Study of Murder, The (Five Star Mystery Series) Read online

  THE STUDY OF MURDER

  A MUIRTEACH MACPHEE MYSTERY

  THE STUDY OF MURDER

  SUSAN MCDUFFIE

  FIVE STAR

  A part of Gale, Cengage Learning

  * * *

  Copyright © 2013 by Susan McDuffie

  Street Plan of Oxford, England by Paterson Simons of “simonsfineart.com”.

  Epilogue: copyright © Susan McDuffie.

  Five Star™ Publishing, a part of Gale, Cengage Learning, Inc.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.

  No part of this work covered by the copyright herein may be reproduced, transmitted, stored, or used in any form or by any means graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including but not limited to photocopying, recording, scanning, digitizing, taping, Web distribution, information networks, or information storage and retrieval systems, except as permitted under Section 107 or 108 of the 1976 United States Copyright Act, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  The publisher bears no responsibility for the quality of information provided through author or third-party Web sites and does not have any control over, nor assume any responsibility for, information contained in these sites. Providing these sites should not be construed as an endorsement or approval by the publisher of these organizations or of the positions they may take on various issues.

  * * *

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  McDuffie, Susan.

  The study of murder : a Muirteach MacPhee mystery / Susan Mcduffie. — First Edition.

  pages cm

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4328-2720-5 (hardcover)

  ISBN-10: 1-4328-2720-0 (hardcover)

  eISBN-13: 978-1-4328-2906-3 eISBN-10: 1-4328-2906-8

  1. Colonsay (Scotland)—Fiction. 2. Scotland—History—1057– 1603—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3613.C396S78 2013

  813′.6—dc23 2013014024

  * * *

  First Edition. First Printing: September 2013

  This title is available as an e-book.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4328-2906-3 ISBN-10: 1-4328-2906-8

  Find us on Facebook– https://www.facebook.com/FiveStarCengage

  Visit our website— http://www.gale.cengage.com/fivestar/

  Contact Five Star™ Publishing at [email protected]

  Printed in the United States of America

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 17 16 15 14 13

  This book is dedicated with love to my father, Bruce McDuffie, a professor of analytical chemistry. Growing up in a wonderful academic environment no doubt had a great deal to do with this book.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS AND AUTHOR’S NOTE

  * * *

  Thanks, as always, are due to so many people. Donna Lake and my mother, Wini McDuffie, read the manuscript and offered helpful suggestions, while my dad kept me at it. Fellow author Mel Starr suggested some wonderful research sources. Paterson Simons created a wonderful map of Muirteach’s Oxford. Salvador provided emotional support to get the job done.

  Donald, the son of the Lord of the Isles, actually did attend Oxford for a few years during the 1370s. His chaperones Muirteach and Mariota are of course fictional characters. Thomas Houkyn was the coroner of Oxford during 1374 and some fascinating coroner’s records from that era are available online—at least I found them fascinating! Relations between the town folk and the schools were actually fairly calm during this era, twenty years after the Saint Scholastica Day riots of 1355. I have taken the literary liberty of introducing a little more unrest for plotting purposes. Also, so far as I know, none of the Balliol masters were ever murdered, and their characters and names are totally fictional, as are most characters in the book. DeWylton, however, was the university chancellor during this period.

  The spark for this book came from my interest in the Voynich manuscript, a curious manuscript written in cipher that has never been deciphered, confounding many eminent cryptographers. There are many theories about this strange manuscript that now resides in the Beinecke Library at Yale University. Readers wanting to know more about it might refer to The Voynich Manuscript, by Gerry Kennedy and Rob Churchill.

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  * * *

  Muirteach MacPhee, the Keeper of the Records for the Lord of Isles

  Mariota, his wife

  Donald MacDonald, thirteen-year-old son of the Lord of the Isles

  Master Abraham Jakeson, proprietor of the Green Man, a tavern in Oxford

  Mistress Jakeson, his wife

  Jonetta, his lovely daughter

  Phillip Woode, a senior student at Balliol College

  Anthony, a first-year student

  Crispin, another first-year student

  Master Clarkson, master of Balliol

  Master Julian Delacey

  Master Ralph Berwyk

  Brother Eusebius

  Widow Tanner, a local landlady

  Rufous, her small dog

  Adam Bookman, a bookseller, and his wife

  Walter Grymbaud, undersheriff of Oxford

  Ralf, his assistant

  Torvilda Bonefey, Ralph Berwyk’s mistress

  Mistress Bohun, Ralph’s aunt

  Justin Penwarred and Vortigen Penwryth, lodgers with Torvilda

  Thomas Houkyn, the town coroner

  Chancellor deWylton, chancellor of the university

  Ivo, the gatekeeper at Balliol

  Avice, his young daughter

  Ruldolfo of Salerno, a physician and teacher

  Richard deVyse, another student

  Walter of York, a chapman

  PROLOGUE

  * * *

  Oxford, England, 1374

  The nymphs first. Images flowed onto the page and the writer struggled to get them all down, to convey the essence of the visions correctly. The expanding worlds, the interconnection between the spheres, the propulsion of the seed as it traveled. The feminine principle, bathed in divine liquor, dancing and playing in its showers. It was crucial that he record this as he’d been instructed, they demanded it. There must be no errors.

