‘What makes you think so?’
‘One man is murdered, then a second is killed and his body dumped in the presence of those avenging the death of the first. I dislike such coincidences. However, since I will have Chesterfelde’s killer before the Visitation, hopefully that means I shall have Gonerby’s, too.’ Michael scratched his chin. ‘I need to know more about Boltone and Eudo and their dishonest dealings. The best solution would be to learn that they were in Oxford in February, and once we have proved they murdered Gonerby, we can encourage them to confess to Chesterfelde’s killing.’
‘The merchants said it was a scholar who made an end of Gonerby. Eudo and Boltone are not members of any university.’
Michael shrugged. ‘Gonerby was dying, and dying men do not always make good witnesses – even assuming these merchants have been scrupulous in repeating his alleged last words. Is that Spryngheuse over there, wearing his grey-hemmed cloak, despite the sunshine? He looks dreadful.’
Bartholomew agreed: Spryngheuse’s eyes were red-rimmed, there were dark pouches under them, and his face had an unhealthy, waxen appearance. ‘What is wrong?’ he asked as their paths crossed. ‘Are you ill?’
Spryngheuse’s voice was hoarse when he replied. ‘Remember that Benedictine I told you about – the one Polmorva claims does not exist? I saw him last night, lurking in the garden.’
‘Did you speak to him?’ asked Michael. ‘Did he say what he wanted?’
Spryngheuse shook his head. ‘I told the others to come and look, but by the time they reached the window, he had gone. Polmorva told them I imagined it. I detest that man.’
‘I understand why,’ said Michael. ‘He is sly and spiteful. But will you tell me what your friend Chesterfelde thought of Polmorva? Did you ever discuss him together?’
Spryngheuse regarded him unhappily. ‘You want to know whether Polmorva is Chesterfelde’s killer. Well, he is certainly bold enough to do such a thing, especially since he knew he could.’
Michael frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
Spryngheuse sighed and massaged his temples, eyes tightly closed. ‘Ignore me – I meant nothing. I am speaking nonsense, because I am so tired. I do not sleep well these days.’
‘I know how that feels,’ said Bartholomew wryly. ‘But if you know something about Chesterfelde’s death, please tell us. We would like to see his killer brought to justice.’
Spryngheuse swallowed, and for a moment looked as though he might weep, but he pulled himself together. ‘Very well. Polmorva declined to drink much wine the night Chesterfelde died – unlike the rest of us. He abstained in a discreet way – often raising his goblet, but seldom drinking.’
‘Why did you notice that?’ asked Bartholomew curiously.
Spryngheuse’s expression was grim. ‘I have become much more observant since the riots – terror of reprisal does that to a man. Also, you told us Chesterfelde was murdered somewhere other than in the hall, so perhaps he was killed when he went to the latrines. He had imbibed copious amounts of liquid, and would have needed to relieve himself, while Polmorva has an unusually small bladder and is often obliged to get up in the night. It is not impossible that they were out there alone together.’
‘So, you were all intoxicated except Polmorva?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Does that include Chesterfelde?’
Spryngheuse gave a sad smile. ‘He was used to wine, and could drink a lot without his head swimming, but he was merry, too, that evening. It just made him laugh a lot – giggle, rather.’
‘Interesting,’ said Michael. ‘We must have words with Polmorva.’
Spryngheuse paled. ‘Please, no! He will know it was I who told you about his deception with the wine, and life is bad enough without having him after me with his sharp tongue.’
‘Better that than with his sharp knife,’ Michael pointed out. ‘But I will ensure he does not know you are our source. Besides, he may even confess once he learns I have him trapped.’
‘I doubt it,’ said Bartholomew, knowing the monk would need more than speculation to corner the likes of Polmorva. ‘But we need to speak to Eudo and Boltone first. Are they at home?’
‘In the garden,’ replied Spryngheuse. ‘There is a cistern, which provides fresh water for the house, and they are repairing its pulley. They have been fiddling with it all day.’
Bartholomew and Michael walked through Merton Hall’s neat vegetable plots to where they ended in a small arm of the River Cam known as the Bin Brook. The manor cultivated turnips, cabbages, onions, peas and beans using labour hired by the bailiff, although no one was working there that day. It was a pleasant garden. Walls and trees protected it from the wind, and the paths that wound through it were attractive and peaceful. Bartholomew took a deep breath of air laden with the scent of earth soaked by the morning’s shower, and paused to admire the line of red-tiled roofs belonging to the houses on Bridge Street. He recalled that Merton Hall and Tulyet were neighbours, their grounds separated only by the stream and the Sheriff’s Dickon-proof wall.
At the very bottom of the toft was the cistern. It comprised a huge, stone-walled chamber that was sunk into the earth, like a deep, square well. Its walls rose above the ground to knee height, and a massive wood and metal lid fitted snugly across them to prevent animals and leaves from dropping inside and contaminating its contents. An intricate system of drains and sluices allowed river water to enter it, and it was invariably at least half full, even in times of drought. Merton Hall thus always had a source of fresh water, albeit at times a murky one.
‘This design is clever,’ said Bartholomew, impressed as always by skilful feats of engineering. ‘Its builders have ensured that, as long as the Bin Brook is flowing, there will always be water. It is deep, too – two or three times the height of a man.’
‘Then I would not like to fall in it,’ said Michael with a shudder. ‘I cannot swim.’
‘You would not get out, either,’ elaborated Bartholomew, oblivious to the monk’s uncomfortable reaction to this news. ‘At least, not easily. The walls are too slick, and there are no handholds for climbing. That is why the lid remains in place at all times – a hatch can be opened when anyone wants to draw water, but the lid is always closed. I suppose it is possible to tumble through the hatch, but you would have to be very careless.’
‘Fascinating,’ said Michael, wishing he would stop. Even the thought of deep, stone vaults filled with water was enough to make his stomach churn, and the notion of being trapped inside one made him feel sick. ‘But I am more interested in the men mending it.’
As they came closer, they heard the sound of a hammer, and saw Eudo swinging furiously at the mechanism that allowed buckets to be raised and lowered, looking as if he was more intent on destroying it than fixing it. His handsome face wore a vicious scowl, while Boltone stood to one side with his arms folded, watching dispassionately. To belie Bartholomew’s recent statements, the gigantic lid of the cistern had been raised for the occasion, and was flipped back, so that one edge rested in the grass; its opposite side was attached to the wall by massive iron hinges.
‘Having trouble?’ asked Michael mildly.
Eudo glared at him. ‘The pulley has jammed, and I have been playing with the damned thing all day to no avail. Whoever built it is an imbecile.’
‘You will not repair it by attacking it like a maniac,’ said Boltone, earning himself a foul look. ‘I have been telling you for hours that a contraption like this needs coaxing, not brute force.’
Eudo shoved the hammer into his belt. As he did so, Bartholomew noticed the cut on his arm had almost healed, and probably would not even scar.
‘You do it, then,’ Eudo snapped, sweaty and irritable. ‘You have been giving advice and making suggestions all afternoon, but nothing has worked. I am tired, hot and my wrist hurts. You do it.’