Study of Murder, The (Five Star Mystery Series) (9 page)

“No.”

“Strange.”

I agreed that it was. “Could it have been stolen? Perhaps someone took the book and Master Clarkson came upon him unawares, and was killed for it.”

“It is a valuable text,” Berwyk agreed. “And hard to come by. But it would mainly be of interest to masters of philosophy, such as myself. And I certainly did not kill the man to get my own book back.”

“Had you any reason to dislike Master Clarkson?”

Berwyk shook his head and was either sincere or a better actor than most academics. “Not I. He mentored me when I first came to Balliol. He was strict and sometimes critical, but he had the best interests of the scholars at heart.”

“You went to town last night?”

Berwyk nodded. “I have an elderly aunt who lives in town. Mistress Bohun. Through her I met a widow, a woman named Torvilda Bonefey, who lives near Southgate. I keep company with her. I lodged with her when I first came to town and it turned into more over the years. I saw her last night. You can ask her. She’ll vouch for me, right enough. Or ask my aunt.”

That accorded with Delacey’s words.

“Have you heard any talk of heresy in the college?”

Master Berwyk’s brown eyes looked puzzled. “Heresy? No. Wycliff used to be master here some years ago. The man is somewhat controversial, but no heretic.”

“No, I am speaking of someone now here at the college.”

“Wycliffe is now at Lutterworth, he left Oxford after he received his doctorate. And as I just said, he’s no heretic. I’ve heard nothing of heresy here. Why?”

“It was something the lass said. Apparently her father overheard Clarkson saying something to someone.”

“Well, I know nothing of it.”

I thanked Ralph Berwyk and gave him leave to go.

By now it was mid-day, and the main meal of the day was being served to the fellows and masters in the New Hall. I left the college and walked back to our lodgings, hoping to speak with Mariota, but instead as I entered our rooms I saw Donald, Anthony and Crispin, smirking about something near Donald’s desk. It irritated me that these boys were mirthful when a man had just been murdered and perhaps I spoke harshly, but the upshot of it all was that Anthony and Crispin left to try and get their luncheon, and Donald went with them, stalking away. I felt it was good riddance and went into the chamber I shared with Mariota.

She was not there, and I wondered at that. I had looked forward to telling her of my interviews with the masters of the college. Perhaps she would have some insight that I had missed. But I was tired, my eyes gritty and sore. I lay down upon our bed and fell asleep, as the chamber was stuffy and the day warm.

When I awoke, Mariota had returned. She was putting some clothes away in a chest as I opened my eyes.

“Where were you,
mo chridhe
?” I murmured sleepily.

“
Och
, I was just in the town.”

“Shopping?”

“Not exactly.”

I sat up on the bed. “Mariota, be careful. There’s been a murder, and that missing tavern girl—”

She laughed. “It’s a town, Muirteach. There are people every which way one turns. I’ll be safe enough.”

She sat down next to me, and we didn’t speak for a while. Then I told her about the morning and my interviews with the other masters.

“I left after the good wife came to lay him out, poor soul,” said Mariota.

“And went into town.”

“Yes, Muirteach, I went into town. That is not a crime, is it?” For some reason, Mariota seemed very annoyed, and I found myself at a loss to respond.

“Just be careful,
mo chridhe
. Be careful.”

After dinner I returned to the college. The coroner had called the inquest for later that afternoon, but before that I wished to speak with another of the inhabitants of the hall. I had not yet spoken to Brother Eusebius and I found him in his room, writing on some parchment. He came with me willingly enough and we went down the stairs to the small wood-paneled chamber I was beginning to know so well.

“How well did you know Master Clarkson?” I asked him.

“I have been a fellow here for five years,” Eusebius said. “And he was here when I was made a fellow.”

“Did you get along?”

“Well enough. He had his scholarly interests, theology, while mine are more in the area of natural philosophy.”

“But he had no enemies?”

“Master Clarkson was a man of strong opinions. He felt he knew what was right.”

“And this caused him to have enemies? Who?”

Brother Eusebius didn’t answer immediately. “He was an upright defender of the faith, and against heresy.”

This accorded with what I had heard before. “But who here is a heretic?”

