Study of Murder, The (Five Star Mystery Series) (19 page)

Mariota accompanied Mistress Bonefey home. I walked with them to Pennyfarthing Street, but Mariota bade me wait for her outside. She said she wanted to speak to Torvilda privately, so I went to a cheap ale-house across the street and drank some sour ale while they spoke.

This day had, surprisingly, been quiet. It might have been the bad weather, or the fact that Grymbaud had increased the number of his men patrolling the city streets, and most university folk had kept to their lodgings. The ale-house was nearly empty and looked sad, dirty and neglected. The greasy grime on the trestle tables was clearly visible in the early afternoon light and the establishment smelled of stale beer and unchanged rushes. I wondered about the mysterious messenger and resolved to ask Delacey about him. I was glad when I finally saw Mariota leave Torvilda’s, carrying a basket, and we walked up to Northgate while the rain drizzled down. Mariota said little, and I, saddened by Berywk’s death, found I also had nothing to say.

“What’s in the basket?” I finally asked to break the silence.

“Torvilda gave me a kitten. She said it was in payment for my services. I told her there was no need, but she insisted. She said it would make her feel better if she could give me something.”

“That was kind of her.”

“She’s a good woman. She deserves better than a slain lover and poverty. Widow Tanner’s been complaining of mice. Perhaps she’ll be glad of the kitten.”

We’d crossed outside the city walls by this time. Mariota continued on home but I stopped by Balliol and learned that Berwyk’s funeral would be held on Monday morning, and the university chancellor had decreed lectures would resume tomorrow. I wondered cynically if he hoped to forestall more troubles by keeping students occupied the day a favorite master was buried.

I walked down Canditch to the Widow Tanner’s, glad the rain had finally stopped. Outside the kitchen I saw Avice sitting on a stool, shelling beans. The little dog slept at her feet, quiet for once. Anthony stood nearby but when they saw me they both flushed, and Anthony turned and quickly walked into the main house. I did not think the course of this young love would run smoothly, what with the lass already got with child and the lad an impoverished clerk in his first years of study. Still, I wished them both joy of it, as there seemed little enough happiness to be had these days. Then I went inside the house to tell Mariota when Berwyk’s funeral mass would be held.

I found Mariota in our chamber, reading a medical text by the light that came through the open shutters. The kitten, a ball of striped fur, was curled up asleep on the wool blanket covering our bed, but my wife looked grim. Mariota did not like to lose patients.

“They say the lectures will resume tomorrow, Muirteach.”

“I heard,
mo chridhe
. Berwyk’s funeral mass will also be on Monday, after Terce.”

“Good. Then I can attend the early medical lectures and return in time for the mass. I would like to be there, as a friend to Mistress Bonefey.” Mariota turned toward me, an intent look on her face and her blue eyes wide and hard, demanding. “Muirteach,” she said, surprising me with the force of her speech, “swear nothing will happen to you. Ever. I could not bear it if I lost you.”

I sat down on our bed for a moment and stroked the kitten before I answered. It stirred a little, but did not wake.

“Nothing will happen to me,
mo chridhe
. The town is quiet enough now. All seems calm. I’m in no danger. But I might say the same to you. I don’t think it wise for you to be traipsing around the city dressed as a clerk. Berwyk is dead, the second master slain in just a few days. You are the one taking foolish chances.”

“I’m safe enough,” my wife repeated stubbornly. “I must learn more. If I’d known more, I could have saved him.”

“
Mo chridhe
, no one could have saved him. It was a grievous wound. God chose to take him.”

“No, Muirteach, God did not choose to take Master Berwyk. He was killed by man’s evil, not God’s. And now Torvilda mourns her lover. I could not bear it if I were to lose you.”

“I could not bear to lose you, either.” I stood and walked over to the desk, then bent down and kissed Mariota where she sat. The scent of her elderflower perfume filled my nostrils and her hair was like silk, smooth, as I stroked it. I drew her closer to me, and the arguments we’d had the past days faded away. We were here, together.

“Come, love.” She responded to my kiss hungrily until at length we broke apart. Then I walked over to the window and closed the shutters. I drew my wife into my arms and we left her studies unfinished for a time. The kitten slept through it all.

