‘I do not want our people claiming we treat them shabbily,’ said Duraunt tiredly. ‘We are the visitors, so we shall sleep in the hall and leave them the solar.’
Michael brought the discussion back to the murder. ‘But you said Chesterfelde died in the hall. How could that happen, if you were here?’
Duraunt’s expression was sombre. ‘That is precisely why we were all so shocked. I sleep lightly, and wake at the slightest sound, but I heard nothing last night, and neither did anyone else. I suppose I was exhausted – I was in church most of yesterday, preparing myself for Pentecost.’
Michael was bemused. ‘Are you telling me Chesterfelde was killed while he was in the same room as you both?’
Duraunt nodded unhappily. ‘I am afraid so, Brother.’
Michael raised his eyebrows and gazed dispassionately at Polmorva. ‘I see. Were the three of you alone, or were there others present, too?’
Duraunt rubbed his eyes. ‘There was Spryngheuse, who is a Merton man, like me. Chesterfelde was from Balliol, but he and Spryngheuse were friends regardless. And there were three Oxford burgesses called Abergavenny, Eu and Wormynghalle.’
‘Chesterfelde was murdered in the presence of six other people?’ asked Michael, making no attempt to hide his incredulity. ‘And none of you heard or saw anything?’
‘That is what we said,’ replied Polmorva insolently. ‘Would you like me to repeat it, so it can take root in your ponderous mind?’
Bartholomew blocked Michael’s way, as the monk took an angry step towards him. He knew from experience that Polmorva could goad people to do or say things they later regretted, and he did not want Michael to strike him and face some trumped-up charge of assault that would divert attention from Chesterfelde’s death. Then it occurred to him that Polmorva might have antagonised Chesterfelde, and the resulting fracas had ended in a death. It would not be the first time such a thing had happened and, as far as Bartholomew was concerned, Polmorva was at the top of his list of murder suspects.
‘Where are Spryngheuse and the three merchants now?’ he asked.
‘Out,’ replied Polmorva shortly. ‘They grew tired of waiting for you to come, so they left.’
Michael was now in control of himself. He smiled pleasantly as he took a seat opposite Duraunt. ‘Then we shall have to make do with you two. What can you tell me about Chesterfelde? Why did he come here? Because he was friends with Spryngheuse?’
Polmorva sighed. ‘We answered these questions when you came to poke into Okehamptone’s death. Do you have nothing better to do? Cambridge scholars are a wild and undisciplined rabble. Surely your time would be better spent in taming them?’
‘I hardly think we need that kind of advice from you,’ retorted Michael tartly. ‘You have been obliged to run away from your University because it is so unsettled. At least here we can walk the streets without resentful townsmen coming after us with pitchforks and spades.’
This was not strictly true, and the relationship between University and town was uneasy, to say the least. But there had been no serious disturbances for several months, and Cambridge was as calm as could be expected. Bartholomew hoped it would stay that way until the Archbishop had been and gone.
‘We all came for different reasons,’ replied Duraunt, striving to keep the peace. ‘As I told you before, Brother, I am here to do an inventory of Merton property in Cambridge. There is evidence that Bailiff Boltone and Eudo are keeping some of the profits that should come to us…’ He trailed off unhappily, clearly uncomfortable with his role in investigating others’ dishonesty.
‘The man who let us in?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘He did not seem worried about you being here.’ He did not add that the bailiff seemed more concerned with the scholars’ maudlin spirits than bothered by what they might learn about his accounting practices.
‘Probably because he thinks he has covered his tracks,’ said Polmorva. ‘But why do you think I told him to be about his work, and not to stand gossiping with you? It is because I want to impeach the fellow, as he deserves, so we can move to another of Merton’s manors and leave this nasty town.’
‘So, Polmorva is here because Oxford is too dangerous for him,’ said Bartholomew, addressing his summary to Duraunt. ‘And you came to investigate a dishonest tenant. What about the others? Why are three Oxford burgesses staying here, and what about the dead men: Okehamptone and now Chesterfelde? Why did they come?’
‘I am not the only one who believes it is prudent to let Oxford settle before we return to our studies,’ replied Polmorva. ‘Chesterfelde and Spryngheuse also left because they feared for their safety. As Duraunt said, they were friends – Spryngheuse decided to flee, so he invited Chesterfelde to run with him.’
‘And the three merchants are here to look for a killer,’ explained Duraunt. ‘They believe a scholar used the St Scholastica’s Day riot as an excuse to kill one of their colleagues, and they have evidence that suggests the villain came to Cambridge afterwards. Okehamptone was their scribe.’
Michael pursed his lips. ‘You did not mention this when I was here last time. You said then that these merchants were here for business. This is poor form, gentlemen. The proper procedure for such matters is to inform the appropriate authority – me, in this case – immediately upon arrival. It is not polite to investigate crimes in other people’s towns without asking.’
‘They are with your Chancellor as we speak – obtaining official permission for something they have been doing anyway,’ said Polmorva smugly.
‘That is not true,’ said Duraunt sharply. Bartholomew recalled Polmorva’s unpleasant habit of rumour-mongering, and was disgusted the man had not grown out of it. ‘These are merchants – men always looking for opportunities to expand their trade. They have been visiting other burgesses in the area – not just in Cambridge, but in the surrounding villages – and have been so busy that they have had no chance to investigate the death of their colleague.’
‘Then Chesterfelde was murdered, and they realised Cambridge is just as dangerous as Oxford,’ finished Polmorva. ‘They decided they had better find their killer and go home before anyone else dies.’ He sighed, and glanced meaningfully at the sun. ‘Do you want to see Chesterfelde’s corpse or not?’
He led the way to the solar, where a body rested on the floor, covered with a sheet. A bulge near its shoulders indicated that although it had been moved to a more convenient location, nothing else had been done: Chesterfelde was lying on his front with the dagger still protruding from his back. Bartholomew pulled the cover away and began his examination, childishly gratified when he heard Polmorva’s soft exclamation of disgust, followed by a walk to the window for fresh air.
Bartholomew was thorough. He did not like the idea of a man being murdered in the same room as six other people, and no one noticing. He also felt there was more to the case than either Duraunt or Polmorva had led them to believe. Seeing Polmorva again reminded him of how much he had detested the man, and he admitted to himself that at least some of his attention to detail was in the hope that he would discover something that would incriminate him.
‘Whoever stabbed Chesterfelde did so after he was dead,’ he said eventually, sitting back on his heels and looking up at Michael. ‘No dagger killed this man.’
Astonishment flashed in Michael’s eyes, but was quickly suppressed; he did not want to appear at a loss in front of men from Oxford. ‘Matt is good at this kind of thing,’ he said, rather boastfully. ‘It is why we always – always – solve any crimes that are committed here. If a man has been killed in Cambridge, then you can trust us to bring his murderer to justice.’
‘I am glad he is useful,’ said Duraunt, although distaste was clear in his voice. ‘But what do you mean, Matthew? Of course he died from being stabbed. Look at the knife buried in his back!’