  The light faded and the September evening grew chill, but the writer paid no attention until the darkness grew absolute. He then lit a tallow candle and continued working, stopping occasionally to stretch cramped hands. The flame wavered in the drafts that found their way through the cracks in the roughly plastered walls as he worked on, the only sound the scratching of quill on parchment. The autumn wind gusted outside, finding its way in through the wooden shutters of the small window, but the writer continued, at times adding color to the elaborate drawing.

  It was a pity his last efforts had not been accurate. These must be correct.

  The silence broke with a knock. The writer at first did not hear, so involved was he in his efforts. The door opened, the noise broke his concentration and he quickly tried to hide the papers as another man entered the room.

  “Working late, are you not?”

  “Some simple jottings merely, a few poor scribblings of my own. Nothing that need concern you.”

  “Can you take my lecture tomorrow? I’ve an appointment I dare not break.”

  “On The Sentences. Yes. I should be happy to assist.”

  The visitor departed, leaving the writer to his labors. He worked on feverishly, until the candle guttered out and the dark night sky outside showed a lightening in the east, along with the bright point of light that was the morning star. Then he secreted his parchment and went to deliver his lecture.

  CHA
PTER 1

  * * *

  “That must be Oxford, there ahead.”

  I pointed out the city walls, glinting in the setting sun, to my traveling companions. Our horses neighed wearily. They too were tired of traveling.

  “We must make haste, I’m thinking they’ll lock the gates soon.”

  Our journey was ending but not our labors. They were just beginning.

  Donald led the way. Indeed, on our journey so far Mariota and I had both often let him take the lead. His thirteen-year-old body, restless and impatient, balked at our pace. It seemed easier to let him travel ahead a bit, while we came on at a slightly more sedate speed. He galloped his horse down the road despite the crowds of people converging on the Northgate. Mariota winced, and I felt my own shoulders tense as we watched Donald nearly run down an old woman carrying a wicker cage of chickens.

  “I suppose we were like that once,” I commented, trying to make light of the lad’s behavior.

  “Perhaps. But I’m not thinking the monks at the Priory would have given you much chance to ride, let alone run down old women. I’m surprised the boy did not learn more restraint, those years the old king kept him hostage at Dumbarton for his father’s good behavior.”

  I shrugged. “The lad was held there for two years. Perhaps that is why he is now so wild and must have both you and I to be his nursemaids while he attends the college. And with his own grandfather sitting on the throne of Scotland perhaps he feels no need to watch his step any longer.”

  Mariota nodded and managed an exhausted laugh. She reined in her horse while Donald, now well ahead, nearly trampled a man carrying his little daughter, missing them by an arm’s breadth. The man, poorly dressed, did nothing, for Donald’s gear spoke of nobility.

  “How can he have such energy?” she marveled. “And such arrogance? What kind of leader will he make someday? Och, there’s nothing for it now. I want nothing more than a clean bed and some supper. And you must be tired as well.”

  Mariota and I had been married but a few months, and I still marveled at my good fortune. Although, to tell strict truth, this latest journey did not seem especially fortuitous. How was it, I wondered, that we were here so far from Islay, playing nursemaid to a spoiled and impulsive thirteen-year-old?

  I didn’t have to wonder long about it. Donald’s father, John MacDonald, was the powerful Lord of the Isles and overlord of my own MacPhee clan. I served him as his Keeper of the Records, and His Lordship had ordered us to attend on his son at Oxford. And so here we were, after a journey of several weeks, nearing our goal. Both Mariota and I felt exhausted from the travel and our charge, but Donald himself appeared not tired at all by the journey.

  Many travelers and townsfolk hurried into the town as the afternoon ended, and even Donald’s youthful exuberance seemed somewhat dampened by the unfamiliar crowds. I heard a smattering of languages, some Latin but more of it the less familiar English tongue, and missed the soft lilting sounds of my native Gaelic, feeling every bit a stranger in this busy town.

  The trip had given both Mariota and myself some opportunity to practice our rudimentary English, the dialects of which seemed to vary greatly as we made our way south. At least Latin was spoken in the schools, and both my wife and I spoke that language fluently.

  We caught up with Donald somewhat before the gates, on a broad street where a large ditch circled the town walls and carried much of the sewage of the town away. After the quiet and clean air of the countryside, it was not a pleasant smell.

  “Donald,” Mariota reproached him in Gaelic, “did you not see those people you nearly trampled? You must have a care for their welfare.”

  “They should not be so slow. And I did not trample them. So all’s well.”

  “No, Donald,” returned Mariota, irritated. “No, all is not well. It is not well for you, a young lord, to treat poor people in such a way. Your father has put you in our care. And arrogance is a sin.”

  Donald flushed with anger and opened his mouth to reply. I intervened before he could speak. “Look you, they are getting ready to close the gates. We will have leisure to deal with this later, I think, after we’ve found lodgings and eaten a bit. Now, hurry.”

