CHAPTER 2
When Bartholomew had finished his examination of the dead scholar, he and Michael left Merton Hall. Duraunt was troubled, and urged Michael to solve the murder as quickly as possible. Polmorva informed the monk that there was nothing to solve, and that Chesterfelde had been killed by Bailiff Boltone or the tenant Eudo, claiming they must have mistaken him for Duraunt in the dark – Duraunt had come to expose their dishonesty, and it was obvious they had reacted to the threat he posed. Unfortunately for Chesterfelde, in the unlit room and with so many men sleeping, an error was made.
‘Duraunt seems decent, but Polmorva is an ass,’ declared Michael, as he and Bartholomew walked down Bridge Street. The monk was alarmed by the notion that three merchants planned to conduct their own murder enquiry in his town, and hoped to interrupt their meeting with the Chancellor before he granted them the requisite permission. The last thing he needed with the Archbishop’s Visitation looming was burgesses asking scholars if they had committed a savage crime. It would bring about a fight between town and University for certain.
‘Duraunt is a good man,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘However, Boltone and Eudo have little to fear from an investigation into these alleged accounting irregularities: if Boltone says they made an honest mistake, Duraunt will believe him. Boltone no doubt knows this, which is why he seems unconcerned. However, if Duraunt recruits Polmorva, then Boltone will be in trouble: Polmorva will see him dismissed – or worse – on the most tenuous of evidence. Duraunt may be keen to see the good in people, but Polmorva always looks for the worst.’
‘I do not understand why Duraunt should invite Polmorva to travel with him in the first place. Gentle men do not choose that sort of company without a compelling reason.’
Bartholomew shrugged. ‘I imagine Polmorva heard that Duraunt planned to leave Oxford, and seized an opportunity to escape the turmoil for a few weeks.’
‘I would love to discover that Polmorva killed Chesterfelde. I do not like his sneering smile or his condescending manners. But tell me about this feud of yours. You clearly detest each other, and since it is unlike you to harbour such feelings over two decades, it must have been a serious quarrel you had.’
‘It was a long time ago,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘It hardly matters now.’
Michael gave a derisive snort. ‘That was not how it appeared to me! If Duraunt had not been there, you would have been at each other like fighting cocks.’
‘It sounds ridiculous now,’ said Bartholomew, smiling ruefully. ‘But it started with those teeth Duraunt mentioned. Polmorva designed them, and hired them out to edentulous monks so they could eat the same amount of meat as their fully fanged colleagues. Obviously, metal teeth are not as good as real ones, and several monks became ill – partly because they were swallowing food that was not properly chewed, and partly because the wretched things were used communally.’
Michael started to laugh. ‘They shared them – passed them around like a jug of wine?’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘And they did not clean them, so contagions passed from one to another. I was young and insensitive, and informed the monks that they owed their resulting sicknesses to greed, because they ate fine foods after God and Nature had decided it was time for them to stop.’
Michael regarded him with round eyes. ‘You said that? Do you not think it was a little sanctimonious? It is not for some student to tell an old man what he can or cannot eat.’
Bartholomew winced. ‘As I said, I was young.’
‘And this is why you and Polmorva are at loggerheads?’ asked Michael, thinking it ludicrously petty. ‘He invented some teeth and you denounced them?’
‘Eventually, a monk died. I accused Polmorva of bringing about the fatality and he objected. Once the gauntlet was down all manner of quarrels and fights followed. But then I left Oxford and that was the end of it.’
‘Until now,’ mused Michael. ‘Is that why you went to Paris, instead of continuing your studies at Oxford? You wanted to escape from Polmorva?’
‘He was one factor,’ admitted Bartholomew. ‘But the chief reason was that I wanted to study with an Arab physician – their medicine is so much more advanced than our own. Paris had such a master, Oxford did not.’
Michael thought about what he had been told. ‘You are right; your feud is ridiculous – although, having met the man I can see why you fell out. But he will be gone soon, and you can forget about him again.’
‘Not if we find him guilty of Chesterfelde’s murder.’
‘There are other suspects – Boltone and Eudo for a start, although it would be galling to admit that Polmorva is right. So, what can you tell me about Chesterfelde? Are you sure that small wound on his wrist was the fatal one, and not the huge hole in his back? I did not want to question you in front of Polmorva, but I confess I am unconvinced.’
‘Chesterfelde’s sleeve was bloodstained, and the fact that the injury bled so profusely means he was alive when it was inflicted. However, the comparative lack of blood seeping from his back indicates he was dead when that happened. There is only one conclusion: his wrist was slashed, bringing about death by exsanguination, and the wound in his back was added later – to his corpse.’
‘You also said there were no other marks on his body – no bruises and no indication that he struggled. Why would he allow his wrist to be sliced, and then do nothing while he bled to death?’
‘Perhaps he was drunk. I doubt it was something that happened in his sleep, because it would have hurt enough to wake him up – unless he was fed some sort of soporific, I suppose.’
‘A soporific would explain why Duraunt slept through the incident, too,’ mused Michael. ‘He said he is usually a light sleeper.’
‘That means the entire party from Oxford – all four scholars and the three merchants – was dosed. They all claim to have slept through whatever happened last night.’
Michael nodded slowly. ‘We shall have to ask Boltone or Eudo whether they provided their guests with something more than wine.’
Bartholomew was silent for a moment, while he organised his thoughts. ‘I do not think Chesterfelde died in the hall. There would have been a lot of blood, and Duraunt and the others would definitely have woken up had someone started to scrub the floor in the middle of the night – sedated or otherwise. I think he must have been killed elsewhere.’
‘We shall have a good look around Merton Hall and its grounds later,’ promised Michael. ‘If as much blood was spilled as you say, then it will not be hard to find out where this foul deed took place. We can also search for stained clothing – his killer should be drenched in the stuff.’
‘Not necessarily. He may have slashed Chesterfelde’s wrist, then stood back. But it is worth looking, I suppose.’ Bartholomew gave a sudden, uncharacteristically malicious grin. ‘It will definitely be worthwhile if we discover something incriminating among Polmorva’s belongings.’
The town was busy by the time Bartholomew and Michael reached the High Street and started to walk to St Mary the Great, where Chancellor Tynkell had his office. People were out, enjoying the Feast of Pentecost before work began again the following morning. Merchants rode in carts drawn by sleek ponies or strutted in their Sunday finery, displaying to their colleagues that they were men of influence, who could afford the finest boots, the best cloth for their cloaks, and the richest jewellery for their wives and daughters. Apprentices gathered in gangs, yelling insults to passing students in the hope of goading them into a fight, while Michael’s beadles patrolled the streets, alert for any scholar who might be tempted to respond.