Bartholomew 11 - The Mark Of A Murderer Read online

  It was a massive affair, built entirely of yellow-grey stone. It was old, but looked as though it would stand for many centuries to come, because its walls were thick and strengthened by sturdy buttresses placed at regular intervals along all four sides. Its lower floor comprised vaulted chambers used as offices, cellars and pantries; the upper floor contained a hall, with a solar at right angles to it, so the building was L-shaped. Bartholomew supposed it had been raised during a time of civil unrest, as everything about it suggested defence. He was not surprised that Merton’s founder had considered it a suitable refuge for scholars driven out of Oxford by force.

  Besides the house were stables, barns and a small granary. In the distance was an enclosure for pigs and a large, square structure that Bartholomew knew was a cistern for storing water. A flock of pigeons clustered and cooed around a dovecote, and the fields bristled with vigorous shocks of barley and rye. The manor exuded an air of prosperity, and he was sure Merton College was grateful for the handsome profits it would almost certainly yield.

  Michael knocked on the door, which was opened by a small man with hair so fair it was almost white. The fellow looked Michael up and down with rank distrust.

  ‘What do you want?’ he demanded.

  ‘I was summoned to inspect the body of Roger de Chesterfelde. Who are you?’

  ‘John de Boltone,’ replied the man. ‘Bailiff of this estate. That means I oversee everything that happens here, and I present the accounts to Merton College – usually every twelve months, although I did not go this year, winter being so severe.’

  ‘I know what a bailiff does,’ said Michael, impatient with the man’s self-important rambling. ‘However, I am surprised to find one here. I thought Merton rented the manor to a tenant, rendering a bailiff unnecessary.’

  ‘The tenant is Eudo of Helpryngham,’ replied Boltone. ‘He pays an agreed sum each year and, in return, takes a share of the manor’s profits from crop-growing and the like. That is why I am employed: to make sure he does not keep more of the income than he should.’

  ‘I see,’ said Michael. ‘So, was it you who sent me the message about the dead man? I was under the impression the summons came from scholars.’

  ‘They arrived almost two weeks ago,’ said Boltone, in a way that suggested he wished they had not. ‘There were riots in Oxford, so these brave souls decided it was time to inspect “some of the more distant outposts”, as they describe this fine manor. The reality is that they were too frightened to stay in their own city.’

  ‘What can you tell me about Chesterfelde?’ asked Michael, since the garrulous bailiff seemed to be in the mood for chatter. ‘Do you have any idea who slipped a knife into his back last night?’

  ‘Not specifically,’ said Boltone, standing aside to allow them inside. The door opened into a stone-vaulted entrance chamber packed with storage barrels and an eclectic assortment of agricultural implements. Merton Hall evidently placed a greater emphasis on accommodating its farming needs than on appearances, since the chaotic jumble could hardly be said to provide an attractive welcome to visitors. A spiral staircase in one corner led to the hall and solar above. ‘He was a happy sort of man – although he had a temper – and he has been here before. I think he liked Cambridge.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  Boltone shrugged. ‘He was more cheerful than that miserable lot upstairs, so perhaps his gaiety led them to dispatch him. Not everyone likes a smiling face in the mornings.’

  Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘You think he was killed because he was a morning person? That does not sound like much of a motive.’

  ‘Do not be so sure,’ said Boltone sagely. ‘I imagine it would be very annoying, day after day. As I said, the others are a morose rabble who seldom laugh about anything. But you took so long to answer their summons that some grew tired of waiting and have wandered off.’

  ‘I was delayed because I am busy,’ said Michael stiffly, not liking the censure in the bailiff’s tone. ‘I cannot drop important business the moment anyone snaps his fingers.’

  Boltone shot him an unpleasant glance, offended by the implication that events at Merton Hall were insignificant. He sniffed, then his eyes took on a spiteful gleam. ‘The scholars refused to eat their breakfast with a body in the room, and insisted on moving it to the solar – I told them they should leave it where it was until you arrived, but they ignored me. Still, it is obvious what killed Chesterfelde. All you need do is work out which of his so-called friends did it.’

