The Mark of a Murderer Read Online Free PDF

Colleges,
     I understand?’
    Bartholomew nodded. ‘Its founder, Walter de Merton, was afraid his scholars might eventually be driven out of Oxford by rioting
     townsfolk, so he purchased a house and several parcels of land in Cambridge for them – a refuge should they ever be obliged
     to flee.’
    ‘Well, they
have
flown,’ said Michael. He saw Bartholomew’s puzzled expression, and elaborated. ‘Surely you remember the news? On St Scholastica’s
     Day – four months ago now – there were violent disturbances in their city that ended in the murder of sixty scholars. Several
     Oxford men have arrived here recently, although one evidently learned last night that we are not the safe haven he anticipated.’
    ‘A Merton man is dead?’ asked Bartholomew, feigning an interest he did not feel. His years as an undergraduate in Oxford seemed
     a long time ago, especially that morning, after his tenth night of interrupted sleep.
    ‘Not Merton. Balliol. Perhaps you knew him: his name is Roger de Chesterfelde.’
    Bartholomew shook his head. ‘I studied there two decades ago, and my contemporaries will have moved on to other things by
     now.’
    ‘Then what about Henry Okehamptone?’ asked Michael. ‘Is that name familiar?’
    Bartholomew shook his head again. ‘Why?’
    ‘Because Chesterfelde is not the first Oxford man to have died in Cambridge recently. That honour went to Okehamptone, who
     passed away ten days ago – on Ascension Day – the morning after this large party from Oxford arrived. His friends said he
     had been unwell the previous night, probably from drinking bad water along the way, and he perished in his sleep. These things
     happen, and catching a contagion is just one of the many dangers associated with gratuitous travel.’
    Bartholomew smiled. Michael disliked lengthy journeys, and always believed he took his life in his hands when he embarked
     on one. However, he had a point about the perils of drinking in strange places: it was not unknown for travellers to arrive
     and immediately fall prey to some ailment they had contracted
en route
. As a physician, Bartholomew encountered such cases regularly.
    ‘Was Okehamptone old?’ he asked. ‘Frail and more susceptible than his companions?’
    ‘He was a young man. I saw his corpse myself.’
    ‘Did you?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised he had not been summoned, too.
    Michael shot him a nasty look. ‘I wanted
you
to do it, but you were nowhere to be found. You have become very elusive over the last two weeks.’
    Bartholomew ignored the comment. ‘Why were you called? Merton Hall is not
our
University’s property, and Oxford scholars do not come under your jurisdiction.’
    ‘I beg to differ – they can hardly be investigated by the secular authority invested in the Sheriff, so of course they fall
     to me. However, there was nothing to suggest Okehamptone’s companions were lying about his fever.’ Michael cast Bartholomew
     another resentful glance. ‘My Corpse Examiner should have confirmed their diagnosis, but he was mysteriously unavailable.’
    ‘Ascension Day,’ mused Bartholomew, refusing to acknowledge the barrage of recriminations. The festival was a favourite of
     Michael’s and, after a solemn mass, the monk had furnished plenty of food and wine so that Michaelhouse could celebrate in
     style. Bartholomew recalled the occasion clearly, unlike some of his less abstemious colleagues. ‘I was obliged to tend Master
     Weasenham that morning. For a toothache.’
    ‘Then it is no wonder I could not find you,’ remarked Michael testily. ‘I did not think to look for you at Weasenham’s house,
     because he is not your patient: he is Doctor Rougham’s. You should take care, Matt. The University stationer is a rich man,
     and Rougham will not approve of you poaching one of his best sources of income.’
    ‘Rougham was unavailable, and Weasenham said he could not wait,’ replied Bartholomew, thinking it was ironic that he had