Brother Eusebius shrugged his shoulders. “I do not know. Surely the Lord made us creatures of reason for His own ends. The natural sciences reflect the harmony of the Lord’s creation.”

“But Master Clarkson did not believe this?” I asked.

“I did not say that,” Eusebius answered.

“Did he accuse you of heresy?”

“Of course not. I simply try to divine the meanings of the Creator, to elucidate them, to puzzle out the secrets of Our Lord’s meanings, as reflected within the natural world. That does not make me a heretic.”

“Do you know of any enemies he might have had?”

Eusebius thought. “I certainly was not his enemy. Nor were any others here, we all quest for knowledge. Although there was an issue over some missing books of Master Berwyk’s. I believe Master Clarkson had pledged them to the bookseller, and Master Berwyk claimed the books were his.”

“So Master Clarkson stole the books? And pledged them at the bookseller’s?”

Eusebius shook his head. “No, he did not steal them. Most books belong to the college. Although generally, if one of us is assigned a book, we can keep it as long as we wish, until our death, even.”

“But Berwyk felt the book was his?’

“Indeed. And I believe he was quite annoyed when Master Clarkson could not return the book.”

That accorded with what Berwyk had told me, although he had not known of the bookseller. I could well believe that a motive for murder. Books were precious and costly. But the murder had not yielded the book back, so perhaps it made little sense after all. However I remembered the conversation I had overheard between Clarkson and the bookman a few days ago.

“Well, I must go,” Eusebius said. “I have a lecture to prepare for tomorrow. Although we held no lectures today, due to this unfortunate happenstance, the students will be at the hall on School Street on the morrow.”

“On what subject do you lecture?”

“Aristotle, for the first-year students. I must take over Clarkson’s lectures for the time.”

I was on the verge of mentioning again that my wife was a physician, but something stopped me. I bade Eusebius a good day, and he left to prepare for his lecture.

In a short time, the coroner arrived and the jury was summoned. The twelve men, all members of the “Northern hundred” as the area of Oxford north of the city walls was known, shuffled into the small room downstairs after having viewed the body. Most of them were merchants or other inhabitants of the suburbs, and they looked suitably impressed at being in the halls of the learned college. They heard the evidence. Houkyn described how the body had been found, in a pool of blood in its chamber. It did not take long for the jury to return a verdict of “willful murder by persons unknown.” Which, of course, was what we had known all along.

After that was over, although the afternoon was far advanced, I first stopped at the Widow Tanner’s and then crossed into the town at Smithgate and paid a visit to the bookman. The sky had clouded over and looked as though rain might begin to drizzle down at any moment. Fortunately, it held off for the short time it took to walk to the shop off High Street where I found the stall still open. Master Bookman greeted me and asked after Donald, for apparently he remembered our somewhat well-filled purses of a few days before. He did not mention Mariota, but showed me some rare medical books.

“I am looking for a certain text today, the
Isagoge
, by Porphyry.”

Master Bookman went back and rummaged around the piles of his merchandise before returning with the text. “I can let you see it, as I do have one copy, but the book was pawned. I cannot sell it to you at this time.”

“Who pawned it?”

“Master Clarkson, the one who was just murdered at that college. A bad business, by the sound of it, and I do not think he’ll be redeeming his pledge, unless it were on the Judgment Day.” The bookman flashed a grim smile, although I failed to share in the humor. After an awkward moment he continued. “But others in the college may wish to take over his pledge.”

“Aye,” I said, “I imagine that is true. Were you aware the book was stolen?”

Master Bookman stuttered. “Certainly not. Master Clarkson heads his college, or did, God rest his soul. Surely he wouldn’t steal.”

“I will let Master Berwyk know where the book is. It is he who owned it, or said that he did. Perhaps he will want to redeem it.” I paused. “There is something else I am needing to ask you,” I said. I pulled the palimpsest from my bag. “We bought these old parchments from you, and found this on one. Do you have any idea as to whose it might be? Where did you get the parchments you sold us?”

The bookman examined the parchment. “It is very curious. Sometimes the parchments are not cleaned well and the text remains visible. If they are scrubbed with pumice that happens less often, but just scrubbing them with milk and oat bran does not do nearly so well.” He looked more closely at the words. “It is strange. Perhaps it is some kind of medical text?”