The next morning I slept late but woke when the kitten tried to nuzzle and nurse on my ear. The bed beside me was empty, Mariota’s tunic and wimple folded neatly on a chair. I guessed she had gone, dressed as “William,” to the morning medical lecture. The morning lectures lasted from before Prime until almost Terce.

The kitten kept nuzzling at my ear, purring and tickling me, until finally I moved it away. I saw Mariota had left some milk out for it in a small bowl. I dressed and left it in the chamber, then checked on Donald. For a wonder it appeared he also had gone to the early lecture. Perhaps the few days of enforced vacation had sharpened his appetite for learning. I doubted it.

I left the widow’s and walked down Canditch to the Balliol, thinking to seek out Delacey, but he did not appear to be at the old hall. Phillip Woode told me he had a lecture to give in the town, so I walked through the town gates and down High Street until I reached the lecture halls.

I fortuitously found Delacey walking up School Street with the same undergraduate I had seen him speak to a few days earlier. They seemed absorbed in their conversation, and neither of them noticed me until I came quite close.

“Master Delacey,” I called out. The lad speaking with Delacey visibly startled. “I would speak with you, and with your friend.”

Delacey turned. “Oh yes, what is it, Muirteach?” He seemed much calmer than his young friend.

“Brother Eusebius described the messenger, the lad that brought word of the fire, as looking like your friend here. I thought to inquire if he is the messenger.”

The boy looked blank, and Delacey did as well. “No, it was not this lad. This is Richard DeVyse, a student from the south. From Kent, is it not, Richard?”

The lad nodded. “What message are you speaking of?”

I told him.

“Oh no, sir, it was not I. I was studying. I have just begun the Quadrivium and find the astronomy difficult. I am trying to grasp the concepts.”

“You seem a studious lad,” I observed, mentally comparing Richard’s behavior to that of my charge and finding my charge’s behavior somewhat lacking. But that was not news. “Can someone vouch for your whereabouts?”

“Yes, I was in my rooming house. My roommate can tell you, for neither of us left that day.”

“He is a good boy,” Delacey observed with a fondness in his voice that surprised me. “And honest. Richard would not be mixed up in something like that, would you Dickon? His family and mine have been friends a long while. Our lands border each other in Kent.”

“And who is your roommate?”

“He is named Borou. He is there now, if you would like to ask him yourself.”

I followed Richard and Delacey through a side alley to a student tenement. There in a cramped room on the fourth floor I was introduced to Borou, who vouched that indeed, Richard had been studying on the afternoon in question.

So Eusebius must have been wrong, and Richard was not the messenger. But there were other fair-haired students at the university, and I resolved to find the lad who had delivered the message.

Delacey and I left Richard with his roommate and walked back toward Balliol. “What is your connection with the young lad?” I asked.

I fancied Delacey bristled a little. “As I said, our families are old friends. His father asked me to keep an eye out for the boy and that is what I have done. That is all there is to it.”

I spent the rest of that afternoon searching for the fair-haired student who had delivered the false message about the burning lecture hall, to no avail. Since I had no name and only a vague description, my search proved fruitless. The earth seemed to have swallowed the lad up.

The undersheriff, having apprehended both Ivo and Adam Bookman, seemed intent mainly on restoring quiet to the streets of his town. Townsfolk went about their business, the goodwives of Oxford cleaned their homes, and the students stayed quiet, for the main part, studying or drinking in the taverns. Grymbaud’s men patrolled and there were no further incidents. The crisis, I hoped, had passed.

I stopped by The Green Man for a glass of ale later in the afternoon. I found investigating blind alleys to be thirsty work. Master Jakeson was not there, but his wife served me. I hesitated to ask about her daughter, as I knew she’d taken the lass’s disappearance to heart. I could see that the woman had lost weight and had deep, dark circles around her eyes. I did not wish to upset her further. So I was somewhat surprised when the goodwife questioned me.

“Sir,” she asked, wiping her hands on her apron after she had set down my beaker of ale, “have you heard anything else about my daughter?”

“Not since the friar reported seeing her with the chapman. I am indeed sorry. I know nothing else.”

The woman’s face fell and she blinked some. But she steadied herself and spoke again. “And what chapman would that be?”

“The friar said he was tall, with dark brown hair and an accent from the North.”