  Michael and Bartholomew were about to follow Boltone upstairs to the hall, when the door clanked and someone else entered the vestibule. While Michael introduced himself, Bartholomew, feeling sluggish again, wondered whether he could manage to snatch an hour of sleep that afternoon or whether he would have to spend the time preparing lessons for Clippesby’s astronomers.

  ‘My God!’ breathed the newcomer. The shocked tone of his voice dragged the physician out of his reverie. ‘Matthew Bartholomew! I heard you had settled in Cambridge, but I did not believe it. I thought even you had more taste than to come here.’

  Boltone was affronted. ‘Hey! This is a nice place, not like Oxford, which has riots every week.’

  It took a few moments for Bartholomew to identify the face that was gazing imperiously at him, not because it had been forgotten, but because it was not one he had ever expected to see again.

  ‘William de Polmorva,’ he said, startled. It was not a pleasant surprise. He and Polmorva had not been on good terms when they had been undergraduates together at Oxford, and had come to blows on several occasions. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘You two know each other?’ asked Michael, looking from one to the other.

  ‘Obviously,’ drawled Polmorva, employing the aggravating sarcasm Bartholomew recalled so vividly.

  ‘Why are you here?’ asked Bartholomew, before Michael could formulate a suitably cutting retort. He had barely given Polmorva a thought in the twenty years since he had left Oxford, but memories started to crowd unbidden into his mind now, most of them centred around the fellow’s arrogance and condescension.

  Polmorva shrugged. ‘Oxford is dangerous at the moment, and a man like me cannot be too careful.’

  ‘A man like you?’ echoed Michael, arching his eyebrows. The tone of his voice indicated that the comment could be taken in one of several ways and that he was busily sorting through them for the worst. Bartholomew had known Michael long enough to see he had taken a dislike to Polmorva.

  ‘Wealthy and erudite,’ elaborated Polmorva with a wolfish grin. ‘However, this squalid little village is every bit as dangerous as Oxford, and a good deal less charming. I arrived here eleven days ago, and two of my party have died already – one of them murdered.’

  ‘It will be three dead if he insults Cambridge again,’ hissed Boltone, addressing Michael. ‘I will not stand here and see my lovely town maligned by the likes of him.’

  ‘Go about your business,’ ordered Polmorva icily. ‘You should not be here, listening to your betters. Be off with you!’

  ‘You see?’ said Boltone to Michael. ‘Rude and miserable. That is what these Oxford scholars are – and one of them killed Chesterfelde.’ He turned on his heel and stalked out, slamming the door behind him.

  ‘You will not find Chesterfelde’s killer among Oxford’s scholars,’ said Polmorva in the ensuing silence. ‘But townsmen like him should be worth a long, hard look. And now, let me look at you.’

  He walked around Bartholomew as if he was inspecting a prize bull. The physician forced himself not to show his irritation, knowing perfectly well that his old nemesis would be delighted if he succeeded in irking him. The physician saw time had not mellowed the man, and that he was just as spiteful and rebarbative as he had been in his youth.

  Polmorva had always taken pride in immaculate grooming and he was perfectly attired now. His hair was fashionably cut, his gipon – a padded, above-the-knee tunic – fitted snugly around his waist, and he
wore a sword-belt that aped the recent fashion among knights. The cloth of his cloak was expensive, while his soft-leather shoes were modelled into impractical points in the style popular among those who were not obliged to walk very far. In his patched and faded garments, still rumpled from his time with Matilde, Bartholomew felt grubby and impoverished. But for all his finery, Polmorva was unable to disguise the fact that his hair was thinning and there were puffy pouches under his eyes. By contrast, Bartholomew’s complexion was unblemished, resulting from plenty of exercise and the fact that his College rarely provided him with enough wine to allow debauchery. His hair was still mostly black, and he lacked the paunch that Polmorva’s expensive clothes could not disguise. He stood a little taller under the scrutiny, feeling that the years had been kinder to him than they had to his rival, and that he cut a finer figure, despite the disparity in the quality of their costumes.

