I do not recommend wading in the Cherwell in November. Although I had only gone into the water to my knees, I was chilled and shivering when I dragged my burden to the path. While I resumed my coat two of the young scholars turned the drowned man to his back. There was silence for a moment, then one exclaimed, "'Tis Robert."
Robert is a common name. My future father-in-law bears it. So I did not consider that the drowned man I had pulled from the Cherwell might be Robert Salley even though the youth had gone missing.
I turned while donning my coat to view the pale, bloated face which now gazed whitely at the sky. It was indeed Robert Salley. I recognized his tattered gown, now soaked and clinging to his spare frame, and the sparse whiskers which ornamented his chin.
I saw another thing as well. I knelt beside the corpse for a closer look at the dead scholar. A faint purple bruise, nearly invisible, circled his neck.
Kate and the four who had discovered Salley in the river followed my gaze. Kate saw where my eyes fell and spoke first. "What has caused such a mark?" she whispered.
"Thick fingers, pressed tight, would make such a bruise."
"Fingers?" one of the scholars exclaimed. "But surely Robert has drowned… he was in the river."
"He may be drowned," I agreed. "There is a way to tell."
"How so?" the youth asked.
"If his lungs are filled with water, he drowned. But if his lungs are not full of water, he died before he went into the river."
"How can this be known?"
"We will lift him by his feet. If water pours from his lips, he died in the river. If no water, or very little comes forth, he died upon land."
I motioned to a scholar to take one sodden leg, and I grasped the other. Together we lifted Robert Salley until his corpse was near vertical. Kate held her hand to her lips as we all watched the dead man's mouth. Little water came from the waxen lips; perhaps a drop or two.
"What does this mean?" another of the students asked when we had dropped poor Salley to the river bank.
"It means," I replied, "that he was murdered. Strangled, then placed in the Cherwell so that, was he found dead, all would assume he was drowned."
"We must send for the sheriff," another said.
I agreed. Two of the scholars set off for the castle while Kate, I, and the other two kept watch over the mortal remains of Robert Salley. I wondered if, in the depths of the Cherwell, ink might be soaking from Master John's Sentences.
Our place on the banks of the Cherwell was across the town from the castle. It was half an hour and more before I saw the scholars return, followed by two sergeants. These officers had surely been chosen for brawn, not wit. They studied the corpse, debated calling the hue and cry, poked poor Robert in the ribs with a toe as if he might be roused from slumber, then cast about for evidence that a crime might have been committed.
It was with some difficulty that I convinced them that this was so. Their lives would be simplified was Salley's death but mischance. Scholars have perished in Oxford rivers before, usually when drunk, falling from bridges or river banks. The sergeants, after much persuading, reluctantly agreed that the indistinct purple bruise about Salley's neck suggested strangulation.
One sergeant left us to seek castle servants and a litter, the other remained to watch the corpse. He made no effort to question me or the four students. So far as he was concerned Salley was but another penniless youth, come to Oxford, far from home, who had the misfortune to die unknown and unmourned. He would be buried on the morrow in a pauper's grave in his parish churchyard.
I was not satisfied with this conclusion to Salley's brief life. There was much coincidence in the matter. A youth who possessed and wished to sell a stolen book is found strangled in the river. This same scholar was sought by Sir Simon Trillowe for reasons I knew not. Might these events be tied? If so, it was no neat bundle.
The sheriff's man showed no curiosity about the corpse at his feet. He chewed upon a fingernail and stared impassively across the water meadow toward the spire of St Frideswide's Priory Church.
The four young scholars began to drift away in a knot toward the East Bridge. I drew Kate after me and caught up with them.
"You recognized the dead man," I reminded them. "Did he make enemies readily?"
"Nay," one replied. "Was a quiet fellow, was Robert."
"How did you know of him?"
"He was of Balliol College, like us. But not this term."
"Not this term?"
"Robert had little coin. No patron, and his parents both dead of plague when he was but a babe."
"An orphan? Who took him in? Did he speak of this?"
"Aye, a lay brother at the abbey was cousin to his mother."
"The abbey? What abbey is that?"
"Salley, in the West Riding of Yorkshire."
I knew of this abbey. It is but a few miles from Clitheroe. Salley Abbey is a Cistercian House, and by repute is not wealthy, being found on poor, undrained land beside the river Ribble. A lay brother there would have few resources to spare for an orphan lad. But the abbey would provide an education for a boy who showed a quick wit. So Robert Salley had gained enough education to admit him to Balliol College, but had not the means to keep him there.
"You are of Balliol College also?" I asked.
"Aye, like I said."
"As was I," I told them. "Some years past, now."
The four youthful scholars peered at me, at my warm fur coat, and at my comely companion, then exchanged glances which seemed to say, "Perhaps much study is of value."
"Robert had made no enemies?"
"He was not one to best another in dispute," one remarked. "Quiet, like."
"Not likely some felon killed him for his purse," another added. "No reason to murder someone like Robert."
"Did you see him frequently? Was he much about in the past few days?"
The four scholars were silent for a moment, then one spoke. "Haven't seen 'im for three, four days. Doesn't live with us now. Did, once, but took cheaper lodgings at some tavern over near St Ebbe's Church."
"When you last saw him did he seek your aid? Was he troubled?"
Three of the black-gowned youths shrugged and peered at the other, who had reported seeing Salley earlier in the week.
"Owed me four pence. Said as he'd have it for me soon. Didn't seem troubled; seemed content. I'll not see my loan repaid now."
"And this was four days past?"
"Aye… Monday."
This news was of interest. Robert Salley thought on Monday he might soon come in to money; from the sale of Master John's book, I had no doubt.
"Did Salley own many books?" I asked.
"Nay," they chorused, and laughed grimly, as one. "Had to borrow or rent when a book was needed."
"I wonder how he thought to come by money to pay a debt? Did he say aught about that? Perhaps he received the coins and another knew of his gain and murdered him for it."
The four exchanged glances, then the youth who last saw Salley replied. "Didn't say where he was to find the money. Strange you should speak of books. He did ask if I knew of any who might wish to buy Lombard's work, Sentences. Didn't think he sought a buyer for himself. How could he afford such a work? Thought he asked for another."
As we spoke the sergeant returned with two castle servants and a litter. We watched silently as Robert Salley was rolled onto the frame and carried off toward the East Bridge and the High Street. The servants dealt roughly with the corpse, but Robert Salley would mind little.
I was wet from knees down and chilled, and wished to return to Canterbury Hall and seek dry chances. But there was more to learn this day.
"Salley wished to find a buyer for Sentences, you say? Where did he keep this book?"