Study of Murder, The (Five Star Mystery Series) (6 page)

“A new kirtle?” I asked.

“Something of the sort,” Mariota replied.

We turned onto School Street and Mariota said she would go on to the widow’s through Smithgate. I decided I should go check on Donald and entered the hall. The lecture room was simple, wood benches around the edges and a lectern at the front where the master spoke. Julian Delacey was lecturing on grammar, from
De partibus orationis ars minor
. Delacey was somewhat short, with a ruddy complexion, and to me he seemed a pompous fool. I took a seat at the back and waited for the lecture to end. It was not a stimulating topic. Delacey asked the questions and the students, most of whom looked to be about the same age as Donald, chanted their answers back.

“How many attributes has a noun?”

“Six.”

“What are they?”

“Quality, comparison, gender, number, form, case.”

I saw Anthony and Crispin, who were seated a ways down the bench from Donald, writing something on their wax tablets and smirking. Master Delacey apparently did not notice. Then they passed the tablets down the row toward Donald. He glanced at the tablets, his face reddened, and he slammed them shut. Delacey did notice this and he fixed Donald with a glare, his hazel eyes bulging somewhat from his face. “You will show me your tablet, young man.”

“But—” Donald started to argue, then shut his mouth, walked up to the podium and handed the tablet to Delacey. The master opened the tablets, and his face also reddened. The boys sitting on the benches began a rumble of excited whispering, and I saw Crispin nudge Anthony, both of their smirks wider now.

“So this is what you think of the art of grammar.”

Donald said, “I am sorry, sir.”

“I will speak with the Master. He will decide your punishment.”

I groaned. Whatever had been on that tablet, it did not seem it was an explanation of the attributes of a noun.

“The lecture is ended,” Delacey announced and exited the room, carrying the tablets and leading Donald by the ear, followed by an excited crowd of students and myself.

Master Clarkson was at the lecture hall in a private office. Delacey went in with Donald and closed the door behind them. In short order, all three returned.

“This young student has not attended well,” said Master Clarkson in stentorian tones. “He has made a mockery of the art of grammar.”

“Let me see,” I asked, “as I am responsible for his behavior here.”

Master Clarkson thrust the tablets at me. There was a crude picture of a woman with very large bare breasts, and someone had jotted down the attributes of a noun with arrows such as “size—large, gender—female, form—round, comparison—softer.”

“Are you sure these are his tablets?” I asked. “I thought I saw someone pass them his way.”

“He does not deny that they are his,” the Master retorted. “And he must be punished. He will be thrashed in front of the other students. I will be lenient on account of his new arrival here and his parentage.”

It did not sound lenient to me. But Donald imperceptibly shook his head at me and I did not intervene.

The students were assembled and Master Clarkson vigorously thrashed Donald’s backside ten times with a blackthorn stick. My own body shuddered as I listened to the blows, almost as if I myself was being beaten, but Donald bore it like a man and did not cry out.

After it was over, Donald walked stiffly away, his hands fisted, but the other first-year students followed him, exclaiming and talking. The look he gave Anthony and Crispin spoke volumes. I saw him say something to Anthony but I did not catch the words. I could guess, however, and hoped Donald would have the good sense not to fight with him right away.

“I’m leaving,” said Donald hotly to me in Gaelic when I caught up with him. “I’ll not be staying this afternoon for the stupid disputations.”

Given the situation, I felt it best not to argue. “Why don’t we go to The Green Man and have some ale? Or go back to our lodgings? No doubt Mariota can fix something that will make your back feel somewhat better.”

“I hate them. They are great louts. I will get them for this,” Donald swore as we left the lecture hall and walked to an alehouse. We ordered some ale and two meat pastries.

“It didn’t hurt,” Donald insisted, although I did not for one second believe him. I had heard the sound of the stick. “But they’ll pay for this, just see if they don’t. Master Clarkson too. And that Delacey. They’ll all pay.”

“Your father would have been proud of you.”

“I could not tattle on them, like a babe,” Donald retorted. “But I’ll have it out of them later.” Just then our ale arrived and we drank awhile in silence.