  ‘Well,’ drawled Polmorva, reverting to spoken insults. ‘I see you have not used your education to earn your fortune. How have you managed to fall on such hard times?’ He reached for the pouch that hung at his belt, and his voice dripped with contempt. ‘Perhaps I can oblige with a loan? At least you could buy a decent tabard.’

  ‘Who is this cockerel?’ demanded Michael of Bartholomew, affronted on his friend’s behalf.

  Polmorva gave one of his infuriating smiles. ‘I see you are a forgetful man, Brother. We were introduced last week, when you examined Okehamptone’s corpse.’

  ‘I do not recall you,’ said Michael with calculated insouciance. ‘As Senior Proctor, I meet many important men, and tend to dismiss lesser mortals from my mind.’

  Polmorva gave another of his nasty sneers. ‘I am William de Polmorva, formerly Chancellor of the University of Oxford, and now Fellow of Queen’s College.’

  Bartholomew could not stop himself from gaping. ‘They elected you Chancellor?’

  Polmorva preened himself. ‘A two-year appointment.’

  ‘Queen’s College?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘You were a Fellow of University College when I knew you – after you had been expelled from Exeter.’

  ‘I was not expelled,’ objected Polmorva stiffly, and Bartholomew saw he had annoyed him. ‘I resigned, because University College offered me a better room.’

  Bartholomew turned to Michael. ‘There were rumours that he was dismissed for embezzling.’

  ‘The rumours were false,’ said Polmorva coolly, while Michael gazed at Bartholomew in astonishment. It was unlike his mild-mannered friend to be so brazenly uncivil.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ asked Bartholomew again. ‘In a house owned by Merton?’

  ‘I was invited,’ replied Polmorva silkily. ‘I expressed a desire to be away from Oxford’s unsettled atmosphere, and Warden Duraunt asked if I would like to accompany him here. When I did not see you at the public debates last week, I made the assumption – wrongly, it would seem – that you had moved away. I confess I am surprised to see you today: if you have no time to attend compulsory disputations, then surely you have no time to satisfy a ghoulish interest in cadavers.’

  ‘He has been busy,’ said Michael, ‘with no time for old acquaintances – not even ones of your evident charm.’

  ‘Warden Duraunt is here?’ asked Bartholomew with eager pleasure. Some of his happiest Oxford memories were associated with Duraunt, a mentor who had been acutely intelligent, but also patient and gentle. ‘He is Warden of Merton now?’

  Polmorva inclined his head in a nod, and returned to his own quest for information. ‘Are you some sort of lackey to this monk, Bartholomew? Or do you make use of your medical skills to lay out corpses? We employ pauper women for that sort of thing in Oxford.’

  Michael eyed him with distaste. ‘I must remember to thank the good Lord that Cambridge has William Tynkell as its figurehead, and not a chancellor like you. I would not give much for its chances during a riot if it had to rely on your tact and diplomacy to soothe an enraged mob. Is that why Oxford was aflame in February?’

  Polmorva gave a short bark of laughter. ‘Master Brouweon was in office then, not I – if I had been Chancellor, the rabble that attacked us would have been put down with proper force. But do not allow me to detain your from your important duties. Come upstairs and see about removing this body. It is a damned nuisance, lying in the way.’

  ‘Tell me about Chesterfelde,’ said Michael, indicating that Polmorva was to precede them up the stairs. He tried to sound detached, but did not succeed: Polmorva’s manners had irritated him far too deeply, and his next question came out like an accusation. ‘Who killed him?’

  ‘I thought that was why you were here. If we knew the identity of the killer, we would have dealt with the matter ourselves, not invited outsiders to meddle.’

  ‘That is not how things work in this town,’ said Michael coolly. ‘I investigate all suspicious deaths and the perpetrators are always brought to justice.’ He looked hard at Polmorva, and the unmistakable message was that he hoped the ex-Chancellor would prove to be the culprit.

  Merton Hall’s main chamber was a large room with narrow lancet windows set into thick walls, which made it a dark and somewhat cheerless space. There was a hearth in the middle, and a door at the far end led to the adjoining solar. The floor was of wood, and was badly in need of cleaning, while ancient cobwebs hung thickly from the rafters. Bowls containing herbs had been placed on the windowsills, but they had long since finished emitting their sweet scent; they were dry, dusty and mixed with dead flies, and should have been changed. In all, the hall looked in desperate need of someone who would care for it.

