew. ‘Wormynghalle – and Clippesby – said Wolf may have disappeared as a result of the complaint, because he did not like being called a thief. Then Dodenho abruptly dropped the claim, and the astrolabe appeared in the hands of the tanner at Merton Hall. Then it was in Eudo’s hoard at the cistern, and now it is offered to Dodenho again.’

‘Can we be sure it is Eudo’s cache?’ asked Michael. ‘Could it belong to someone else?’

‘Such as who?’

Michael shrugged. ‘Dodenho? But he is not the only member of King’s Hall who has aroused my suspicions. Clippesby said Wolf fled because he was accused of theft, but Dodenho claims he was at Stourbridge with the pox, while Norton maintains he disappeared because he could not pay his debts. Who is right?’

Bartholomew had no answer, and he and Michael were silent for a while, each engrossed in his own thoughts. Bartholomew considered the body in the cistern, pondering who might have salvaged it and why – and what might have happened to it later. The easiest way to dispose of an inconvenient corpse was to toss it in the river with a rock attached to its feet, and if that had already happened, then the chances of retrieving it were slim. He suspected Tulyet would not be prepared to dredge any more expanses of water in search of elusive cadavers, especially with the Visitation looming ever closer.

Michael was more concerned with the living, and was considering Wolf and Hamecotes. The gossiping stationer was not a man who allowed truth to interfere with his stories, and Michael was inclined to dismiss his tale about Hamecotes as groundless gossip. But Wolf was a different matter. How ill had his pox made him? Bartholomew had more or less confessed to spotting him at Stourbridge at the beginning of Clippesby’s incarceration, but had not seen him since. Michael frowned. Poxes could be disfiguring, so it was possible the man had taken the scars of his shame to some remote manor until he was fit to be seen, but it was equally possible that he was still somewhere in the town – or even that he was the corpse in the cistern.

‘I think we should revisit Merton Hall before we begin our written analysis,’ said the monk, when no answers were forthcoming. ‘I want to see whether I can catch any of that Oxford rabble in an inconsistency when I ask each one to repeat his story. Will you come and make notes on what they say? Or do you find the prospect of a morning with Polmorva too unappealing?’

* * *

At Merton Hall they were shown into the solar by an elderly servant. All the Oxford men were there, with the exception of Spryngheuse, who was in the garden. Bartholomew was surprised, having been under the impression that the soft-spoken Mertonian seldom went out alone, on the grounds that someone might try to kill him. The three merchants were eating nuts, while Duraunt and Polmorva were engaged in a debate. Duraunt was pleased to have visitors. Polmorva was not.

‘What are you discussing?’ asked Michael, sensing the debate had gone further than academic sparring and was moving to the point where feelings might be hurt.

‘Yesterday we attended a lecture by a man named Dodenho,’ said Polmorva. ‘I thought it original and entertaining, while Duraunt maintains the central thesis was purloined from someone else’s work. I believe he is mistaken, and we have been arguing about it ever since.’

‘I attended that event, too,’ said Michael. He explained to Bartholomew. ‘It was about the dispute between Bonaventure and Aquinas on the notion of individuation: if matter is common to all bodies, and forms are objects of concepts, then what gives specific items their individuality?’

‘Bonaventure argued – and I believe him to be correct – that it is the conjunction of matter and form that gives objects their individuality,’ said Polmorva. He gave one of his patronising sneers. ‘Let me give you an example, to help you understand, Bartholomew: imagine a ball of wax, which is then stamped with a seal. The conjunction of wax and seal thus makes an individual object – an imprinted disc – that is separate from either wax or seal, because of its form.’

‘Bonaventure then went on to make an analogous statement,’ said Michael, to show he was perfectly well acquainted with the debate and its issues. ‘That human individuality is assured only in the union of body and soul – and he considered the soul to comprise spiritual matter and spiritual forms.’

‘But Aquinas disagreed,’ said Bartholomew, placing parchment and ink on a table and preparing to take notes. ‘He maintained that although the form of the spirit is shared by other members of the same species, a particular object is unique by virtue of its determinate quantitative extension in space and time. And, in knowing form, the mind knows matter only in general terms. Ergo, reason cannot know singulars directly.’

Duraunt clapped his hands in delight. ‘I see you have not forgotten what I taught you all those years ago, Matthew. But you did not come here to debate the question of corporeal substances.’ His expression was wistful. ‘Or did you? Such a discourse would make an old man very happy.’

