Bartholomew reconsidered. ‘Although we should not discount the possibility that they killed him because he discovered their hoard. Also, we should not forget that Chesterfelde probably died near the cistern – of a cut wrist. And Eudo also has a damaged arm.’
‘Eudo would not have let you examine his injury if he thought it would lead you to connect him with Chesterfelde’s death. The two gashed hands are coincidence, and the “connection” will mislead us if we pay it too much attention.’
‘What else was in the sack?’ demanded Wormynghalle of Weasenham, clearly disgusted by the stationer’s dishonest activities. ‘I assume you intend to return it all to its rightful owners?’
‘Just trinkets,’ reiterated Weasenham, with an anxious glance at Dodenho. ‘It contained nothing any owners would want to see again, I assure you.’
‘He is lying,’ whispered Bartholomew. ‘Eudo would not have tried to kill us for trinkets.’
‘I do not believe you,’ said Dodenho. ‘Why would anyone hide a sack of rubbish?’
Weasenham sighed in resignation. ‘I will show you, if you like. The dog was the only valuable piece, and you can have it – but only if you agree to say no more about the matter.’
‘No, thank you,’ said Dodenho with disdain. ‘I have no wish to possess stolen silver. My belongings are regularly searched by students desperate for my learned writings, and I do not want them to discover contraband in place of my erudite scribbling.’
‘What do you want, then?’ asked Weasenham. ‘My wife?’
‘Lord, no! She does not have the time,’ said Dodenho. Weasenham frowned, and Bartholomew was intrigued that the stationer should be observant in the affairs of others, but so blind in his own. ‘I want nothing more than a decent arrangement over parchment. It is expensive.’
‘I do not like this,’ said Wormynghalle uneasily. ‘I refuse to be involved in anything immoral, and–’
‘Quite right,’ agreed Weasenham. ‘You are a sensible man, sir. The King will not be pleased to learn that scholars from the hall his father founded submit poor merchants to extortion…’
‘I am not blackmailing anyone,’ said Dodenho smoothly. ‘I am asking for a mutually acceptable arrangement regarding the purchase of parchment. I go through a large amount of it when I pen my thoughts, and it would be of great benefit to the academic world if I did not have to worry about how much I consume.’
‘Very well,’ said Weasenham, defeated. He wrote a figure on a scrap of vellum.
Dodenho shook his head. ‘If you want to keep the noose from your neck, I recommend you be a little more generous.’
Weasenham wrote another figure. ‘And I will sell you this at a very reduced price,’ he said desperately, placing something on the bench next to the pen. ‘Every scholar should have one, and I hear you do not.’
It was Dodenho’s missing astrolabe.
It was not long before Alyce Weasenham returned to her duties, flushed and with her hair in disarray. Bartholomew saw Langelee through the window, making no attempt to hide the fact that he was adjusting his undergarments. Michael paid Weasenham for a small quantity of parchment and ink, and the two scholars escaped from the shop in some relief.
‘Lord, Matt,’ breathed Michael. ‘What a place! Did you see Dodenho’s face when Weasenham offered to sell him the astrolabe that was once his anyway? He looked as if it might bite him.’
‘Have you noticed how so many strands of this mystery lead back to Dodenho?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘He knew Chesterfelde – they laughed together in his chamber. He was in Oxford on St Scholastica’s Day, and I am under the impression he is a fairly frequent visitor there.’
‘He is – and he foists himself on Merton, to be precise. It is in our University’s records; all applications to study away must be ratified by the Chancellor, as you know. However, the foray he made in February was unofficial, because there is no copy of a request, although we know he went: we heard him admit as much ourselves. And now there is the curious business of his astrolabe.’
‘He accused his colleagues of stealing it,’ recalled Bartholomew. ‘Wormynghalle – and Clippesby – said Wolf may have disappeared as a result of the complaint, because he did not like being called a thief. Then Dodenho abruptly dropped the claim, and the astrolabe appeared in the hands of the tanner at Merton Hall. Then it was in Eudo’s hoard at the cistern, and now it is offered to Dodenho again.’
‘Can we be sure it is Eudo’s cache?’ asked Michael. ‘Could it belong to someone else?’
‘Such as who?’
Michael shrugged. ‘Dodenho? But he is not the only member of King’s Hall who has aroused my suspicions. Clippesby said Wolf fled because he was accused of theft, but Dodenho claims he was at Stourbridge with the pox, while Norton maintains he disappeared because he could not pay his debts. Who is right?’
Bartholomew had no answer, and he and Michael were silent for a while, each engrossed in his own thoughts. Bartholomew considered the body in the cistern, pondering who might have salvaged it and why – and what might have happened to it later. The easiest way to dispose of an inconvenient corpse was to toss it in the river with a rock attached to its feet, and if that had already happened, then the chances of retrieving it were slim. He suspected Tulyet would not be prepared to dredge any more expanses of water in search of elusive cadavers, especially with the Visitation looming ever closer.
Michael was more concerned with the living, and was considering Wolf and Hamecotes. The gossiping stationer was not a man who allowed truth to interfere with his stories, and Michael was inclined to dismiss his tale about Hamecotes as groundless gossip. But Wolf was a different matter. How ill had his pox made him? Bartholomew had more or less confessed to spotting him at Stourbridge at the beginning of Clippesby’s incarceration, but had not seen him since. Michael frowned. Poxes could be disfiguring, so it was possible the man had taken the scars of his shame to some remote manor until he was fit to be seen, but it was equally possible that he was still somewhere in the town – or even that he was the corpse in the cistern.
‘I think we should revisit Merton Hall before we begin our written analysis,’ said the monk, when no answers were forthcoming. ‘I want to see whether I can catch any of that Oxford rabble in an inconsistency when I ask each one to repeat his story. Will you come and make notes on what they say? Or do you find the prospect of a morning with Polmorva too unappealing?’
At Merton Hall they were shown into the solar by an elderly servant. All the Oxford men were there, with the exception of Spryngheuse, who was in the garden. Bartholomew was surprised, having been under the impression that the soft-spoken Mertonian seldom went out alone, on the grounds that someone might try to kill him. The three merchants were eating nuts, while Duraunt and Polmorva were engaged in a debate. Duraunt was pleased to have visitors. Polmorva was not.
‘What are you discussing?’ asked Michael, sensing the debate had gone further than academic sparring and was moving to the point where feelings might be hurt.
‘Yesterday we attended a lecture by a man named Dodenho,’ said Polmorva. ‘I thought it original and entertaining, while Duraunt maintains the central thesis was purloined from someone else’s work. I believe he is mistaken, and we have been arguing about it ever since.’
‘I attended that event, too,’ said Michael. He explained to Bartholomew. ‘It was about the dispute between Bonaventure and Aquinas on the notion of individuation: if matter is common to all bodies, and forms are objects of concepts, then what gives specific items their individuality?’
‘Bonaventure argued – and I believe him to be correct – that it is the conjunction of matter and form that gives objects their individuality,’ said Polmorva. He gave one of his patronising sneers. ‘Let me give you an example, to help you understand, Bartholomew: imagine a ball of wax, which is then stamped with a seal. The conjunction of wax and seal thus makes an individual object – an imprinted disc – that is separate from either wax or seal, because of its form.’