The Mark of a Murderer by Susanna Gregory

Author:Susanna Gregory [Gregory, Susanna]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, Mystery, Historical, Literature & Fiction, Contemporary Fiction
ISBN: 0316726400
Amazon: B004BDOK7Q
Publisher: Sphere
Published: 2010-12-02T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 7

For the first time in more than two weeks, Bartholomew enjoyed a full night of uninterrupted sleep. He had visited Matilde on his way home from King’s Hall, and had found Rougham sitting up in bed demanding chicken broth. His fever had gone completely, and Bartholomew knew he could not keep him there for more than a day or two. He was already planning how to reach Gonville Hall without being seen by the gossiping Weasenham, whose house he would have to pass, and then it would not be long before he heard rumours about other men with damaged throats – especially the one in the cistern. The dredging was likely to be a public affair, as it involved soldiers from the Castle, and the news would spread quickly. Okehamptone would not feature in the talk, of course, because only Bartholomew and Michael – and the killer – knew what had happened to him.

The following day, Michael took Bartholomew with him when he went to talk to the Sheriff about the search for Eudo and Boltone. Tulyet was frantically busy, organising bands of itinerant labourers to continue scraping the streets clean of ordure, renovate the Great Bridge so it at least did not look dangerous, and paint the livestock pens in the Market Square. It was not only scholars who wanted the Archbishop to be impressed: the townsfolk were determined that he should think well of them, too. As a result, Tulyet had scant resources to search for criminals in the vast wilderness of the Fens, nor had he found time to drain the well. He promised to do both as soon as he could, and Bartholomew and Michael escaped from his house when they heard Dickon making his way towards them, the army of servants who had been detailed to entertain him powerless to prevent the invasion.

Since a heavy spring shower was in full flood, they ducked into St Clement’s Church. They were not the only ones who had been obliged to take shelter, and Michael’s eyes gleamed with predatory anticipation when he saw that the entire party from Oxford, on their way to terce at St Mary the Great, had been caught in the deluge, too. On spotting Michael and Bartholomew, Polmorva promptly aimed for the door, claiming he was going to the Dominican Friary for a theology lecture.

‘I hope you find it as stimulating as the one you attended yesterday,’ said Michael casually.

Polmorva shrugged, knowing he had been caught in a lie, but not really caring. ‘It will be more rewarding than talking to you, Brother. But then, so is wallowing in pig dung.’

‘That is an example of Oxford subtlety, I suppose,’ said Michael, regarding him with disdain. ‘Do not leave, Polmorva. I want to talk to you.’

‘You have no right to order him around,’ objected Wormynghalle indignantly. ‘What do you want, anyway? More excuses for not finding Gonerby’s killer?’

‘You have not been successful with that, either,’ snapped Michael in return. ‘And do not pretend you do not know what I am talking about, Abergavenny.

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