‘That is not why we are here,’ said Michael, although whether he referred to academic polemic or to pleasing Duraunt was unclear. ‘We have come – yet again – to unravel the web of lies that has been spun at Merton Hall. First, there were untruths about Chesterfelde, then about Gonerby, then about Okehamptone, and now there is a fourth corpse to consider – one that has mysteriously disappeared.’

‘That had nothing to do with us,’ said Eu. ‘We have been too busy trying to solve Gonerby’s murder. Of course, that would not be an issue if your University was even remotely competent at deciding which of its members slaughters innocent merchants in alien cities.’

‘Then what about you?’ asked Michael, swinging around to Polmorva. ‘You have had plenty of time to drop corpses in cisterns and fish them out again, because you have not had the burden of identifying a killer, like these poor burgesses. Or have you? Since you witnessed Gonerby’s death, you are probably more than eager to see his murderer caught – so he does not try to silence you, too.’

Polmorva gave a tight smile. ‘I saw nothing to identify the culprit, and I can defend myself anyway. Brawling with Bartholomew as a young man allowed me to hone my martial skills.’

‘If you fight as poorly as Matt, then you should consider hiring a bodyguard,’ advised Michael. ‘But the body missing from the cistern is not my only concern today. I have recently learned that Eudo is a thief, and that he has been storing his ill-gotten gains on Merton property.’

‘That is no surprise,’ said Polmorva. ‘The man lived here, for God’s sake. Where else would you expect him to keep his loot? But this does not mean that you can charge us with his crimes.’

‘We shall see,’ replied Michael enigmatically. ‘One of the objects recovered from his hoard was an astrolabe. A silver one.’ He looked hard at Wormynghalle, who sat fiddling with his sheep-head pendant, although whether his restless twisting resulted from boredom, anxiety or a guilty conscience was impossible to tell.

‘That was Polmorva’s,’ said Eu. ‘But, not being brass, it did not work, so he sold it to our tanner.’

‘Why did you sell it, Polmorva?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Are you short of funds?’

Polmorva stared at him with glittering hatred. ‘No, I am not,’ he snarled. ‘How dare you – with your patched tabard and frayed tunic – accuse me of poverty. Do I look poor, when my clothes are the best money can buy, and Queen Philippa herself uses me as her occasional confessor and rewards me accordingly? And how could I buy silver astrolabes, if I were impecunious? Your question is foolish as well as impertinent.’

‘It is also unanswered,’ said Michael. ‘Why did you sell it?’

Polmorva turned his glower on the monk. ‘Because it did not work – the alidade sticks. I should have given it to Bartholomew, who would not know the difference between a good instrument and a bad one, and who will never own such a fine thing unless someone makes him a gift of one.’

‘Matthew was always better than you at astrological calculations,’ said Duraunt softly. ‘Do not accuse him of poor scholarship in an area where he excelled.’

‘Why did you buy it in the first place?’ asked Michael, while Polmorva reddened at the reprimand. ‘Or do you make a point of purchasing inferior goods with your unlimited wealth?’

The look Polmorva shot him was supremely venomous. ‘I have a liking for unusual objects – how many silver astrolabes have you ever seen? – and Dodenho asked a very reasonable price. Then Wormynghalle took a liking to it, and since it did not work well enough to be useful, I sold it to him. At a handsome profit.’

‘How handsome?’ demanded the tanner, not liking the notion he had been fleeced.

‘And why did you buy a defective astrolabe?’ demanded Michael, rounding on him.

‘Because he thought owning one would make him appear erudite,’ said Eu with a superior sneer. ‘He buys anything he thinks will raise him in the opinion of his peers.’

Wormynghalle came to his feet, his thick features flushed with rage. ‘What did you say?’

‘You heard,’ said Eu, leaning back in his chair and stretching his legs in front of him in an attitude that screamed disdain. ‘No amount of good cloth and expensive jewels can change the fact that you hail from a ditch. You should have claimed a kinship with that grubby scholar from King’s Hall, because even he would have improved your pedigree.’

‘You vain cockerel-’ began Wormynghalle, making towards Eu with a murderous expression on his face. Michael interposed his substantial bulk between them and Wormynghalle almost lost his footing when he cannoned into him and bounced off again.

‘Now, now, gentlemen,’ said the monk. ‘I did not come to hear you quarrel. I want answers about this astrolabe. It belonged to Polmorva, who sold it to Wormynghalle. Then what?’

