Study of Murder, The (Five Star Mystery Series) (17 page)

“How does he?” I asked.

Mariota shook her head. “The wound went into the abdomen. If it does not fester he might recover, but he is choleric, his humors very unbalanced. We must just wait and see.”

The cat left its kittens mewling, got out of the box and rubbed itself around Mariota’s ankles.

“There, there, Puss,” Mariota said to the cat as she put the draught down on the table. She bent and picked up one of the kittens, which immediately began mewing loudly. The cat made a chirping noise and Mariota set the kitten back down in the box, where the mother joined it. The kittens started to nurse again hungrily.

“Thank you for coming, Muirteach,” my wife said to me as she picked up the potion and took it to Master Berwyk’s bedside. “But it was not necessary.”

“Donald was playing that damned lute,” I replied. “I thought to escape the noise.”

Mariota smiled a half-smile at my jest and then turned to concentrate on getting her patient to swallow some of the medicine. Torvilda turned to my wife and asked how she thought Master Berwyk fared. Mariota responded that he was in God’s hands, not the most reassuring answer. At length Torvilda said something to my wife, then burst into tears, caught up her mantle, and left the house.

“She has gone to church to light some candles for him and pray to the Virgin for his safe recovery,” Mariota told me. “We’ve done what we can here and must wait and see.”

“Must you stay the night?” I asked.

“She is distraught and needs company. The lads that lodge here are asleep. And I do not mind staying. I must watch him, for he could easily turn worse. Sometimes there is bleeding in the organs. If we can get him to take the willow bark and his wound does not fester he might do well enough. The next few hours should tell.”

Although I am not generally a praying man, I was sorely tempted to join Torvilda at the chapel. What had happened to Master Berwyk was a sad thing, and I was not sure that the townsfolk were to blame for it. But instead of going to the church I stayed with my wife while she ministered to her patient. It seemed a short time before Torvilda returned, her face somewhat more composed.

“How does he?” she asked.

“About the same,” Mariota replied. “You should sleep. I’ll watch.”

Torvilda shook her head no and sat down on a stool by the bed. She took out her wooden beads and began to say the Rosary. The candle flickered and smoked and I began to nod off from where I sat in the room’s only chair with a back. Eventually I drifted into an unsteady doze.

A noise roused me. The candle had gone out and the chamber was dimly lit from the coals of the fire, but I saw Mariota bending over Master Berwyk. His aunt stood close by. Torvilda slept on a pallet by the bed.

“Is he awake?” I asked, standing up and stiffly walking to the bedside.

Mariota nodded. Master Berwyk’s face was flushed and his eyes glassy. His body seemed to give off heat. He groaned and tossed, then groaned again in pain.

“Is he conscious? Perhaps he knows who did this to him.”

“Speak softly, Muirteach. The poor lass is exhausted and just fell asleep.”

“Master Berwyk, can you hear me?” I spoke close to his ear.

Berwyk stopped groaning a moment and gave an imperceptible nod.

“Who did this to you? One of the townsfolk?”

He shook his head from side to side, whether to answer my question or just out of pain I could not tell.

“Can you speak? Tell us? Who did this?”

“Behind. Couldn’t see.”

“Were you in the chapel? Or was it on the street?”

Berwyk closed his eyes and swallowed. “Thirsty—”

“Now, Muirteach, you’ve bothered him enough.” Mariota brought a mug to the bedside. “Let him rest. And we must get this fever down,” she whispered, reaching again for the basin and cloths that sat on the small table nearby to sponge down the patient. “He’s burning hot.”

Torvilda startled awake, saw her lover and sat upright. “He’s awake?”

“Yes.”

“Ralph, it’s Torvilda.”

“Sweeting.”

“You must get well, Ralph.”

Master Berwyk smiled a little.

“You must.”

“Aye, sweeting.” He groaned again as Mariota sponged his body with the vinegar and water.

“Here, let me,” Torvilda remonstrated and took the sponge from Mariota.

Mariota left her and approached me with a whisper. “Muirteach, I think you should fetch the priest. I’m not liking the look of this.”

I nodded. “Where?”

“Master Berwyk’s aunt could go with you. To Saint Ebbe’s. She says it is close by.”