The door of the tavern opened. “Oh no,” Donald groaned, and I silently echoed his sentiments. Anthony and Crispin entered the tavern and sauntered up to us.

“I’m sorry—” Anthony started to say, but Donald did not let him finish. He punched him and Anthony struck back, knocking Donald to the ground. Then Crispin entered the fray. Within an instant the three boys were at each other, pummeling and rolling in the grimy rushes on the floor, while the tavern keeper shouted he would loose the dogs on them if they did not stop, and I strove to pull them apart. There was a pitcher of ale on the trestle table and I grabbed it, threw it in their faces, and managed to grab Crispin by the back of his robe and push Anthony away with my other hand.

“Is it fools you all are?” I yelled. “Do you all want to be expelled? For that is no doubt what will happen if you do not stop this now.”

There was blood running from Anthony’s nose, while Crispin’s eye looked red and puffy. Secretly, I was glad to see that Donald had acquitted himself well, although I tried to sound stern. The three boys glared at each other, then started to grin.

“Now,” I said, “all three of you will sit down and share some ale and put this behind you. Then we will go and see if my wife has some magic ointment that will put you all together. And stop all this.”

After two mazers of ale, the boys were chattering as though they had been friends for years. After three mazers, we left the alehouse and made our way back to the Widow Tanner’s.

The good widow was speechless when she saw the students approach, and turned away darkly with statements that she should have known better than to rent to students, but I tried to reassure her while Mariota doctored the boys with a salve of arnica and calendula flowers. Then Donald got out his lute and before too long all three of the lads were singing songs in Latin, something about Dame Fortune and squandering one’s time in taverns. I hoped it would not prove prophetic, in regard to Donald’s academic career.

The next morning I went with Donald to the morning lectures. When we returned, Mariota was not at the widow’s. “She went out,” Widow Tanner informed me. “She said she had to run an errand. She probably went to the market for something, perhaps more cloth.”

“Perhaps.” I thought little of it, and after dinner Donald and I returned to the schools and listened to the senior students at their disputations. Phillip Woode was participating this afternoon, his dispute to be judged by Master Clarkson. We had heard no more about Jonetta, but the undersheriff had not bothered Woode again. I had noticed nothing unusual about his behavior, and, since his conversation with Master Clarkson of a few days past, he seemed to spend the majority of his time at the college, concentrating on his studies. He seemed a nice enough man, and I hoped things would settle down.

The disputation took place in one of the lecture rooms. The topic to be debated was universals, more specifically, how one could know for certain that all right triangles inherently share the same qualities. The topic held little interest for me, and I imagined it held even less fascination for Donald and the majority of bejants gathered to listen in the hall. However, a few of the students listened intently as the master posed the question and the senior students responded.

As he began his response, I realized that Phillip’s self-assessment was correct. He was a poor debater, indeed. He stuttered and paused, seeming to forget his Latin. It was difficult to listen to him, and I felt embarrassed for the man. I felt sure he was not as stupid as he sounded, but I was glad it was not my place to judge the disputation. The logic was so convoluted it made little sense to me.

I tried to attend to what was being said.

“Do genera and species exist as substances in and of themselves,” Phillip’s opponent was saying, “with form and material substance, or are they mere concepts?”

“As a substance,” Phillip replied, “they might be either material or immaterial.”

“And which do you reason them to be? Are they intrinsically present in sensible objects, or do they exist apart from them?”

“I, I cannot say,” Phillip muttered, flushing red.

Not surprisingly, the master judged the other student the winner of the
disputatio
and the session drew to a close. The students exited the room, the younger ones jostling and elbowing each other as they rushed outside to play some kickball in the back yard. Donald went along with Anthony and Crispin, the bad blood of the day before apparently forgotten.

Phillip stood by himself in the corridor. “Come,” I said, “let me buy you some ale. No doubt you’re thirsty after all that talking.”

He made a wry face. “No doubt I’d prefer to drink to the point where I could forget I made such a fool of myself. I fear I will be returning home before much longer. Well, I guess I’ve no greater ambition than to try and teach letters to disobedient eight-year-olds at the parish school. But for now, my ambition is to get very, very drunk. Lead the way, and I will follow.”