‘It was stolen,’ said Wormynghalle sullenly. He clutched his sheep-head pendant so hard that his fingers were white, and Bartholomew had the feeling he would dearly love to bludgeon Eu with it. It was heavy enough to do serious damage, and the physician made a mental note to check it for bloodstains, if Eu was ever murdered. ‘And I know exactly who took it.’

‘Who?’ demanded Michael. ‘Eudo? Boltone?’

‘Bartholomew,’ said Wormynghalle, pointing an accusing finger at the physician. ‘I wanted to report him to the Chancellor, but Duraunt persuaded me to overlook the matter, on the grounds that I can buy a better one in Oxford anyway.’

‘Of course it was him,’ said Polmorva, so Bartholomew knew exactly who had planted the seed of that particular accusation. ‘As I said, he will never earn enough to buy one for himself, so theft was his only recourse.’

‘I do not want us associated with any more disagreeable matters,’ explained Duraunt to Michael. ‘And if Matthew needed an astrolabe, then I could not find it in my heart to take it from him.’

‘I did not steal it,’ objected Bartholomew, amazed Duraunt should think he had. A charge from Polmorva was one thing, but to have his old teacher convinced of his guilt was another altogether.

‘You were the only one we saw looking at it,’ said Duraunt. ‘If it was not you, then who was it?’

‘It was him,’ snapped Wormynghalle. ‘He is poor and of course will covet such a lovely thing – especially knowing it had once been the property of his rival.’

‘But I do not want an astrolabe,’ objected Bartholomew indignantly. ‘I have no time for calculating pointless horoscopes that are of no use to man nor beast.’

‘Matthew!’ exclaimed Duraunt, shocked. ‘You are a physician: you cannot manage without the calculations that tell you how and when to treat your patients. It would be grossly negligent.’

‘He probably relies on the Devil to tell him what to do,’ said Polmorva.

Bartholomew did not deign to reply, suspecting that anything he said would be twisted and given a sinister meaning. Suddenly he wished Polmorva and the whole Oxford contingent would just go home, taking their petty disputes and unfounded accusations with them. He was tired of them all, even Duraunt, and regretted agreeing to accompany Michael to Merton Hall.

‘But if you did not swipe it, then who did?’ demanded Wormynghalle.

‘I imagine it was someone here,’ replied Michael. ‘Polmorva told us he purchased it because it was unusual, and he is an astute man, who would have tested the thing before parting with his gold. Ergo, he knew it was defective when he bought it, and so would not have sold it for that reason, as he has just claimed.’

‘What are you saying?’ demanded Polmorva, anger flashing in his eyes. Bartholomew saw something else, too. Alarm. Michael was coming close to the truth.

Michael shrugged. ‘I was just thinking about one of the Sheriff’s cases, where a man sold a horse, and then stole it back again to sell a second time. He was unable to resist the lure of a “handsome profit”, you see. But suffice to say that the astrolabe was taken from Wormynghalle, and ended up in the cache recovered from the cistern, along with other stolen property.’

‘The cistern?’ asked Abergavenny. ‘You mean the one that was emptied here? We have not been told about any cache. To whom did it belong? Eudo, I suppose. That must be why he fled with Boltone.’

‘The astrolabe’s travels are very confusing,’ said Duraunt, while Polmorva scowled and Wormynghalle looked as though he was not sure what to think. ‘It was originally Dodenho’s, but it went missing from King’s Hall before reappearing again. Dodenho sold it to Polmorva, Polmorva passed it to Wormynghalle, then . . .’ he hesitated, not sure how to phrase the next part.

‘…then it was removed from Wormynghalle,’ said Michael smoothly, ‘and found its way to the cistern hoard, and it is now in the care of Weasenham the stationer.’

‘Then Weasenham will restore it to its rightful owner,’ said Duraunt with a pleased smile. ‘And we need say no more about the matter.’

‘That is me,’ said Wormynghalle, ‘although I am not sure I want a defective instrument. I will offer to sell it to him – for a “handsome profit”.’ He glared at Polmorva.

Polmorva was outraged with Michael. ‘You have accused me of the vilest of crimes. Me! A one-time Chancellor of Oxford University and a Fellow of Queen’s College! I demand an apology.’

While Polmorva was ranting, Bartholomew had been gazing out of the window, thinking about the astrolabe and wondering whether its travels between various murder suspects were significant. He could see the cistern in the distance, surrounded by muck from its recent dredging. As he stared, he became aware of something else, too. He frowned, and looked harder.

‘Spryngheuse,’ he said, interrupting Polmorva’s tirade. ‘When did he go out?’

