Tulyet draped an arm around his shoulders. ‘Give the lad a chance, Brother. He will be a splendid man in time – taller than his father and with the sweet temperament of his mother.’
‘He will be tall,’ agreed Michael.
‘Watch,’ commanded Dickon, aiming his arrow at a circular target made of straw. Bartholomew was perturbed when the boy sent the missile thudding neatly into its centre, and even more so when he saw how hard Dickon had to pull to extricate it. His father may have loosened the bowstring, but it was still taut enough to drive the arrow home with considerable force. Tulyet grinned in proud delight.
‘You can see Merton Hall from here,’ said Michael, peering over the top of the wall and refusing to admire anything Dickon did.
‘Our properties are divided only by the Bin Brook,’ said Tulyet, applauding as Dickon repeated the exercise, which indicated that the first shot had been skill, not chance. ‘We are neighbours, although my house fronts on to Bridge Street and Merton Hall is accessed from Merton Lane.’
‘I do not suppose you saw anything odd the night Chesterfelde was murdered, did you?’ asked Michael hopefully.
Tulyet shook his head. ‘Eudo is a noisy fellow, and his loud voice occasionally disturbs us while we sit in our orchard of an evening, but we usually hear nothing from the others who are currently staying there – those scholars and the merchants.’
Bartholomew and Michael exchanged a bemused glance that Tulyet should dare to complain about Eudo when he had sired such a raucous brat. ‘Usually?’ asked Michael. ‘There are exceptions?’
Tulyet nodded. ‘They were quite noisy on Saturday night, as a matter of fact. They were not arguing or fighting, just speaking loudly and laughing a lot.’
‘Laughing?’ asked Michael. ‘Laughing about what?’
‘Chesterfelde was guffawing, and encouraging the others to enjoy themselves,’ elaborated Tulyet. ‘I met him once or twice on his previous visits to our town, and he was always smiling.’
‘Bailiff Boltone said the same,’ said Bartholomew. ‘So did Norton. He seems to have been a cheerful sort of man.’
Michael rubbed his chin. ‘I wonder whether Dodenho’s initial denial that he knew Chesterfelde is significant. His excuse for the lie may be valid – that he does not want a passing friendship to implicate him in a murder enquiry – but now I find myself wary of what he told us. Still, Chesterfelde sounds as though he was a likeable sort of fellow.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Tulyet. ‘Generally speaking.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Michael.
Tulyet folded his arms, watching his son shoot off the head of a flower. ‘He had a hot temper, and I recall Dodenho telling me that it took very little to set it off. But, like many quick-to-anger men, his fury faded fast, and I do not think it was a serious flaw in his character. I am glad this is not my investigation, Brother. It takes a particular kind of skill to explore scholars and their cunning ways, and it is not one I shall ever possess. I am just grateful that my boy will never attend a University.’
‘Yes,’ said Michael wholeheartedly. ‘So am I.’
It was noon by the time Bartholomew and Michael reached Merton Hall. Michael rapped sharply on the door and it was answered, as previously, by Boltone. There was ink on the bailiff’s fingers, and his eyes were red and raw, as if he had been straining them. Bartholomew supposed he had been working on his accounts so that Duraunt could assess whether he had been cheating.
‘Tell me, Master Bailiff,’ said Michael, smiling in a friendly fashion, ‘when did you last visit Oxford?’
‘I am obliged to present yearly accounts,’ said Boltone, looking furtive, ‘but I go there as rarely as possible. It smells, and all the streets look the same. Why?’
‘Were you there in February?’ asked Bartholomew. He could think of no reason why a Cambridge steward should kill an Oxford merchant, but that did not mean it had not happened.
‘No,’ said Boltone, a little too quickly. ‘I have not been since last October, and February was too cold for long journeys. The roads were closed by snow then, anyway.’
‘They were,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘But not for the whole month.’
Boltone stood aside to allow them to enter. ‘Have you decided which of these Oxford men killed Chesterfelde? Was it a scholar or a merchant? I do not know who I would prefer you to hang: I dislike that condescending Eu, but I hate the sly Polmorva.’
‘What makes you think it was one of those two?’ asked Michael.
‘Who else could it be?’ asked Boltone, his eyes wide with surprise that there should be other culprits. ‘Chesterfelde was murdered in their room while they were present – sleeping or otherwise. You do not need one of your University degrees to assess that sort of evidence. And Polmorva and Eu are the nastiest of the group, so they are the best suspects for this vile murder. It is obvious.’
Michael regarded him thoughtfully. ‘You think Abergavenny, Wormynghalle, Spryngheuse and Duraunt are innocent, do you?’
Boltone returned the appraising stare, then seemed to reconsider, apparently afraid the monk might be laying some sort of trap that would see him in trouble. ‘Well, I suppose the killer could be one of them,’ he said after a long pause. ‘Except Duraunt, of course. He would never harm anyone.’
‘Is that so?’ asked Michael flatly. ‘Of course, Polmorva has you marked down as the assassin. He thinks you killed Chesterfelde by mistake, because you are desperate to do away with Duraunt and prevent him from exposing your dishonesty.’
‘Polmorva is a fool,’ snapped Boltone. ‘If I did kill Duraunt, then what do you think would happen? That Merton will forget these accusations and leave me alone? Of course not! They will send another man to look at my records, and then what would I do? Kill him, too? And another, and another? Polmorva is deranged if he believes I would see murder as a way to clear my name. Besides, I have nothing to hide – no reason to stab anyone.’
‘I see,’ said Michael. ‘Well, I would like to speak to Duraunt myself today. Do not bother to escort me; I can find my own way. Go back to your accounting.’
Bartholomew followed Michael up the stairs into the hall. The three merchants sat there, talking in low voices that still contrived to sound hostile. Wormynghalle presented a grotesque sight that day, in a fashionably close-fitting gipon made from gold cloth that gave him the appearance of a shiny grub. His sheep’s head pendant and the rings on his fingers glinted in the sunlight, and he looked exactly what he was: a man of humble origins who found himself rich, and who did not have the taste to accommodate it decently. He played restlessly with a silver disc, and when Bartholomew looked more closely he saw it was an astrolabe, although he could tell from the way the tanner handled the instrument that he did not know how to use it. To him it was just a pretty object made of precious metal.
Eu, meanwhile, wore a gipon of dark green, with a discreet clasp on his cloak that carried his nutmeg motif. He carried himself with a natural dignity, and Bartholomew wondered how the two merchants, diametrically opposed in all respects, managed to stomach each other’s company. He supposed it was because Abergavenny was there, to keep the peace and remind them that they had a common purpose. The Welshman seemed relieved to have company, and Bartholomew suspected he was finding his role as arbitrator hard work.
‘Where are the scholars?’ asked Michael.
‘In the solar,’ replied Wormynghalle with an unpleasant sneer. ‘They claim they are afraid of boring us with their debates, but the truth is that they prefer their own company.’
‘What they prefer is conversation that does not revolve around tanning,’ said Eu acidly. ‘And who can blame them? I do not want to be regaled with the difference between dog and horse urine while I am at table, either.’