‘With whom?’ asked Bartholomew, dunking his head and repelled by the slime that still rinsed from his hair. ‘Warden Powys of King’s Hall?’
‘William of Abergavenny, a visiting merchant from Oxford,’ replied Cynric, hurling a bucket of water at Bartholomew before he was ready and making him splutter. ‘We met when I was your book-bearer in Oxford some twenty years ago, although I did not expect to see him here. We recognised each other in the King’s Head this afternoon.’
‘That villain,’ said Michael disapprovingly. ‘He is travelling with a spicer and a tanner, but he is the one I regard as the most dangerous.’
‘You are probably right,’ said Cynric. ‘He has a cunning mind, make no mistake about it. It comes from living among the English for so long.’
‘Did he tell you anything about the case he is here to investigate?’ asked Bartholomew. He did not point out that Cynric also spent a lot of time in England.
Cynric grinned. ‘He cannot keep secrets from an old countryman like me. He was glad to be speaking the tongue of princes, you see, and barely stopped talking the whole time we were together. He is here to look into the murder of a merchant called Gonerby, who died during the Oxford riots.’
‘That is no secret,’ said Michael. ‘He and his friends have been quite open about what they came here to do.’
‘The secret is this,’ said Cynric, enjoying the fact that he had information Michael did not. ‘This Gonerby died not from a sword wound, as the tanner told you, but from a bite. They lied about what caused his death.’
‘A bite?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘From a dog?’
‘No,’ said Cynric. ‘Because then Abergavenny would have had an easy task in solving the murder: just find a man with a vicious pet. But no dog killed Gonerby. The bite was inflicted by a devil in the guise of a man: Gonerby’s throat was torn out.’
Bartholomew gazed at his book-bearer in horror, while Langelee started to laugh at such a ludicrous notion. Michael paused in his scrubbing to regard Cynric sceptically.
‘Someone bit Gonerby to death? But that is not possible! Is it, Matt?’
‘Apparently, it is,’ said Cynric stiffly, not liking the way his information was being received by the scholars, and replying before Bartholomew could speak. ‘He was bitten in the throat, which severed some important vessel. He bled to death.’
‘Can this be true?’ asked Michael, turning to Bartholomew. ‘Can a human bite kill like that?’
‘Possibly,’ replied Bartholomew, his thoughts tumbling in chaos. Michael regarded him oddly before turning his attention back to the book-bearer.
‘How does Abergavenny know this? Were there tooth marks on Gonerby’s neck? Did someone actually see what happened?’
‘Both, apparently,’ said Cynric. He looked pleased, gratified that Michael was sufficiently intrigued to ask questions. ‘Abergavenny saw the rips himself, and said they matched those of a person’s teeth in all respects. He said the wound was a terrible thing to behold.’
‘I can imagine,’ said Michael dryly, but still unconvinced. ‘Who is the witness? Not Abergavenny, or he would have told us, surely?’
‘Would he?’ queried Langelee. ‘He lied to you about how Gonerby died, so why would he confess that he had witnessed the murder? If it is true, then he will not want to bray it about, lest he become this maniac’s next victim.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Michael. He regarded Bartholomew’s pale face and haunted expression with raised eyebrows. ‘Do not tell me you believe this ridiculous tale? It is a fabrication invented by these merchants to lend credibility to the hunt for their colleague’s murderer. And do not forget where Cynric heard this tale: the King’s Head, a tavern noted for the strength of its ale.’
‘Abergavenny was a tad drunk when he confided in me,’ admitted Cynric. He glared at Michael. ‘But he did not relate his story salaciously, as he would have done had his intention been to shock or frighten. On the contrary, boy, he seemed shocked and frightened himself.’
‘Then his witness – the man who saw this attack – must be a talented story-teller,’ said Michael. ‘He has ensured his account is terrifyingly macabre, even when it is repeated by others. It did not originate with Gonerby’s wife, did it? She might have invented a wild fable to ensure her husband’s friends really do track down his killer.’
‘The witness was Polmorva,’ said Cynric with satisfaction, delighted when he saw the scholars’ surprise. ‘That is why he is here.’
Bartholomew gazed at him, facts and theories ricocheting about inside his mind like acrobats. None of them made sense, and he could not have reasoned a pattern into them to save his life. Michael remained dismissive, however.
‘But Polmorva told us he came to escape the dangers of Oxford. And I have no reason to disbelieve him – he seems a cowardly sort of man.’
‘He is,’ agreed Cynric. ‘He has not changed during the two decades since we last met.’
‘He is also a liar,’ mused Langelee. ‘I heard him dissembling myself, in the stationer’s shop last week. He told Weasenham that a pen he had recently bought was defective, and demanded two in return, to compensate for the inconvenience it had caused him. But I saw him break the thing himself. Weasenham obliged, of course, because Polmorva started speaking loudly about the poor quality of the goods on sale in Cambridge, and Weasenham wanted to silence him before he lost customers.’
‘He cannot help himself,’ said Cynric. He addressed Bartholomew. ‘Remember when he told Duraunt that you spent the night with a prostitute? He knew full well that the miller’s daughter was no whore, yet he landed you in a good deal of trouble with that falsehood. Then there was the time-’
‘Thank you, Cynric,’ interrupted Bartholomew. ‘Suffice to say that he lies as easily as he breathes, and it does not surprise me to learn he has another purpose in coming here. However, I suspect he has concealed his real intentions from Duraunt.’
‘Duraunt,’ said Michael, winking at the book-bearer to indicate he would have the story of the miller’s daughter later. ‘He is not the saint you imagine, Matt. First, there is the business about him being drunk to the point of oblivion when Chesterfelde died – and then denying it; second, there is the business of the poppy juice; and third there is his friendship with Polmorva, a known deceiver.’
‘Duraunt is a good man,’ insisted Bartholomew. ‘He was kind to me in Oxford, and-’
‘That was years ago,’ interrupted Langelee. ‘Men change, and not always for the better. But Duraunt does drink heavily, as it happens. I saw him myself in the Cardinal’s Cap on Sunday, putting away enough strong claret to render half of Michaelhouse insensible.’
‘No!’ cried Bartholomew, dismayed. ‘He encourages abstinence and moderation.’
‘Then he does not practise what he preaches,’ replied Langelee. ‘I know what I saw, Bartholomew, and I have no reason to mislead you. Your old Warden is not the man you remember.’
‘How did Polmorva come to be a witness to Gonerby’s death?’ asked Michael, changing the subject when Bartholomew fell silent. The physician could hardly point out that the Master tended not to stint himself when it came to alcoholic beverages, either, and that large quantities of ale might have coloured his own perception of what he thought he had seen in the Cardinal’s Cap. ‘Cynric?’
‘Abergavenny said Polmorva was out with his sword during the unrest, intending to add to the mischief. Polmorva always did like a riot – remember how he was always first on the streets when the bells sounded the alarm? Anyway, he found himself in an area controlled by townsmen, rather than scholars, so decided to hide until it was safe to come out. It was then, as he peered through the window to assess the situation, that he saw this devil approach Gonerby and bite out his throat.’