‘Hours ago,’ replied Abergavenny. ‘He is probably praying for Chesterfelde. Why do you ask?’

Bartholomew pointed. ‘He is not in any church. He is there: I recognise his cloak.’

Duraunt joined him at the window, and his jaw dropped in horror. ‘But he is dangling from that tree – by the neck!’

‘Yes,’ agreed Bartholomew softly. ‘And he is almost certainly dead.’

Spryngheuse was indeed dead. When Bartholomew and Michael arrived in the garden, with the Oxford men behind them, it was obvious that the Mertonian was beyond any earthly help. Duraunt insisted the body should be cut down and removed to a church as soon as possible, and Polmorva and the merchants concurred in a rare consensus. They were furious that another of their number had perished, and Bartholomew had very little time to examine the body in situ before the rope around its neck was untied and Spryngheuse was lowered to the ground.

‘I suppose he will be taken to that horrible All-Saints-next-the-Castle,’ said Duraunt, looking sadly at the body as it lay in the damp grass. Bartholomew noticed his hands were shaking. ‘Like Okehamptone and Chesterfelde.’

‘It is outrageous,’ declared Polmorva. ‘When I return to Oxford, I shall complain to the highest authorities about our treatment here. Your town does not even allow us a consecrated church from which to bury our dead.’

‘You hail from a city under interdict,’ said Michael insolently. ‘What do you expect?’

Polmorva ignored him. ‘It may be too late for Okehamptone, but I shall do better for Chesterfelde and Spryngheuse. I want them buried deep in the ground – preferably hallowed – where they will be safe from physicians with macabre pastimes, and not in some vault where they can be picked at.’

‘I will arrange for them to be buried in St Clement’s,’ volunteered Michael. ‘Merton Hall is not in its parish, but the priest has plenty of room in his churchyard.’

‘That surprises me,’ said Polmorva unpleasantly. ‘I would have thought it would be stuffed full, given how many folk die in this sordid little settlement.’

‘The only people who have died recently are from Oxford,’ said Michael acidly, irritated that his offer should be treated with contempt. ‘But I cannot stand here all day when Spryngheuse lies without a coffin. I shall fetch one, and Matt will stay with the body until I return.’

‘Thank you,’ said Duraunt gratefully. ‘I will wait with him.’

‘There is no need for that,’ said Michael briskly. ‘Go inside. It looks as though it might rain.’

‘He wants you out of the way, so Bartholomew can examine Spryngheuse alone,’ said Polmorva astutely. ‘Do not let him. We do not want another of our colleagues defiled by his pawing hands.’

‘There will be no defiling here,’ vowed Duraunt, and Bartholomew was surprised by the glint of determination in his eyes. ‘Not on Merton land.’

‘Then do not leave Spryngheuse alone for an instant,’ advised Polmorva. ‘Besides, I have heard that the man who “discovers” a corpse is very often the man who has taken its life, and it was Bartholomew who first saw Spryngheuse. He probably killed him to strike at us.’

‘I have no reason to kill Spryngheuse,’ objected Bartholomew, becoming tired of the stream of accusations. ‘I barely knew him.’

‘He lent you his best cloak,’ snapped Polmorva. ‘Perhaps you thought that murdering him was the surest way to make sure you can keep it.’

‘Do not be ridiculous,’ retorted Bartholomew impatiently. ‘I have already returned it to him. And what makes you think his death is murder, anyway? How do you know he did not kill himself?’

‘Did he?’ asked Duraunt, concerned. ‘If that is the case, then he cannot be laid in hallowed soil, nor can he have the benefit of a requiem mass.’

‘He did not kill himself,’ declared Polmorva. ‘On the contrary, he was so determined to live that he spent the last few days telling everyone how frightened he was that someone might try to dispatch him. A man intent on suicide would not have cared.’

‘He was horrified when he learned Bartholomew was attacked while wearing his cloak,’ said Abergavenny thoughtfully. ‘He was certain it was his Black Monk, coming to snatch his soul.’

‘And he insisted on staying indoors, where he thought he would be safe,’ added Eu. ‘I wonder what induced him to go out today.’

‘I heard Duraunt telling him he would benefit from fresh air,’ said Wormynghalle, a sly and spiteful expression on his coarse features. ‘He must have taken the advice to heart.’

Duraunt was shocked. ‘I did nothing of the kind! Do not try to blame me for this death.’

