Study of Murder, The (Five Star Mystery Series) (18 page)

“Did he say who sent him?”

“No, but I fear when I heard his news about the fire in the hall I did not wait for him to tell me anything else. I rushed back and got the others, and we ran into town to see.”

“And where was the lad then?”

“He had disappeared. No doubt he’d delivered his message and left.”

“But there was no fire. So the lad must have connived with some folk, the townsfolk perhaps. You can see why I must find him.”

“Indeed,” Eusebius agreed, “but, sadly, I know nothing more.”

“What clothes was he wearing?”

Eusebius thought a moment. “I believe he wore a blue tunic with a hood. I might have seen him with Delacey once or twice, on School Street.”

I nodded, remembering the young undergraduate Delacey had spoken with a few days before. The description would fit that lad. But then the description would fit many other students equally well. Many undergraduates no doubt were fair-haired and wore blue tunics. Eusebius could have been describing William of Uist. And William of Uist, at least, was not the boy who had delivered the message.

I thanked Eusebius and left him walking up the road toward the Balliol gate while I turned my steps toward Oxford Castle.

The undersheriff was a little surprised to see me again so soon but he had no objections to my interviewing Adam Bookman. I followed the guard down a winding stone staircase into the bowels of the castle, where I found Adam Bookman in a small dark cell with a black eye and bloodied nose. Apparently he had put up a fight, or else the undersheriff’s men had been in a poor mood when they apprehended him.

The guard opened the door. In the dim light I could just make out Bookman sitting in the moldy, reeking straw that covered the floor of his cell. There was barely room for him to lie down, and I doubted he could stand upright in the cramped space.

“Adam. Adam Bookman,” called the guard. “There’s a man here wants to speak with you.” I slipped the guard a coin and he retreated down the hallway a bit.

Bookman stood up awkwardly and shuffled to the door. “Who is it, then? Oh, it’s you. What do you want with me? You’ve already got me accused of murder—for it was you, wasn’t it, that told them of the book.”

“They’d have found out soon enough. Anyone could have told them.”

“I didn’t murder Berwyk.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“Because I’m telling the truth. I met up with that cordwainer and Jakeson and the others. We saw the masters walking down the street and Jakeson had words with Woode about his daughter. Then we fought—but I didn’t knife anyone. I swear by Saint Martin. Those masters ran and gained the chapel. Then the cordwainer set fire to the roof.”

“So the knife I found was not yours?”

“Indeed not,” Bookman said.

“And none of you sent a message to them, that their hall on School Street was aflame?”

Bookman looked confused. “What message? We sent no message.” He continued, “You’ve got the undersheriff’s ear. Tell him I’m innocent. I stabbed no one. You’ve got to believe me.”

“Why should I believe you? You’ve got that damned book. It’s very valuable, I hear.”

“It’s valuable, but I wouldn’t have killed for it. Berwyk was going to redeem the volume anyway.”

“It was a riot. There was confusion. Who could vouch for you? Who was near you?”

Bookman thought a moment. “The three of us were on the High Street when we met up with them. Jakeson wanted to just let them pass, but then Phillip Woode asked about Jonetta.”

“What do you think happened to her?” I asked, changing the topic.

“She was a good lass. I don’t think she ran away.”

“Then where is she?”

Adam Bookman shrugged his shoulders. “I neither know nor care too much. Not now, when I’ve been arrested for murder.”

“So what happened then? After Phillip spoke?”

“It was the cordwainer who couldn’t keep his mouth shut. He accused Phillip of murder. Then he mentioned the old man, and accused all four of the men there of raping young girls and other perverse acts. That set the fuse alight and the brawl began.”

“So who was next to you?”

“Jakeson, most of the time.”

“Did you enter the chapel?”

“No, it was as I said. They ran ahead and barred the door against us. Until the cordwainer set fire to the roof.”

“Do you think someone else could have been in the chapel?” I asked. For if Berwyk had not been stabbed on the street, then he had been stabbed in the chapel. And if no one else had been in the chapel, then he’d been knifed by one of his colleagues.

“How would I know?”

“Do you remember the chase?”

“Well,” Bookman furrowed his brow and thought. “The cordwainer started taunting them, then I think it was Woode that struck the first blow. But Jakeson was after him then, yelling that he’d killed his poor daughter. Then they started running, cowards that they are.”

