The merchants were equally impossible to read. Wormynghalle was red-faced with indignation that he should be associated with any wrongdoing, while Eu was loftily careless about what anyone thought, stating he had had nothing to do with the misfortunes that had befallen his travelling companions, and that was that. Abergavenny tried to placate them all, but it was some time before the voice of reason quelled those of dissent and anger.
‘Strong wine is the cause of all this,’ said Polmorva. ‘If you had not caroused so wildly the night Chesterfelde died, then he would still be with us and Spryngheuse would not have hanged himself.’
‘You were just as inebriated as the rest of us,’ snapped Duraunt. He realised he had admitted something he had denied before and a flicker of annoyance crossed his face. He gritted his teeth and continued. ‘You pretended to abstain, but you did not – not that night and not on other occasions. I heard you snoring later, in the way a drunken man sleeps.’
Polmorva assumed an expression of weary patience. ‘You lie, old man. You-’
‘Hanged himself?’ interrupted Wormynghalle, regarding Polmorva with raised eyebrows. ‘You just accused Bartholomew of murdering him, and I assumed you had good reason for doing so. Now you say suicide. Which is it?’
‘I do not know,’ said Polmorva icily. ‘I was not standing by this tree when he died to see what happened, was I?’
‘Really,’ said Michael flatly, in a tone that indicated he was not so sure. Polmorva bristled, but Michael turned to Duraunt before he could respond. ‘We will give Spryngheuse the benefit of the doubt, and will ensure he has all the due ceremony appropriate to a recently deceased scholar from a respected Oxford College. It is often difficult to tell the difference between murder and suicide in hangings, and we may never know what really happened.’
He shot Bartholomew a look that the physician interpreted as a suggestion that he should inspect the body later, without a hostile audience. It was a recommendation Bartholomew intended to follow, because he did not want to be accused of witchcraft or a morbid love of anatomy while he carried out his examination. Michael went to fetch the bier and Polmorva accompanied him, saying he wanted to ensure the monk left Merton Hall and did not go exploring by himself. The merchants declined to linger with a dead man – especially once it started to rain – and it was not long before Bartholomew was alone with Duraunt.
‘Are Polmorva’s accusations true?’ the old man asked in a voice that cracked with sorrow. ‘Do you defile corpses by prodding them after they have been laid to rest?’
‘I did inspect Okehamptone,’ admitted Bartholomew, not liking the way Duraunt considered his duties sacrilegious. ‘But only to find out how he died. I imagine most men would want justice if their lives were snatched by killers, and I do not think Okehamptone would object to someone discovering he had been murdered.’ He thought about the uneasy sensation he had experienced shortly after the examination, and sincerely hoped he was right.
Duraunt went to sit on the cistern wall. The pit was already half full, recovering quickly from Tulyet’s drainage. ‘I find the notion of you caressing a two-week-dead corpse painfully disturbing. Did you “inspect” him with the help of a knife and rouse out his innards while you were there?’
‘I did not,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘That would be illegal.’
Duraunt sighed, and was silent for a while, evidently too unsettled to discuss the matter further. Eventually, he changed the subject. ‘The merchants are itching to be back to their businesses. I suspect they plan to blame Okehamptone or Chesterfelde for killing Gonerby, just to have something to tell this demanding widow. Both are dead, so not in a position to argue.’
‘They may be maligning the names of innocent men.’
‘Is that worse than seizing someone en route and dragging him to Oxford for hanging? Because that is what they will do if they fail to catch a culprit: they have vowed not to return empty-handed. I shall be glad to go home, though. Oxford is violent and unsettled, but I have friends there, and I know where I stand. Here I do not know who to trust.’
‘Like Polmorva, you mean?’
‘No, I do not mean Polmorva,’ said Duraunt, although his eyes dipped away when he spoke. ‘I know you dislike him, but it is the merchants I am worried about. Eu and Wormynghalle hate each other, and Abergavenny is hard-pressed to keep the peace. I would not be surprised to learn that one of them took the lives of Okehamptone, Chesterfelde and Spryngheuse. They hate my University with a passion, and may regard this as a good opportunity to rid themselves of a few of us.’
‘Then why did you invite them to stay at Merton Hall?’
‘Because I fear the St Scholastica’s Day riots were started deliberately, and I do not want the same thing to happen here. I would rather have the merchants where I can see them.’
It sounded noble, but Duraunt no longer struck Bartholomew as a man who would put his own scholars in danger to protect a strange town. Once again he was not sure what to think.
Duraunt forced a smile. ‘Let us talk of happier things, Matthew. Have you read any of the theories recently proposed by Heytesbury? We are proud to have him at our College.’
‘A Fellow from King’s Hall – Hamecotes – is visiting Oxford at the moment,’ said Bartholomew, grateful to discuss a topic that would not be contentious. ‘He has gone to buy books, and says he has already secured Heytesbury’s Regulae solvendi sophismata from Merton.’
Duraunt shook his head. ‘Not from Merton, Matthew. We never sell our books, because we barely have enough for ourselves, as I am sure you will remember. And Heytesbury’s Regulae would be far too valuable to exchange for mere money. It would be priceless to us.’
‘How odd,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘I wonder if Hamecotes made the story up, and has gone off on business of his own – or whether someone wants us to believe he is somewhere he is not.’
‘You think he is dead? Perhaps he is the body you saw in the cistern.’ Duraunt glanced behind him at the murky water, and stood quickly.
‘There is no reason to think that. Perhaps he has escaped with a lover, as Weasenham says. Or perhaps he is with Wolf, nursing him through his pox.’ Bartholomew went to where Spryngheuse lay, sorry he was dead and recalling the man’s distress in the days before he died.
‘Do not touch him, Matthew,’ said Duraunt softly, watching the physician close the staring eyes. ‘If you examine him and discover he committed suicide, then we shall have to inter him in unhallowed ground: my conscience will not allow anything else. But as long as there is doubt, he can rest in a churchyard. Let there be doubt, so he can be given a Christian burial.’
Reluctantly, Bartholomew complied.
Suspecting his Corpse Examiner would never have an opportunity to examine Spryngheuse unless he took matters into his own hands, Michael abandoned the notion of taking the body to St Clement’s, and arranged for it to go to St Michael’s instead. This, he assured the suspicious Oxford contingent, was a great honour, and Spryngheuse would be guaranteed prayers from men who were members of a University, like himself. When they remained sceptical, he offered to bury Chesterfelde at the same time – two interments for the price of one. Father William had agreed to undertake vigils with his Franciscan students, and Michael said he would recite the requiem mass himself, which met with further suspicion from Polmorva, gratitude from Duraunt and indifference from the merchants. It was, after all, not they who would be footing the bill for the funeral expenses.