‘I thought it was you who suggested he go,’ said Polmorva to the tanner, stirring already troubled waters, so that it was not long before everyone was shouting. Polmorva stepped back and folded his arms, and Bartholomew tried to assess what he was thinking. Was it simple satisfaction, because he had provoked another quarrel? Or was there a more sinister reason for his games – such as using the others’ anger to divert attention from himself?

Then Bartholomew studied Duraunt, who was suspiciously vocal in his denials that he had recommended a walk to Spryngheuse. Did that signify a guilty conscience, or was he merely appalled that anyone should think he was responsible for the scholar’s death? Bartholomew was deeply troubled by the notion that his old master might be involved in something untoward, but found the man difficult to defend when he thought about the poppy juice and what his sister had overheard in the apothecary’s shop. Were Michael and Langelee right when they pointed out that men changed over the years? Bartholomew had the sickening sense that Duraunt might have turned into something he no longer recognised, just as Duraunt had claimed Bartholomew himself had grown unfamiliar.

The merchants were equally impossible to read. Wormynghalle was red-faced with indignation that he should be associated with any wrongdoing, while Eu was loftily careless about what anyone thought, stating he had had nothing to do with the misfortunes that had befallen his travelling companions, and that was that. Abergavenny tried to placate them all, but it was some time before the voice of reason quelled those of dissent and anger.

‘Strong wine is the cause of all this,’ said Polmorva. ‘If you had not caroused so wildly the night Chesterfelde died, then he would still be with us and Spryngheuse would not have hanged himself.’

‘You were just as inebriated as the rest of us,’ snapped Duraunt. He realised he had admitted something he had denied before and a flicker of annoyance crossed his face. He gritted his teeth and continued. ‘You pretended to abstain, but you did not – not that night and not on other occasions. I heard you snoring later, in the way a drunken man sleeps.’

Polmorva assumed an expression of weary patience. ‘You lie, old man. You-’

‘Hanged himself?’ interrupted Wormynghalle, regarding Polmorva with raised eyebrows. ‘You just accused Bartholomew of murdering him, and I assumed you had good reason for doing so. Now you say suicide. Which is it?’

‘I do not know,’ said Polmorva icily. ‘I was not standing by this tree when he died to see what happened, was I?’

‘Really,’ said Michael flatly, in a tone that indicated he was not so sure. Polmorva bristled, but Michael turned to Duraunt before he could respond. ‘We will give Spryngheuse the benefit of the doubt, and will ensure he has all the due ceremony appropriate to a recently deceased scholar from a respected Oxford College. It is often difficult to tell the difference between murder and suicide in hangings, and we may never know what really happened.’

He shot Bartholomew a look that the physician interpreted as a suggestion that he should inspect the body later, without a hostile audience. It was a recommendation Bartholomew intended to follow, because he did not want to be accused of witchcraft or a morbid love of anatomy while he carried out his examination. Michael went to fetch the bier and Polmorva accompanied him, saying he wanted to ensure the monk left Merton Hall and did not go exploring by himself. The merchants declined to linger with a dead man – especially once it started to rain – and it was not long before Bartholomew was alone with Duraunt.

‘Are Polmorva’s accusations true?’ the old man asked in a voice that cracked with sorrow. ‘Do you defile corpses by prodding them after they have been laid to rest?’

‘I did inspect Okehamptone,’ admitted Bartholomew, not liking the way Duraunt considered his duties sacrilegious. ‘But only to find out how he died. I imagine most men would want justice if their lives were snatched by killers, and I do not think Okehamptone would object to someone discovering he had been murdered.’ He thought about the uneasy sensation he had experienced shortly after the examination, and sincerely hoped he was right.

Duraunt went to sit on the cistern wall. The pit was already half full, recovering quickly from Tulyet’s drainage. ‘I find the notion of you caressing a two-week-dead corpse painfully disturbing. Did you “inspect” him with the help of a knife and rouse out his innards while you were there?’

‘I did not,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘That would be illegal.’

Duraunt sighed, and was silent for a while, evidently too unsettled to discuss the matter further. Eventually, he changed the subject. ‘The merchants are itching to be back to their businesses. I suspect they plan to blame Okehamptone or Chesterfelde for killing Gonerby, just to have something to tell this demanding widow. Both are dead, so not in a position to argue.’

‘They may be maligning the names of innocent men.’

‘Is that worse than seizing someone en route and dragging him to Oxford for hanging? Because that is what they will do if they fail to catch a culprit: they have vowed not to return empty-handed. I shall be glad to go home, though. Oxford is violent and unsettled, but I have friends there, and I know where I stand. Here I do not know who to trust.’