  And so we entered the town of Oxford, crossing through Northgate. Indeed, it was more of a narrow tunnel than a simple gate, as it passed under a two-storied building that I later discovered housed the town gaol. Inside the city proper, the broad main street was crowded, both with townsfolk frequenting the merchants, most of whom appeared to be trying to close up shop, and with many students. We passed a church on our left, then continued down Northgate Street and turned onto the High Street. I was glad we were on horseback as we crossed the drains that ran down the center of the roadway.

  We found temporary lodgings without much difficulty, at an inn on High Street. We entered through the gate that stood facing the street and into the inn yard. The groom took our weary mounts and we were led to the main hall, our baggage hauled to our room above.

  Travelers busy eating and drinking crowded the dining hall. The innkeeper seated us at a table and sent his wife to see to our chamber. He took our orders and then rapidly brought us some spiced ale that went down well and helped wash the dust of the road from our mouths. Our food came soon after and tasted fine enough. As we finished the meal of eel pie, more ale, another typed of baked fish and some cooked apples, Donald was all for seeing the sights of the town. The thought made my head ache. It was with some difficulty that Mariota and I, both tired, sought to dissuade him.

  “But there’s still daylight left,” Donald pouted. “Please, Muirteach. Let us go and perhaps Mariota could stay here and rest, since she is tired from the journey.”

  Eventually I gave in, despite my headache, and consented to go with him for a stroll. Mariota decided to accompany us as well, although I could sense she was a bit annoyed. We finished our meal and checked that our baggage was safe in our chamber, then the three of us left the inn and wandered the streets a bit. The side streets looked crowded with students. At least I assumed they were students, all young men of various ages, many of whom wore the clerical garb of minor orders. Most students took minor orders.

  “Tomorrow we must find lodgings, and then you must go to Balliol and meet the masters there. But that will leave time to see a bit of the town.”

  Donald grimaced. “I could well have come on my own. Many students do, at my age.”

  “Aye,” Mariota put in, “but they are not young lordlings. It would not be seemly, for your rank, to be unattended.”

  “Why not send me with a groom and a manservant, then?” Donald responded rudely. “I am too old to have a nursemaid.”

  “Had your behavior been better, we would not be here at all,” I retorted, my jaw tightening as I spoke. “Your father was thinking that we would do well. And we are far from being nursemaids.” I protested perhaps a little guiltily, as I had often had that same thought. “But we will have plenty of time tomorrow to get settled a bit.”

  “I’m thirsty,” Donald announced as we passed a tavern. “Let’s stop here and have some wine.”

  The tavern looked pleasant enough. The wooden signboard, well painted, bore a picture of a green man leering out from between two trees. I glanced at Mariota, who shrugged hopelessly and then nodded. So we went in.

  It was a fairly large room with several tables and benches, busy already this evening with a clamor of students and others. The atmosphere smelled pleasantly of wine and the rushes on the floor looked relatively fresh. The tavern keeper, a stout dark-haired man, saw us seated and his daughter came to take our order. She was a lovely lass with curly blonde hair, large brown eyes and a shapely figure, which Donald seemed to appreciate. She gave her name as Jonetta, when Donald asked her, and said her father was Abraham Jakeson.

  The noise in the hall grew louder when several more youths, with their heads tonsured in the style of clerks, entered, sat down with a collective swagger and demanded ale and claret. The tavern keep
er filled their beakers and they drank quickly, then started to make advances on Jonetta, calling for her and joking with her. She laughingly fended off their attentions until one of the students, somewhat larger and older than the other youths, pulled her down beside him on the bench.

  “Muirteach,” Donald hissed, “yon’s no gentleman.”

  “She seems able to manage him,” I observed, as Jonetta competently pushed him away and rose. “No doubt she’s dealt with this type often enough. The town is full of clerks and students. And her father stands ready, should things get out of hand.”

  Jonetta had moved away from the students, but returned quickly enough with more wine for them. I noticed she sat next to the older youth again for a moment. He said something seriously to her and fingered a medal that she wore on a chain around her neck. She pulled away, with another laugh. But she did not seem angry.

  A couple of the younger students, one with an untidy head of reddish hair and the other dark haired with a lean face, had been glaring across the tables at Donald, somewhat in the way of tomcats, and I saw the red-haired boy nudge the other with his elbow, pointing out our attire, and laugh. I prayed Donald would not notice this and rose, hoping to leave quickly and forestall trouble.

  I was not quick enough. The room was crowded and as we made our way between the tables, the dark-haired boy stuck his feet out in the aisle, tripping Donald. Donald stumbled, but recovered his balance, and upset the red-haired lad’s ale into his lap. I do not think that was an accident. In an instant the two lads were on their feet and Donald was swinging a blow at them, while the older of the students rose also and quickly tried to restrain the two younger boys.

  “We beg your pardon, sirs. And lady, as well,” the older man said, holding the red-haired boy back by his tunic. “My charges are clumsy oafs, and have no sense of the size of their own big feet.” He spoke in Latin, and I replied in the same.