“Perhaps. Who gave you the parchments to sell?”

“They were old ones found in a back building—I think it was Master Clarkson himself who brought them in. At the same time he pledged the
Isagoge
.”

That was stranger yet.

“Do you have any idea what language these might be written in?”

Master Bookman pored over the parchment again. “Truthfully, I’ve no idea. It is a curious thing, is it not? Well, you are welcome to stay and examine my books, although I will be closing up very soon. Unless, of course, you have pressing business elsewhere.” I thought he sounded hopeful.

I spent some time searching through some other books and parchments but found no other sheets that matched the strange one we had found. Finally, I abandoned the quest and left the shop.

Frustrated, I thought of The Green Man. Some wine would taste fine on this dreary evening. I walked down the High Street to the ale-house, where I found Master Jakeson. There was no sign of his daughter and I judged she had not yet been found. I hoped again she had run off with someone who was treating her kindly.

I was surprised to see Eusebius in the tavern. I sat down next to him, although he did not look too happy to see me. “I thought you were preparing a lecture.”

“It is done. I had need of refreshment.”

“As do I. Here,” I offered, “let me pay for your claret.”

Master Jakeson refilled Eusebius’s mazer and brought some wine for me.

“Do you come here often?” I asked.

“Often enough,” said Eusebius.

“It is a sad thing, about his missing daughter.”

Eusebius said nothing for a moment and sipped at his drink. “Aye,” he finally said. “Jonetta.”

“Yes, that’s her name. Did you know her?”

“Beautiful,” Eusebius mused, and I judged this had not been his first glass of claret. “She’s beautiful.”

“Aye, she’s a bonny lass. You’ve no idea what happened to her?”

Eusebius seemed to come to himself. “Of course not.” He drained the mazer. “What would I be knowing about her? She’s just a tavern maid.”

“But a lovely one.”

“Indeed she is,” he assented, put down his drink, and frowned. “I thought, one night recently, she seemed overly familiar with a chapman, a peddler. By his accent he came from the north.”

“That’s of interest. What did he look like? Perhaps she ran off with him. The undersheriff would wish to know.”

“Perhaps. The man was tall, dark-haired. I think he had brown eyes and his jerkin was russet. You’ll inform the authorities?”

I nodded.

“Well, God keep the lass safe, wherever she may be.” He rose. “I’m back to the college. Master Clarkson is laid out in the chapel. I must go and keep vigil.”

“I’ll join you,” I said. We left the tavern and walked up High Street and out the town gates. I went with Eusebius to the small chapel in the college, where the cold bulk of Master Clarkson’s corpse lay before the altar, covered with a pall. The burial would take place the next day. I seated myself in the back and observed the masters at their prayers. Berwyk, Delacey and the others. Phillip Woode. Even the younger students had attended. Who among these people had committed murder?

As some prayers drew to a close, I left the chapel and the college and made my way back to our lodgings. It was a dark night, with little moon, and I was glad to see some candlelight glowing from the window of our room. Mariota must have lit it for me, I thought, with a glow of happiness.

When I entered the room Mariota was bent over her text again, oblivious to the candle that had nearly melted down to a puddle. She looked up when she heard the door. “
Och
, Muirteach, it is you. How late is it?”

“Late enough to burn up your candle,
mo chridhe
. Where is Donald?”

“He was playing that accursed lute in his room with Anthony and Crispin, but they left some time ago. They had brought some wine from a tavern. I imagine he’s asleep the now.”

I peeked into Donald’s chamber. The lad was stretched out on his pallet, face down, buried in his pillow, snoring. I came back to our chamber and smiled at my wife. “Droning worse than the pipes. I don’t think he’ll wake until the morning.”

“Did you find out anything else?”

“Master Berwyk accused Clarkson of stealing a book of his, and Clarkson pawned it at the bookman’s.”

“But it is Berwyk’s book?”

“He claims it is. Oh, and I ran into Brother Eusebius in the town. He says he remembers seeing Jonetta with a chapman some nights ago. Perhaps she ran off.”