‘Like Polmorva, you mean?’

‘No, I do not mean Polmorva,’ said Duraunt, although his eyes dipped away when he spoke. ‘I know you dislike him, but it is the merchants I am worried about. Eu and Wormynghalle hate each other, and Abergavenny is hard-pressed to keep the peace. I would not be surprised to learn that one of them took the lives of Okehamptone, Chesterfelde and Spryngheuse. They hate my University with a passion, and may regard this as a good opportunity to rid themselves of a few of us.’

‘Then why did you invite them to stay at Merton Hall?’

‘Because I fear the St Scholastica’s Day riots were started deliberately, and I do not want the same thing to happen here. I would rather have the merchants where I can see them.’

It sounded noble, but Duraunt no longer struck Bartholomew as a man who would put his own scholars in danger to protect a strange town. Once again he was not sure what to think.

Duraunt forced a smile. ‘Let us talk of happier things, Matthew. Have you read any of the theories recently proposed by Heytesbury? We are proud to have him at our College.’

‘A Fellow from King’s Hall – Hamecotes – is visiting Oxford at the moment,’ said Bartholomew, grateful to discuss a topic that would not be contentious. ‘He has gone to buy books, and says he has already secured Heytesbury’s Regulae solvendi sophismata from Merton.’

Duraunt shook his head. ‘Not from Merton, Matthew. We never sell our books, because we barely have enough for ourselves, as I am sure you will remember. And Heytesbury’s Regulae would be far too valuable to exchange for mere money. It would be priceless to us.’

‘How odd,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘I wonder if Hamecotes made the story up, and has gone off on business of his own – or whether someone wants us to believe he is somewhere he is not.’

‘You think he is dead? Perhaps he is the body you saw in the cistern.’ Duraunt glanced behind him at the murky water, and stood quickly.

‘There is no reason to think that. Perhaps he has escaped with a lover, as Weasenham says. Or perhaps he is with Wolf, nursing him through his pox.’ Bartholomew went to where Spryngheuse lay, sorry he was dead and recalling the man’s distress in the days before he died.

‘Do not touch him, Matthew,’ said Duraunt softly, watching the physician close the staring eyes. ‘If you examine him and discover he committed suicide, then we shall have to inter him in unhallowed ground: my conscience will not allow anything else. But as long as there is doubt, he can rest in a churchyard. Let there be doubt, so he can be given a Christian burial.’

Reluctantly, Bartholomew complied.

Suspecting his Corpse Examiner would never have an opportunity to examine Spryngheuse unless he took matters into his own hands, Michael abandoned the notion of taking the body to St Clement’s, and arranged for it to go to St Michael’s instead. This, he assured the suspicious Oxford contingent, was a great honour, and Spryngheuse would be guaranteed prayers from men who were members of a University, like himself. When they remained sceptical, he offered to bury Chesterfelde at the same time – two interments for the price of one. Father William had agreed to undertake vigils with his Franciscan students, and Michael said he would recite the requiem mass himself, which met with further suspicion from Polmorva, gratitude from Duraunt and indifference from the merchants. It was, after all, not they who would be footing the bill for the funeral expenses.

‘And what about the interdict?’ asked Polmorva archly. ‘We have been told that prevents any Oxford citizen from being decently laid to rest.’

‘We shall bury them first and worry about the relevant dispensations later,’ replied Michael. He smiled at Duraunt. ‘Then, even if permission is refused, no one will want to exhume them, especially once Matt has described the diseases that might be unleashed in so doing.’

‘Thank you,’ said Duraunt, taking Michael’s hand in both of his own. ‘When will you perform the rite? It is Friday now and Chesterfelde died on Saturday. The sooner he is laid to rest the better.’

‘Today,’ said Michael, wanting the bodies out of St Michael’s well before the Visitation. He did not like the notion of the Archbishop stepping inside and declaring it reeked of the dead. ‘Before vespers. I hope you will all attend.’

‘We might,’ said Eu cautiously. ‘It depends on what else is happening.’

‘I will come,’ declared Duraunt. ‘And so will Polmorva.’ Polmorva looked none too pleased that he had been volunteered, but he inclined his head in reluctant assent.

Michael had arranged for Spryngheuse to be carried away by pall-bearers he had commandeered from Michaelhouse. Deynman and Falmeresham were more than happy to escape the monotonous tones of Master Langelee reading a text he did not understand, while Cynric was always willing to help the monk. The book-bearer nodded amiably at Abergavenny and exchanged a few words in Welsh, while Bartholomew and the students lifted Spryngheuse into the parish coffin. Then Cynric and Bartholomew took the front of the box, and the others grabbed the back.