“Who ran ahead?”

“Berwyk was last. He landed a blow on Jakeson just as the tavern keeper was about to pound Woode’s head against a corner of the house. Then Jakeson let up on Woode and the two of them followed the others to the chapel.”

“So, if I’m to believe you, Berwyk was either stabbed by someone already in the chapel or by his good friends Delacey or Eusebius. And no one else came out of the chapel. And the knife was found outside the chapel as well, not inside. What jury will believe this?”

“An honest jury!” Bookman shouted. “One not in the pockets of the damned university!”

“I’ll ask. Perhaps some witnesses to the fight can be found.”

“I’d be grateful. For whatever you can do.”

I turned, leaving the bookseller in his stinking cell. The guard locked the door again and we started toward the stairs. Then I thought of old Ivo. I asked the gaoler and he showed me the old man’s cell and let me in. It seemed the old man had fared better than Adam Bookman; at least, I could see no bruises on his face. The straw didn’t reek so much and a slit window high in the stone wall let a shaft of daylight in. Ivo didn’t look overjoyed to see me. I was the one who had sent him here, after all.

“How are they treating you?” I asked him.

“None so bad. Sir, do you have news of my daughter?”

I told him of Avice’s new position and his face lightened a bit. “That’s a great weight from my heart, that is. If they hang me it won’t matter, just as long as I know she’s cared for.”

“She seems to get on with the widow,” I observed. “And she is safe enough there.”

“You found her the place, didn’t you?”

“It was more my wife,” I admitted.

“Saints bless the both of you. I’m in your debt, indeed I am.”

I thought not, since the old man was in prison mainly on my word, and guiltily I bade him goodbye.

I left the castle and went back into town to speak with Master Jakeson. Bookman had claimed Jakeson was nearby during the melee. So I sought him out at The Green Man. The tavern was close to empty and I found Jakeson wiping the dark wood tables down with a grimy rag. He seemed like a man defeated, all the energy and fight gone from him. It was hard to imagine this man pounding Phillip Woode’s head against a wall. He moved slowly, methodically, to his task.

“I wanted to ask you about the disturbance yesterday. You know they’ve arrested Adam Bookman for the assault on Berwyk. And now Berwyk is dead, it will be murder charges he’ll face. Your friend will hang for murder.”

Jakeson kept wiping tables. “I’m sorry to hear that. Adam Bookman is a good man. Berwyk was a good man, as well.”

“Then why were you fighting with him?”

“It’s bad when those students get agitated.”

“From what I heard, you townsfolk were the instigators. You’re lucky you are all not in gaol.”

Jakeson had the grace to flush. I watched the color spread on his grizzled cheeks.

“What happened?” I asked again.

“Those masters came down High Street with that Woode amongst them. And words got started—let loose—it got out of hand. There they were, without a care in the world, and my Jonetta gone—”

“Adam Bookman claims you were close to him as the masters were chased into the chapel. He claims Berwyk struck a blow that hit you, just as you were about to hit Phillip Woode. Then they ran into the chapel for safety.”

“Aye, that’s close enough to how it happened.”

“So where was Bookman? Could he have knifed Berwyk? Or can you vouch that he did not?”

Jakeson put his rag down on the table and straightened up, thinking.

“Let me see it in my mind, like. We met them on High Street. I had just come out of the tavern and was speaking with the cordwainer, passing the time of day, and then Adam Bookman came along. It was then that we saw the masters walking back toward Northgate Street. They were coming from School Street way. And then that young one, he asked me about my Jonetta.”

That accorded with what Phillip Woode himself had told me.

“Then the butcher showed up and he started berating them, as to how they’d mistreated that poor girl at the college. Everyone knows about Ivo, in chains now at the castle. Unfair, it is. And my own daughter gone now—who knows where; it was too much, all of it, too much to bear—I’m thinking the butcher said something about Woode, and Jonetta.”

“So the words turned to blows,” I put in.

“Aye, that they did. My anger got the better of me. But then Berwyk accused Adam Bookman of stealing some book. That’s an outright lie. Bookman, he’s but an honest merchant. So it got out of hand, and quick enough too, and we chased them to the chapel. I had my sights on Woode and was just about to bash him when Berwyk hit me. The next thing I knew they’d been chased into the chapel and then the cordwainer blocked the door and set the roof afire.”