  ‘Matthew!’ exclaimed an elderly man who sat by the fire. ‘I assumed you had moved away from Cambridge.’

  Smiling with genuine affection, Bartholomew went to greet the man who had taught him the Trivium – grammar, logic and rhetoric – so long ago. Duraunt had aged since Bartholomew had left Merton to complete his studies in Paris. His hair was white, and there were deep lines in his kindly face. He had taken major orders with the Austin Canons, too, and wore a friar’s habit, rather than the traditional Merton tabard Bartholomew recalled. When he clasped his teacher’s hand it felt thin and light-boned, although the grip was still firm and warm. His grin was warm, too, and his face lit with joy as Bartholomew sat next to him.

  ‘You did not write as often as you promised,’ Duraunt said, gently chiding. ‘Nor did you accept my offer of a Fellowship at Merton. What does Cambridge have that we could not provide?’

  ‘My sister,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘She wanted me near her. Besides, I like the Fens. They produce a poisonous miasma that is the cause of several interesting agues.’

  Duraunt smothered a fond smile. ‘Well, that is a virtue with which Oxford cannot compete.’ He glanced at Polmorva. ‘I hope you two will behave respectfully towards each other, and do not continue that silly feud you began as students. It was a long time ago, and I doubt you even recall what started it.’

  ‘I do,’ said Polmorva coldly. ‘It is not something I am likely to forget – or to forgive.’

  ‘You could have asked me about Matt when I came to inspect Okehamptone,’ said Michael, after a short and tense silence; out of respect for Duraunt, Bartholomew refrained from responding in kind. ‘You did not mention then that you knew him, and I was with you for some time.’

  Duraunt shrugged. ‘You are a Benedictine and Matthew detests that particular Order. I did not imagine there was any possibility that you and he would be acquainted.’

  ‘Is that so?’ asked Michael, startled. ‘And what, pray, is his problem with Black Monks?’

  ‘He is very vocal about their venality,’ explained Duraunt, oblivious to his former student’s discomfort. ‘And then there was that business with them and the set of artificial teeth provided at feasts for those who had lost their own. He made no secret of what he thought of that.’

  ‘I can imagine,’ said Michael, intrigued by a hitherto unknown episode in his friend’s past. ‘But perhaps you would
elaborate?’

  ‘Another time,’ said Duraunt, finally noting the mortified expression on Bartholomew’s face.

  ‘You have still not explained why you have come to deal with a corpse,’ said Polmorva, addressing Bartholomew. ‘Have I underestimated you, and you have reached the dizzy heights of Junior Proctor?’ He smirked disdainfully.

  ‘He is the University’s Senior Corpse Examiner,’ replied Michael, making the post sound a good deal grander than it was, ‘and one of our most valued officers. So, lead us to Chesterfelde’s body, and we can set about bringing his killer to the hangman’s noose.’

  ‘Polmorva said it was not decent to leave him on the floor while we ate breakfast, so we put him in the solar,’ said Duraunt. ‘However, he was killed here, in the hall, during the night – we know, because he was found at dawn today, and he was alive when we retired to bed.’

  ‘Where did the rest of you sleep?’ asked Michael. ‘In the solar?’

  Duraunt shook his head. ‘The solar is used by Eudo, who rents this manor, and Bailiff Boltone. It is the best room in the house, and it would not be right to oust the man who pays to live here.’

  ‘I disagree,’ said Polmorva, and from the weary expression on Duraunt’s face, Bartholomew saw this was not the first time this particular issue had been aired. ‘Merton owns this building, and its bailiffs and tenants should evacuate the “best room” when College members visit.’

  ‘I do not want our people claiming we treat them shabbily,’ said Duraunt tiredly. ‘We are the visitors, so we shall sleep in the hall and leave them the solar.’

  Michael brought the discussion back to the murder. ‘But you said Chesterfelde died in the hall. How could that happen, if you were here?’