‘But if you did not swipe it, then who did?’ demanded Wormynghalle.
‘I imagine it was someone here,’ replied Michael. ‘Polmorva told us he purchased it because it was unusual, and he is an astute man, who would have tested the thing before parting with his gold. Ergo, he knew it was defective when he bought it, and so would not have sold it for that reason, as he has just claimed.’
‘What are you saying?’ demanded Polmorva, anger flashing in his eyes. Bartholomew saw something else, too. Alarm. Michael was coming close to the truth.
Michael shrugged. ‘I was just thinking about one of the Sheriff’s cases, where a man sold a horse, and then stole it back again to sell a second time. He was unable to resist the lure of a “handsome profit”, you see. But suffice to say that the astrolabe was taken from Wormynghalle, and ended up in the cache recovered from the cistern, along with other stolen property.’
‘The cistern?’ asked Abergavenny. ‘You mean the one that was emptied here? We have not been told about any cache. To whom did it belong? Eudo, I suppose. That must be why he fled with Boltone.’
‘The astrolabe’s travels are very confusing,’ said Duraunt, while Polmorva scowled and Wormynghalle looked as though he was not sure what to think. ‘It was originally Dodenho’s, but it went missing from King’s Hall before reappearing again. Dodenho sold it to Polmorva, Polmorva passed it to Wormynghalle, then . . .’ he hesitated, not sure how to phrase the next part.
‘…then it was removed from Wormynghalle,’ said Michael smoothly, ‘and found its way to the cistern hoard, and it is now in the care of Weasenham the stationer.’
‘Then Weasenham will restore it to its rightful owner,’ said Duraunt with a pleased smile. ‘And we need say no more about the matter.’
‘That is me,’ said Wormynghalle, ‘although I am not sure I want a defective instrument. I will offer to sell it to him – for a “handsome profit”.’ He glared at Polmorva.
Polmorva was outraged with Michael. ‘You have accused me of the vilest of crimes. Me! A one-time Chancellor of Oxford University and a Fellow of Queen’s College! I demand an apology.’
While Polmorva was ranting, Bartholomew had been gazing out of the window, thinking about the astrolabe and wondering whether its travels between various murder suspects were significant. He could see the cistern in the distance, surrounded by muck from its recent dredging. As he stared, he became aware of something else, too. He frowned, and looked harder.
‘Spryngheuse,’ he said, interrupting Polmorva’s tirade. ‘When did he go out?’
‘Hours ago,’ replied Abergavenny. ‘He is probably praying for Chesterfelde. Why do you ask?’
Bartholomew pointed. ‘He is not in any church. He is there: I recognise his cloak.’
Duraunt joined him at the window, and his jaw dropped in horror. ‘But he is dangling from that tree – by the neck!’
‘Yes,’ agreed Bartholomew softly. ‘And he is almost certainly dead.’
Spryngheuse was indeed dead. When Bartholomew and Michael arrived in the garden, with the Oxford men behind them, it was obvious that the Mertonian was beyond any earthly help. Duraunt insisted the body should be cut down and removed to a church as soon as possible, and Polmorva and the merchants concurred in a rare consensus. They were furious that another of their number had perished, and Bartholomew had very little time to examine the body in situ before the rope around its neck was untied and Spryngheuse was lowered to the ground.
‘I suppose he will be taken to that horrible All-Saints-next-the-Castle,’ said Duraunt, looking sadly at the body as it lay in the damp grass. Bartholomew noticed his hands were shaking. ‘Like Okehamptone and Chesterfelde.’
‘It is outrageous,’ declared Polmorva. ‘When I return to Oxford, I shall complain to the highest authorities about our treatment here. Your town does not even allow us a consecrated church from which to bury our dead.’
‘You hail from a city under interdict,’ said Michael insolently. ‘What do you expect?’