We lit a lantern and Berwyk’s aunt and I walked through the darkness to the nearby church, where we roused the priest from his slumber. He came readily enough, and administered the last rites while Torvilda and the older woman wept by Berwyk’s bedside.

I left them and returned to the chair, watching the coals and listening. After awhile all was silent, the priest left and I surmised Berwyk had drifted again into unconsciousness. The cat and kittens purred by the fireside and I too slept for a time.

I awoke to light shining in from the opened shutters. I glanced at the bed and my heart sank. Berwyk lay unnaturally still, dead, while Torvilda and his aunt washed his body. Torvilda’s eyes were red and tears streaked down her face as the older woman tried to offer some comfort, although her own cheeks were wet. Mariota, grim-faced, was gathering her supplies together in her pouch. She saw me and shook her head.

“When did he die?”

“Soon after the priest left. He lapsed into unconsciousness and died shortly after.”

“So now there are two murderers to find.”

Mariota shrugged. She had dark circles around her lovely eyes and I guessed she had not slept. “There’s nothing more to do here. Torvilda and Berwyk’s aunt are together, they’ll not be alone.”

“We must inform the college. No doubt he has other family to notify as well. Has his aunt sent a message?”

Mariota nodded, then sighed deeply. “I could not save him.”

“He was sore wounded,
mo chridhe
. That was an ugly cut.”

“If I’d known more, perhaps I could have done more.”

I took her in my arms and held her a moment. Then she pulled away.

“You’re exhausted,
mo chridhe
. I doubt anyone could have saved him. Come, you need to rest.”

We left the sad house on Pennyfarthing Street and slowly walked up to the college. It was early still, the town just stirring into life. I smelled the smoke of morning fires, and a stronger burned smell still lingered as we passed the chapel where the Balliol masters had been besieged and Ralph Berwyk had been fatally stabbed. The chapel was in ruins, a stinking mass of blackened thatching and fallen timbers where the roof had once stood. Mariota stood silent, exhausted, while I looked at the ruins again.

Who had killed Berwyk? And why? Had the master been a random casualty of a senseless riot, or had his murder been more intentional?

The bookseller immediately came to mind. He had Berwyk’s book; it was valuable and they had argued about it.

I kicked idly at a charred timber still lying in the gutter, turning it over. Underneath, in the mud of the street, I saw a knife. I picked it up. It was a small knife, the type most everyone had for eating and cutting meat. Someone had lost it in the street. But underneath the mud and ashes that covered it, I could see blood on the blade.

“Look, Mariota. This knife could be the one used to stab Berwyk.”

My wife examined the knife with me.

“Yes,” she agreed. “The blade is stained with blood, as though it was thrust deep.” She sighed and looked close to tears. “This could well be the weapon that killed the poor man.”

We passed through Northgate and I realized we would have to inform the authorities as well as the college of Berwyk’s death. But first I wanted to get my wife home.

I left Mariota with Widow Tanner, who fussed over her and helped her to bed. Donald still slept in his chamber. I drank a glass of small ale and then left the house again to seek out the undersheriff.

I found him in his quarters at the castle. He was breaking his fast on some bread and ale but he put the loaf down and stopped eating when he saw me enter the room.

“Berwyk’s dead,” I said flatly.

“That’s not good news. I’ll let Houkyn know. He’ll call the inquest, for tomorrow morn most likely. Have you told the other fellows?”

“Not yet.”

“Did Berwyk say anything before he died?”

“He said he was stabbed from behind. He didn’t see who did it.”

“Do you think he was knifed on the street or in the chapel?”

I told him of Berwyk’s quarrel with the bookseller and showed him the knife I had found. Grymbaud nodded.

“I’ll take the man into custody on suspicion of murder. He can join his friend the cordwainer in the cells. Then we’ll see if he’ll confess.”

“How is Ivo?”

Grymbaud shrugged. “He’s safe, and well enough. Not lynched by those clerks, at any rate. He asks for his daughter.”

“I’ll tell her. Can she visit?”

The undersheriff nodded. “But don’t send the waif down here alone. What about the other fellows?”

“I thought to tell you first, then the college. It was a bad wound.” I left the rest of my thought unsaid, but the sheriff grasped my point quickly enough.

