Free The Mark of a Murderer by Susanna Gregory Page A

to introduce ourselves again, Brother,’ said another of the trio, interrupting the spicer’s tirade. He spoke with
     the soft lilt of a man from Wales. ‘I am William of Abergavenny, burgess of Oxford and Master of the Guild of Saints.’ He
     indicated the spicer, who sat on his left. ‘This is Philip Eu, also a burgess and a past Mayor. And finally, this is Thomas
     Wormynghalle.’
    The absence of any reference to title or claim to fame did not escape Wormynghalle’s notice, just as it did not the scholars’,
     and Bartholomew immediately sensed there was tension between the three merchants.
    ‘I will be Mayor next year,’ snapped Wormynghalle, shooting Abergavenny an unpleasant glance, ‘and I was elected a burgess
     in January. It is about time Oxford had a tanner as Mayor. It is just as respectable a trade as spicery or wine-selling.’
    As he gazed challengingly at his companions, Bartholomew took the opportunity to study them. Abergavenny was black-haired
     and fair-faced, like many Celts, and his eyes held a humorous glint, as if he found much of what he saw amusing. His cloak
     was embroidered with a tiny vine motif, and Bartholomew surmised that he was a vintner. Eu was tall and thin, and spoke English
     with a thick French accent. The inflexion was inconsistent, andBartholomew suspected English was his mother tongue, but that he liked to emphasise the fact that he hailed from old Norman
     stock. There was a carving of a nutmeg on his ring, which was exquisitely made and a symbol of tastefully understated wealth.
    Wormynghalle was Eu’s exact opposite: short, heavily built and pugilistic. He did not wear his fine clothes as comfortably
     as his companions, and the rings on his fingers and his heavy gold neck-chain were ostentatious examples of his riches. The
     chain carried a heavy pendant in the shape of a sheep’s head, to represent his trade as a curer of skins; the workmanship
     was poor, despite the high quality of the medium, and the carving possessed a set of very un-ovine teeth. When inspecting
     him, Bartholomew was unfavourably reminded of the overweight peacock that lived at Michaelhouse, and was not surprised the
     man’s companions did not seem to like him. His trade as a tanner would not endear him to men who dabbled in the rarefied worlds
     of exotic spices and wines, either. Tanning was a foul, stinking business involving bloody, flayed skins and vats of urine.
    ‘We have come to investigate a murder,’ stated Wormynghalle, when no one replied. ‘The culprit fled to Cambridge, and we intend
     to hunt him out and take him home with us.’
    ‘It happened during the St Scholastica’s Day riot,’ elaborated Abergavenny, ‘while the town was in flames and there was murder
     and mayhem everywhere. It was then that this evil fellow chose to strike down an innocent man.’
    ‘With a sword,’ added Wormynghalle.
    ‘That unrest was months ago,’ said Michael, startled. ‘Why search for this culprit now? And how do you know he is in Cambridge
     anyway?’
    ‘His victim was left mortally wounded, but not dead,’ explained Eu. ‘The poor man – Gonerby was his name –gasped with his dying breath that he overheard his assailant telling a friend that he intended to hide in Cambridge until
     the hue and cry had died away. I was there: I heard Gonerby’s words with my own ears. Then he charged us to catch the killer
     and make him answer for his crime. I am from an ancient family, who believes in the sanctity of oaths and sacred vows—’
    ‘So do I,’ interrupted Wormynghalle, not to be outdone on the chivalry front.
    ‘—so I gave my word to Gonerby, as he died, that I would find his murderer,’ finished Eu, looking Wormynghalle up and down
     in disdain, to deny that he and the tanner shared common ideals.
    ‘Tell me this killer’s name,’ said Michael. ‘If he is guilty, then he is yours to take to Oxford.’
    ‘Gonerby did not know it,’ replied Abergavenny. ‘That is