‘What did he say?’ asked Bartholomew of the Welshman.

‘He asked me to keep you from dissecting Spryngheuse once you have him in your domain – but that if I cannot, then I am to make sure Duraunt and Polmorva do not find out.’

Bartholomew frowned. ‘What did he mean by issuing such a request? That he hopes no one will examine Spryngheuse, because there is evidence that he did not kill himself ? And that Duraunt and Polmorva have a good reason for wanting such information kept hidden?’

‘Or that they are more likely to make a fuss,’ suggested Falmeresham practically. ‘That pair seem opposed to anatomy in any form, but especially when practised by you.’

‘Or that you may discover Spryngheuse was a suicide, which means he cannot be buried at St Michael’s,’ offered Cynric. ‘A suicide and a man under interdict is banned from hallowed ground on two counts.’

Bartholomew recalled Michael’s contention that Abergavenny was a man clever enough to kill and evade justice, and wondered whether the monk had been right. Tulyet was still convinced Eu was involved in more than he had revealed, while Bartholomew had not shaken his conviction that the blustering Wormynghalle was the villain. He grimaced when he recalled the way the tanner had levelled his accusation regarding the astrolabe, and supposed the dislike was mutual.

They reached the church, where Bartholomew ensured Spryngheuse was arranged neatly and covered with a clean blanket. Polmorva watched him with the eyes of a hawk, while Duraunt knelt nearby and prayed. Neither scholar made a move to leave the chapel, so Michael announced it was time for his mid-morning repast and begged them to excuse him. Bartholomew was bemused, because Michaelhouse did not run to additional meals during the day, and supposed the monk intended to inveigle an invitation to King’s Hall again. He followed him along the High Street and into St Michael’s Lane. After a few steps Michael doubled back, peering around the corner.

‘There they go,’ he said with satisfaction. ‘I knew they would not linger once we had gone. Come on, before the Franciscans arrive for their vigil.’

He grabbed the physician’s arm and hauled him back to St Michael’s, where he barred the door to make sure the Oxford men did not return and catch them unawares.

‘Hurry,’ he ordered peremptorily. ‘We do not have long, and I need answers.’

‘I am not sure about this,’ said Bartholomew unhappily. ‘Duraunt asked me not to determine whether the death was suicide or murder, because he wants Spryngheuse buried in the churchyard.’

‘We shall put him there regardless,’ said Michael. ‘The wretched man was terrified out of his senses these last few days, and we always bury lunatics in hallowed ground, no matter how they die.’

‘He claimed a Black Monk was following him,’ said Bartholomew, making no move to comply.

‘Then that proves he was addled,’ said Michael. ‘I know every Benedictine in this town, and none is in the habit of stalking people. Spryngheuse imagined this spectre, which is why no one else ever saw him. Come on, Matt. I need to know what happened.’

Bartholomew examined the marks around the dead man’s neck, trying to be fast and thorough at the same time, eager to be done before Polmorva or Duraunt returned. It was not long before he had learned all he could. He turned to Michael.

‘When we stood by the tree, looking at Spryngheuse’s body, I noticed fresh scratches on the bark, and here you can see corresponding marks on his shoes. They suggest he climbed the trunk of his own accord. His hands are not tied, and there are no signs of a struggle. Also, the noose’s knot is just behind his ear. I have noticed it is nearly always there when death is self-inflicted, whereas it tends to be at the back when someone else lends a hand. Can you see the bruising caused by the rope is in an inverted V? With murder it tends to be more of a straight line, although there are exceptions, of course. However, in this case, I am almost certain it was suicide.’

‘When did it happen?’

Bartholomew knew from experience that time of death was difficult to estimate with any degree of certainty. ‘He was last seen at dawn – so some time between then and when we found him.’

‘Thank you, Matt. However, I had worked that much out for myself. Can you not be more specific?’

‘Not really. The body is cool to the touch, blood has pooled in its hands, and it is beginning to stiffen around the eyes and jaws, so I suppose he died closer to dawn than to now.’

‘And he perished by hanging? You will not later claim there was a bite in his throat or that he was knocked on the head?’

‘It is difficult to be sure about anything you do not actually witness, but you can see for yourself that his throat is intact.’

‘Polmorva claimed that Spryngheuse did not want to die, and we saw for ourselves that he was terrified, which does indicate a desire to live. Why would he suddenly give up on life?’