“You mean, a wound too bad to travel far? You think someone in the chapel did it?”

“What reason would they have? It makes no sense.”

“None of this damned business makes sense,” growled Grymbaud. “It’s worse than their damned disputations.”

“And then there was that message, summoning the masters into town.”

“Yes, that’s also odd. It could be that the townsmen lured them in with a false message. That would make a little sense, at least.” Grymbaud turned to me. “Try and find out who the messenger was, and who sent him. You don’t think any of his fellow scholars knifed him?”

“For what reason? Phillip Woode said he was well liked.”

Grymbaud shrugged. “Jealousy?”

“The only one with motive is the bookseller.”

Grymbaud nodded. “We’ll have him in hand soon enough. And we do have the knife. That was a lucky find, Muirteach, and it should be easy enough to identify the owner. The chancellor has cancelled lectures again today, until things calm down. So you should find all the masters at Balliol—at least what’s left of them.”

I neared the college and wondered at the quiet. No scholars played ball in the backlands. Of course the day was cloudy and as I marveled at the quiet it began to rain. Perhaps that would help extinguish the madness that had taken over this town.

I entered the college grounds and pushed open the wooden door to the old hall. In the common room I saw Delacey and Phillip Woode sitting at the trestle table, drinking ale.

“Have you news of Ralph?” asked Phillip.

“Aye, and it is not good. The man died. His wound was worse than it first appeared.”

Phillip gasped. “I had not realized his wound was serious. You said it was but slight.”

“Even slight wounds can fester and cause death,” I replied.

“Those bastards,” said Delacey, his normally ruddy complexion pale. I did not like the venom I heard in his voice. “They’ll pay.”

“The undersheriff has already sent men to arrest Adam Bookman,” I replied. “He’ll pay right enough.”

“So that’s who knifed him?” Phillip asked.

“They had quarreled.”

“Over the
Isagoge
,” Delacey interjected. “Well, the book belongs to the college now. No doubt Ralph would want the college to have it.”

“The book was valuable,” I interposed. “Did Berwyk have family?”

“A mother north of Sheffield. We’ll send a letter.”

“Tell me,” I said, changing the subject, “who was the messenger that came to tell you the hall was burning?”

“I did not see him. We were sitting here, looking at that odd parchment Ralph had. He said those lads had given it to him. Then Eusebius got up and answered the door. He returned with the news that the lecture hall was burning. We all ran off to attend to it.”

“And when you arrived it was not aflame.”

“No, all was well. I think those townsfolk wanted to lure us into town. They’ll pay for this,” Delacey repeated.

“Where is Eusebius? I would like to find that messenger.”

“He often goes walking. He says he enjoys pondering the wonders of the Creator at those times.”

“Where does he walk?”

“Out of town, toward the open fields to the north.”

Delacey started to make plans for Ralph’s funeral. There were to be no lectures that day, and the following day was a Sunday. The funeral would be held on Monday morning. So that gave two days for things to calm down. I started toward the door, and then turned.

“The parchment you were examining, when the messenger came. Did any of you recognize it?”

“None of us had ever seen anything like it. Berwyk was most curious about it. You’ve seen it, I take it?”

I told Delacey about finding the palimpsests on the parchment we had bought. Another mysterious thread leading back to Adam Bookman. I resolved to go speak with him. Presumably the authorities had him under guard at the castle now.

As I left the college and turned down along Canditch I saw Brother Eusebius returning. Now, I thought, I might ask him about the messenger. I hailed him and he looked at me with that surprised, abstracted air he had and blinked a little. He had a bundle under one arm, wrapped up in a piece of blue material. “Oh, it is you. The man from the North.”

“Indeed, and I’ve just a quick question for you.”

“Of course, if I might be of help.”

“Did you enjoy your walk? Where do you go?”

“Out beyond the houses, where there are some open fields. I find I think more clearly there. I ponder the mysteries of our Lord’s creation.”

“Indeed.”

Eusebius smiled. “And your question, sir?”

“Yes, I was wondering about the messenger. Who brought you word that the lecture hall was aflame? You’re the only one who saw him. Who was the lad? What did he look like?”

“I was not familiar with the boy. He was slightly built and had fair hair, dressed in the robes of an undergraduate.”