Polmorva ignored him. ‘It may be too late for Okehamptone, but I shall do better for Chesterfelde and Spryngheuse. I want them buried deep in the ground – preferably hallowed – where they will be safe from physicians with macabre pastimes, and not in some vault where they can be picked at.’
‘I will arrange for them to be buried in St Clement’s,’ volunteered Michael. ‘Merton Hall is not in its parish, but the priest has plenty of room in his churchyard.’
‘That surprises me,’ said Polmorva unpleasantly. ‘I would have thought it would be stuffed full, given how many folk die in this sordid little settlement.’
‘The only people who have died recently are from Oxford,’ said Michael acidly, irritated that his offer should be treated with contempt. ‘But I cannot stand here all day when Spryngheuse lies without a coffin. I shall fetch one, and Matt will stay with the body until I return.’
‘Thank you,’ said Duraunt gratefully. ‘I will wait with him.’
‘There is no need for that,’ said Michael briskly. ‘Go inside. It looks as though it might rain.’
‘He wants you out of the way, so Bartholomew can examine Spryngheuse alone,’ said Polmorva astutely. ‘Do not let him. We do not want another of our colleagues defiled by his pawing hands.’
‘There will be no defiling here,’ vowed Duraunt, and Bartholomew was surprised by the glint of determination in his eyes. ‘Not on Merton land.’
‘Then do not leave Spryngheuse alone for an instant,’ advised Polmorva. ‘Besides, I have heard that the man who “discovers” a corpse is very often the man who has taken its life, and it was Bartholomew who first saw Spryngheuse. He probably killed him to strike at us.’
‘I have no reason to kill Spryngheuse,’ objected Bartholomew, becoming tired of the stream of accusations. ‘I barely knew him.’
‘He lent you his best cloak,’ snapped Polmorva. ‘Perhaps you thought that murdering him was the surest way to make sure you can keep it.’
‘Do not be ridiculous,’ retorted Bartholomew impatiently. ‘I have already returned it to him. And what makes you think his death is murder, anyway? How do you know he did not kill himself?’
‘Did he?’ asked Duraunt, concerned. ‘If that is the case, then he cannot be laid in hallowed soil, nor can he have the benefit of a requiem mass.’
‘He did not kill himself,’ declared Polmorva. ‘On the contrary, he was so determined to live that he spent the last few days telling everyone how frightened he was that someone might try to dispatch him. A man intent on suicide would not have cared.’
‘He was horrified when he learned Bartholomew was attacked while wearing his cloak,’ said Abergavenny thoughtfully. ‘He was certain it was his Black Monk, coming to snatch his soul.’
‘And he insisted on staying indoors, where he thought he would be safe,’ added Eu. ‘I wonder what induced him to go out today.’
‘I heard Duraunt telling him he would benefit from fresh air,’ said Wormynghalle, a sly and spiteful expression on his coarse features. ‘He must have taken the advice to heart.’
Duraunt was shocked. ‘I did nothing of the kind! Do not try to blame me for this death.’
‘I thought it was you who suggested he go,’ said Polmorva to the tanner, stirring already troubled waters, so that it was not long before everyone was shouting. Polmorva stepped back and folded his arms, and Bartholomew tried to assess what he was thinking. Was it simple satisfaction, because he had provoked another quarrel? Or was there a more sinister reason for his games – such as using the others’ anger to divert attention from himself?
Then Bartholomew studied Duraunt, who was suspiciously vocal in his denials that he had recommended a walk to Spryngheuse. Did that signify a guilty conscience, or was he merely appalled that anyone should think he was responsible for the scholar’s death? Bartholomew was deeply troubled by the notion that his old master might be involved in something untoward, but found the man difficult to defend when he thought about the poppy juice and what his sister had overheard in the apothecary’s shop. Were Michael and Langelee right when they pointed out that men changed over the years? Bartholomew had the sickening sense that Duraunt might have turned into something he no longer recognised, just as Duraunt had claimed Bartholomew himself had grown unfamiliar.