‘It was not sudden: remember what he was doing at the Great Bridge on Sunday? Perhaps he decided it was better to die than to live too frightened to eat, sleep, or even go for a walk.’

Michael sighed. ‘There is only one thing that is clear in this case: all our victims are connected to Oxford. It started with Gonerby, bitten during that city’s riots. Next was Okehamptone, an Oxford scribe, whose murder was disguised to appear as a fever. And now Balliol’s Chesterfelde and Merton’s Spryngheuse – two men accused of instigating the St Scholastica’s Day disorder – are dead.’

‘None of Okehamptone’s companions examined the body, not even out of curiosity,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘Do you not think that is odd?’

‘Most folk do not share your fascination with the dead, Matt. And anyway, the University’s Senior Proctor and a Corpse Examiner came to do that for them. So, what does this tell us, other than that their trust in my abilities was sadly misplaced?’

‘That the killer was relieved when his plan passed off without a hitch. Do you recall any odd reactions among the Oxford men that day?’

‘They behaved then exactly as they have done since: Duraunt with wounded saintliness, Polmorva with smug superiority, Wormynghalle with aggression, Eu with indifference, and Abergavenny with tact. And Chesterfelde grinned and doffed his cap like a lunatic. Did he kill Okehamptone and Gonerby, do you think, and then someone dispatched him?’

‘We have two distinct methods of execution: Okehamptone and Gonerby died from wounds to their throats; Chesterfelde bled to death from a cut to his arm. There could be more than one killer.’

‘But they both involve incisions and bleeding,’ mused Michael. ‘Perhaps the murderer was aiming for Chesterfelde’s throat but got his arm instead. I know you said a knife caused the wound, but perhaps he did not have time to use teeth, so resorted to his dagger instead.’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘That does not sound likely. However, with this latest death, our list of suspects is down to Polmorva, Wormynghalle, Eu and Abergavenny.’

‘I note you do not include Duraunt, even though he has lied to us. But these are not the only ones with Oxford connections. We have Hamecotes, gone to Merton to buy books, and who sends messages about his purchases to his room-mate Wormynghalle, who has also studied in Oxford.’

‘Duraunt said Merton would never sell a book, even though Hamecotes cited a specific volume by Heytesbury. Do you remember Heytesbury, Brother? He visited us himself not long ago.’

Michael nodded, but preferred to continue his analysis of the current case, rather than wallow in memories of past ones. ‘We also have Dodenho, present in Merton during the riots, and who knew Chesterfelde well enough to invite him to his room. And there is Norton, who has stayed at Oxford Castle, and who knows so little Latin that you have to wonder why he is here.’

‘Wolf, too,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He also spent time at Oxford.’

‘And we do not know where he is now,’ mused Michael. ‘The three explanations we have been given are the pox, his debts and a lover. You saw him at Stourbridge – where another of our suspects currently resides, by the way – so you must have noticed whether he was covered in lesions.’

‘Not really,’ said Bartholomew, reluctant to disclose a man’s personal medical details.

Michael regarded him irritably. ‘Do not be coy with me, Matt, not when we are trying to solve murders. Tell me what was wrong with him and I promise the information will go no further.’

Bartholomew considered: Wolf had given no indication that he craved secrecy, and the truth was not especially awkward or embarrassing. ‘He had a mild ague – the kind most of us ignore. To be frank, I thought he was malingering, and assumed he just wanted a respite from teaching. I am surprised he is still away, because medically, there is no reason why he should not have returned.’

‘Perhaps he has been too busy killing old enemies from Oxford,’ suggested Michael, going to unbar the door before someone demanded to know what they were doing. ‘I do not like scholars disappearing without permission. Why do you think I tightened the rules about that sort of thing? It was so I would know where every clerk should be at any given time.’

‘Was it?’ asked Bartholomew, amused. ‘You told everyone else it was so arrangements could be made to cover their classes before they left. I did not realise it was all part of the Senior Proctor’s plan to create an empire in which he controls every man’s movements.’

‘Well, you do now,’ said Michael, unrepentant. ‘But here is William, come to pray for Spryngheuse. Do not tell him we have a suicide, Matt, or he will have the carcass tossed into the street.’

‘Another murder!’ boomed William as he entered. ‘These Oxford men certainly know how to dispatch each other! How many is that now? Three? Four? All I can say is that I hope the Archbishop does not get wind of it and decide not to come. I have just paid to have my habit cleaned, and I would not like to think I have wasted my money.’