“Eh, sir, that’s what they said right enough. That’s what my goodman told me the friar said. But I don’t know what chapman that would be. The description sounds like Walter of York, but we haven’t seen him in some time.”

“Was this Walter of York friendly with your daughter?”

“She’s a beautiful girl and lots of men fancied her. But my Jonetta’s a good girl, sir. She’d be friendly with the customers but they couldn’t take no liberties. Not with my goodman standing here watching.”

“But do you think she fancied him?”

“Not that I ever noticed. She often complained that he smelled of garlic.”

That did not sound like a basis for youthful romance to me. “What of this Walter of York? Is he an honest man?”

“He’s a peddler, sir, a trader. But I never knew him to cheat. He gave good value, good enough.”

Although he smelled of garlic. “And when did he last visit?”

“I last saw him near Midsummer’s Eve. So that would be close to three months ago.”

“And the undersheriff knows this?”

“Yes, we told him. But he surmised that the chapman came into town secret-like and stole Jonetta away, her being willing. But I can’t think that’s true, sir. Not my daughter.”

“Did Jonetta fancy anyone else? That you knew of?”

Mistress Jakeson chewed on her lower lip a bit while she thought. “There are all those university men that frequent our place. I think she liked that young man from Balliol. The one with the nice brown eyes—Phillip Woode. She spoke to me of how fine it would be to marry an educated man.”

I had seen Jonetta with Phillip Woode, that first night we’d been in town. She had not seemed repulsed by his advances. But Phillip swore he knew nothing of the lass’s disappearance. And I liked Phillip Woode. Besides, even if he had been involved, where was Jonetta now?

I sipped at my ale while Mistress Jakeson served other customers and wondered about Jonetta and the murders.

Phillip Woode, Delacey, Berwyk, Eusebius. Something I’d heard and forgotten that first day after Clarkson’s murder came to mind.

Mistress Jakeson came back and refilled my beaker.

“You must hear quite a lot, working in the tavern,” I commented after I thanked her for her good ale.

Mistress Jakeson nodded. “Indeed. Men are talkative after a glass or two of ale.”

“Have you heard aught of heresy?”

“Heresy? Such as what?”

“I just wondered.”

“There are those who believe we should be able to read God’s word in our own tongue. Lollards, they are called. But that, sir, I do not believe to be heresy. That Master Wycliffe, he did often speak of that when he lived here. He said it was no sin.”

“Although the church might say so.”

Mistress Jakeson made a face. “The church cannot even agree on where the Pope should reside. In Avignon or in Rome.”

For a woman, she was well informed.

“That master that was murdered at the college—”

“Master Clarkson?”

“Aye. I heard there had been some talk of heresy there.”

“I know naught of that, sir. Although those scholars will talk when they are in their cups.”

“Of what?” I drank some more ale and waited.

“I do mind one night—it was those men from Balliol that were here—Phillip Woode, Berwyk, and the pompous one with the red hair.”

“Delacey?”

She nodded. “That’ll be his name. And Clarkson and the friar. They argued here one night.”

“And when was this?”

“In the summer sometime. I remember as the younger students had mostly been gone, between the terms of study.”

“And what was the cause of the quarrel?”

She shrugged. “Who knows? The little I heard made no sense to me. But that Clarkson, him that was murdered, was furious, his face all red. And the little cockerel,” here I guessed she meant Delacey, “nearly went for his knife. But it came to naught, luckily.”

“Indeed. Well, if you remember anything else, be kind enough to let me know.”

“I will, sir,” she replied. “I’ll see you in here often enough.”

And in that fact, at least, she was correct. The ale at The Green Man was good, and I was there often.

Supposedly the murders were solved. Ivo had attacked Clarkson in a fit of rage over his daughter’s pregnancy. Adam Bookman had stabbed Ralph Berwyk over the disputed copy of the
Isagoge
. Then why, I asked myself the next day, was I so restless?

It was the Sunday before Berwyk’s funeral mass, which was to be held on Monday morning. I paced back and forth in my chamber until I annoyed my wife, who, having returned from mass, was intent upon studying Galen’s treatise on urine. She tried to ignore me. Finally, I flung myself down on the bed with a large sigh and Mariota looked up.