“And where was Bookman?”

“Close to me, but after the blow I took there are a few minutes I do not remember.”

“Did you see him stab Berwyk?”

“No, I did not.”

“And did you see Berwyk run into the chapel?”

“They were all running, like rats, until Berwyk hit me. Next I knew, they was all inside, and the butcher called to me that we had trapped them, and to bar the doors tight.”

“So you didn’t see Berwyk after he hit you?”

Adam Jakeson shrugged his shoulders. “It was a brawl and a chase. I am ashamed and sorry for my part in it, in particular as the man is dead, but I did not see him knifed, nor did I see him enter the chapel.”

“But Bookman was close to him. He could have stabbed him.”

“He was close, yes. But then as I’ve told you, Berwyk hit me, and I don’t recollect what happened right after that. I can’t say yes, and I can’t say no.”

I held out the knife I had found and showed it to Jakeson. “Do you recognize this knife?”

Jakeson shook his head no. So I was no closer to the truth, and Bookman that much closer to the noose.

I stopped back by Widow Tanner’s for the noon meal. As I passed Donald’s chamber I heard a rummaging sound and looked in. The room was a mess, bedcovers and clothing strewn about. Donald’s accursed lute lay on the bed, a tunic and cotehardie lying across it. There was an empty wine jug on the floor. I saw Donald rise from the other side of the bed, where he had apparently been searching for something under the bedstead.

“Studying hard?” I asked.

“I went to the early lectures,” Donald replied, somewhat defensively. “And came back. I was going to clean more of those parchments. They’ve disappeared.”

“I am not surprised you can’t find them in all of this,” I retorted, although my own dwelling had been none too neat when I had kept house for myself. “Does the widow not clean in here?”

“Aye, she does.” Donald again disappeared behind the bed and I saw a shoe come flying up to land on the bed, barely missing the lute. “Muirteach, there was a tall stack of them. I had them under the bed here. They’ve vanished.”

“When did you see them last?”

“A few days ago. That day there were no classes. Anthony and Crispin and I spent some time cleaning a few of them. Then I put them all under the bed. They aren’t there. Look for yourself.”

I knelt down and peered under the bed. There were certainly no parchments, although I did spy the second shoe and a discarded wine cup.

“That is strange. When did the widow last clean your room?” I asked.

“A day or two ago.”

“Perhaps she did something with the parchments,” I ventured. “Let us go and ask her.”

When we found Widow Tanner she was seeing to the noon meal. She denied having moved the parchments, although she claimed to remember seeing them under the bed. “Although how I could even see them amongst all your lordship’s belongings thrown under there, I couldn’t say. But they were there, stowed under the bed, right enough.”

“And that was two days ago?”

The widow nodded.

“Do you think Anthony or Crispin borrowed them to work on?” I asked.

“Not without asking my permission,” Donald returned, every inch the young princeling. “They would not dare.”

“Well then, I can’t hazard a guess as to where they might be. I’m sure they’ll turn up someplace. I’m thinking you misplaced them.”

“No, Muirteach, I did not!” Donald protested.

“Best go to the booksellers and purchase a few more sheets, then, if you’ll be needing parchment anytime soon.”

“But Muirteach, they were stolen.”

“I’m doubting that, Donald. You’ve misplaced them, that is all. Now let us eat and not keep the poor woman waiting. The food will get cold.”

I ignored Donald’s furious cries of protest and sat down to my dinner. Mariota joined us. Then I left and went back to Oxford Castle, where I told the undersheriff of my conversation with Jakeson.

Houkyn had convened Berwyk’s inquest for the next morning. The jury heard the evidence of Grymbaud and myself and then looked at the knife, which Bookman denied was his. They listened to Mariota’s description of Berwyk’s wound and Mistress Bonefey’s red-eyed testimony. Perhaps Torvilda’s presence made the jury sympathetic to the slain man, for they quite quickly returned the verdict of murder and indicted Adam Bookman. Then, grumbling about disruptions to the peace and civic responsibilities, the twelve worthy citizens of Oxford returned to their duties.