Donald, Anthony and Crispin were in the midst of a heated game and paid little attention as I told them we were leaving. As Phillip and I left the hall, we passed Brother Eusebius, walking quickly in the other direction toward the road that led to the north beyond. He seemed preoccupied and did not greet us as we passed him and entered the town gates. A crowd of students was leaving the lecture halls on School Street; it seemed some lectures were just dismissing. “I know I could be a fine physician,” Phillip bemoaned as he bumped into a fair-haired youth wearing a blue tunic. “But I fear I will never get the chance, unless I can pass these disputations.”

“My wife comes from a family of physicians,” I offered. “She is quite knowledgeable. You could study with her some, perhaps. I can ask her.” I thought it might distract Mariota to have a student of her own.

We reached The Green Man and entered the tavern. Mistress Jakeson saw us and walked the other way, into the kitchens. In short order her husband came out and spoke to us, bringing us some wine.

“Have you had any word?” Phillip asked Master Jakeson.

“Nothing,” the tavern keeper replied. “It’s as if she’s been spirited away.”

I shuddered and took a gulp of wine to drive the unpleasant sensation away. The last time I had dealt with a vanished person, back the previous fall on Colonsay, it had not ended well. I prayed this would have a happier resolution, but feared, with each day that passed, that grew less likely.

We finished our wine, and then drank some more. Eventually, we thought to head back toward Balliol, before the gates were shut entirely. I left Phillip banging at the gates of Balliol Hall. It seemed the gatekeeper had locked them early. I hastened back to the widow’s. I thought of Mariota and wondered if she would be angry.

But when I arrived back at our lodgings, Mariota seemed in the best of moods. She was poring over a text by candlelight, humming a little tune. Donald had returned a bit earlier and, miracle of all miracles, seemed to be actually studying as well.

At least he was leafing through a book and making a few marks on his tablets. He slammed the book closed when he saw me, though.

“And where were you?” he interrogated me.

“Phillip Woode and I went to an ale-house. Who won the ball game?”

Donald shrugged his shoulders. “I did, of course.”

“Of course.” I turned to Mariota. “What are you reading?”

“This treatise on urine. It’s fascinating. Muirteach, were you knowing that the smell of the urine of someone with the honey disease is sweet?”

There were times I wondered why I had married a physician. “No,
mo chridhe
, I was not knowing that.”

“Well, it is true. And that someone whose humors are choleric will give off great quantities of urine. While the phlegmatic types tend to retain it.”

“Is that so? It is late, white love. Come to bed.”

“I will in a bit, I just want to read a little more.”

Donald retreated to his room and fairly soon after that I heard some snoring. And it was not long after that, that I was snoring myself while Mariota read by candlelight.

The next morning, early, I awoke to a pounding at the door. I heard the sound of excited voices, and then Widow Tanner knocked at our chamber. I opened the door and saw her, clad only in her shift with a mantle thrown over it, her gray hair straggling down over her shoulders. Behind her I was surprised to see Anthony and Crispin, now seeming to be the best of friends with Donald.

“You must come quickly,” the widow said.

“What is it? What has happened?” I asked, throwing on my tunic and
brat
, as my heart began to pound more quickly and the last vestiges of sleep left me.

“It is Master Clarkson. He’s dead. Murdered in his chamber last night.”

“His head was bashed in,” Anthony added with gruesome detail. “There’ll be no lectures or disputations today. And Donald was telling us yesterday how you solved murders for his father. Master Delacey sent for you. Come, we must make haste.”

The sun was just rising when we got to the old Balliol Hall. Inside, scholars milled around, the young boys talking excitedly while senior students spoke in lower murmurs. I passed by Phillip Woode, speaking with Brother Eusebius, and made my way up two flights of narrow stairs to Master Clarkson’s chamber.

Before I reached the doorway I smelled the coppery scent of fresh blood. I forced myself to step over the threshold and reluctantly looked around. The chamber was not large and I did not have to search for long. Master Clarkson lay sprawled on the floor, face down, presumably as he had fallen. The murderer had bashed the back of Clarkson’s head to a pulp.